LINING IT OUT
The Giants’ opponents that day were the St. Louis Cardinals, the last
of the Western clubs to visit the Polo Grounds on the first round of
the inter-sectional games.
Cincinnati, as has been said, had been able to make an even break of it
with the Giants. The Pittsburghs had done even better, for the Smoky
City boys had left the big town with three scalps hanging to their
belts. The Giants had taken sweet revenge on the Chicagos, however,
having made a clean sweep of the whole four games.
For several seasons, the best the Cardinals could do was to finish
at the tail of the first division or the head of the second. They
had an excellent pitching staff and some of the heaviest batters in
either league. Their fielding was good and their shortstop was such
a phenomenon that the St. Louis owners had refused an offer of two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars for him.
But despite these advantages the team had not been able to win the
championship. They did not work with the smoothness and perfection
necessary for a champion team. Perhaps it was the failure of efficient
management or a case of individual stars playing for their own records
instead of for the good of the team. But whatever the reason, the
record showed that while they had started out each season like a house
afire they had failed at the end to take the coveted flag.
This year, however, things were different. A new manager had seemed to
be able to put some of his own vim and determination into the team and
they were playing like a machine. The first four men in the batting
order had been dubbed the “Murderers’ Row” because of the way they were
“killing” the ball, and the rest of the team were not very far behind.
It was perfectly clear that this year the Cardinals were a team to be
reckoned with.
Under ordinary circumstances, Joe would have pitched the first game of
the St. Louis series so that the Giants might have a good chance to get
the jump on their opponents by grabbing off the opening contest. But
the day before had originally been an open date, and the Giants and
Brooklyns had taken advantage of it to play off a postponed game; and
as the Brooklyns had usually been a “Jonah” for the Giants, McRae had
thought it advisable to put Joe in the box. The result had justified
his judgment.
Markwith, the portside flinger of the Giants, had been chosen,
therefore, to open the St. Louis series. He was one of the star
pitchers of the league, and during the season could be counted on to
turn in his fair share of victories. His speed was dazzling and he
had a good assortment of curves and slants. The only trouble with him
was that he was an “in and outer.” When he was good he was very good
indeed, practically unbeatable. But if his support were bad or the
opposing batters began to get to him, he was liable to lose his nerve
and be batted out of the box.
This day, however, he showed up well in practice and seemed to be in
fine fettle, so that it was with less misgiving than usual that McRae
put on him the pitcher’s burden.
“Get right after them, Red,” the manager counseled, as the bell rang
for the Giants to take the field. “I want you to show that Murderers’
Row that you’re some little murderer yourself.”
“I’ll do my best, Mac,” said Markwith, with a grin, as he slipped on
his glove and went to the box.
The first inning was short and sweet. Remley, the lead-off man of
the Cardinals, tried to wait Red out. This was justified perhaps by
the fact that Markwith was a trifle unsteady at the opening and had
difficulty in finding the plate. His first two offerings were balls.
He whipped the third over, however, for a strike and followed it with
another. With two strikes on him, Remley lashed out savagely at the
next ball and missed it.
“You’re out,” called the umpire, as the ball settled in Mylert’s glove.
Remley threw down his bat in vexation and went grumbling to the dugout.
McCarthy came next, swinging three bats of which he flung away two as
he toed the line.
“Put it over, kid, and see me kill it,” he called to Markwith, shaking
his bat at him.
Red grinned and floated up a slow one that looked as big as a balloon
as it approached the plate but small as a pea when it reached it.
McCarthy nearly broke his back reaching for it.
“Strike one,” called the umpire.
“Not so much of a killer after all, are you?” taunted Markwith, as the
catcher returned the ball to him.
McCarthy glowered and gritted his teeth as he waited for the next one.
It came waist high over the plate, and McCarthy caught it on the end
of his bat. It seemed for a moment that he had made his boast good,
for the ball shot on a line toward center. Iredell, however, who was
playing close to second, leaped into the air and speared it with his
gloved hand, while the stands rocked with applause.
Mornsby, the famous shortstop of the Cardinals, was next at bat.
“Oh, see who’s here!” remarked Markwith, with affected surprise.
“Play ball, you clown,” growled Mornsby. “You’re not on the vaudeville
stage now.”
This was a fling at a theatrical venture that Markwith had gone into
the preceding winter.
“So you’re the quarter of a million dollar beauty!” retorted Markwith,
referring to the price that had been offered for Mornsby. “Just watch
me make you look like thirty cents.”
He put over a ball at which Mornsby refused to bite. The next one he
fouled off. The third he struck at too high and the ball dribbled down
to the pitcher’s box. Markwith picked it up with a tantalizing grin and
tossed to Burkett for an easy out at first.
“Thirty cents was too big an offer,” he called to Mornsby, as he drew
off his glove and came into the bench. “I ought to have made it a dime.”
“We’ll get you yet, you false alarm,” snapped Mornsby. “You’ll curl up
before the game’s half over.”
The Giants in their half made a bid for a run but were unable to score.
Curry poled one out between right and center that Cooper gathered in
after a long run. Iredell raised a twisting Texas leaguer over second
that McCarthy and Weston both tried for but failed to reach, narrowly
missing colliding with each other.
In the mixup, Iredell, by fast running, reached second. Burkett came
next, and with two balls and two strikes called on him lined out a
grasser that Mornsby found too hot to handle. He knocked it down,
however, but recovered it too late to get Burkett at first. Iredell,
who had taken a good lead, had no difficulty in making third.
On the first ball pitched to Wheeler, the next batter, Burkett made
a break for second. His aim was not so much to reach the base as to
draw a throw from the catcher which would enable Iredell to make for
home. The catcher threw the ball, not to second but to the pitcher, and
Iredell, who had started for the plate, was caught and run down between
third and home. Burkett in the meantime had reached second and was half
way down the base line between second and third, ready to dash for the
latter if Iredell should be put out. A snap throw to Weston, however,
the moment that Iredell had been tagged, caught Burkett between the
bags and he was also run down, making three out. It was a bit of
stupidity, or at least carelessness, on the part of the Giants and of
smart playing by the visitors.
The next four innings produced no tally for either side. Leadows, the
bespectacled pitcher for the Cardinals, was having one of his best
days, and he set the Giants down almost as fast as they came to the
bat. Markwith, too, was pitching well. He was hit harder and oftener
than Leadows, but so far the breaks of the game had been with him,
and he had had spectacular support on the part of the Giant fielders.
Hupft especially made some almost miraculous catches in the field that
shut off sure home runs and McCarney was guarding third in a way that
recalled the days of Jerry Denny.
“Do you see that?” Joe asked in a low tone of Jim, as McCarney made a
superb stop of a hot grounder and relayed it like a bullet to first.
“You didn’t see him doing that kind of playing yesterday when I was in
the box.”
“Right you are,” replied Jim. “And I noted, too, the one that Hupft
picked off the fence in the last inning. Both of them are playing like
fiends.”
In the sixth inning the Giants broke the ice. Burkett laced out a dandy
two-bagger to right. Wheeler laid down a perfect sacrifice between the
pitcher’s box and first that enabled Burkett to get to third. Willis
sent out a long fly to right center that was caught, but on the throw
in Burkett scored by a long slide to the plate. Larry went out on an
assist from Mornsby to Blair and the inning was over. But the Giants
were a run to the good, and at that stage of the game a single run
might prove the winning tally.
In the seventh the Cardinals went them one better. Blair led off with a
sharp single to left. Atkins followed with a grounder that just touched
the end of Iredell’s glove and went for a hit, Blair reaching third.
Munson was set down on strikes and Bixby sent up a high twisting foul
that Mylert caught at the very edge of the dugout. Remley, however,
whaled out a mighty three-bagger to right that scored both of his
mates. Markwith put on extra steam and struck out McCarthy, leaving
Remley on third.
The Giants’ half of the seventh was fruitless and the eighth opened
with St. Louis one run to the good.
It was not any too good a lead, and they started out to put the game
“on ice.” Mornsby offered at the first ball pitched, and sent the ball
crashing into the bleachers for the first home run of the game. This
mighty hit seemed to rattle Markwith and he passed Nealon to first on
four consecutive balls. Ralston rapped out a two-bagger on which Nealon
went all the way to the plate. Leadows struck out, but Blair made a
pretty single on which Nealon reached third. Markwith passed Atkins and
the bases were full. The score now stood 4 to 1 in favor of St. Louis
with three men on bases and one out.
McRae, the Giants’ manager, beckoned to Markwith, and the latter,
drawing off his glove, came in to the bench.
“Wouldn’t give a dime for me, eh?” jeered Mornsby. “I wouldn’t give a
plugged nickel for you. That home run broke your heart, didn’t it? I
told you you were a false alarm.”
Markwith, usually ready with a retort, was too discomfited to make
reply.
“It’s up to you, Joe,” said McRae. “I know you pitched yesterday, but
I’ll have to call on you to save this game if it isn’t already past
saving.”
Joe was not altogether unprepared for the call, for in the previous
inning McRae, seeing that Markwith was faltering, had sent him out to
do a little warming up.
“All right, Mac,” he responded, and walked out to the box.
His coming was the signal for a storm of cheers from stands and
bleachers. It seemed almost hopeless, but they had seen him so often
lead a forlorn hope to victory.
As was his right, Joe tossed up a few balls to Mylert to get the
location of the plate. Then he took his stand in the box as Munson came
to the plate, eager to send his comrades home. Even a single would
probably bring in two of them. A long sacrifice to the outfield would
account for one run. And a sharp two-bagger would clear the bases.
Joe wound up and shot a fast high one over the plate. Munson missed it
by inches.
“Strike one!” called the umpire, and the crowd cheered boisterously.
Mylert returned the ball to Joe on the bound. Joe muffed it and it
dropped at his feet.
He stooped carelessly to pick it up. Then like lightning he shot it to
Larry at second, catching Blair flat-footed off the bag.
Nealon on third made a dash for the plate. Larry tagged Blair and
returned the ball in a flash to Joe, who had run over to the third base
line. Joe put the ball on Nealon and the side was out.
It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. For an instant the
crowd was paralyzed. Then it woke up and a perfect tempest of cheers
swept over the field.
Robson, the rotund assistant manager, fairly shouted with glee as he
brought his hand down with a resounding smack on McRae’s knee.
“Did you see that, John?” he roared. “Did you see that fake muff? Did
you see that lightning throw? Did you ever see any foxier playing in
all your life?”
“No, I didn’t,” grinned McRae. “But for the love of Mike, Robbie, keep
that ham of a hand off my knee. Yes, that was some playing. I don’t
know which is the greater, that boy’s arm or his head. They’re both
wonders. Joe hasn’t his match in the baseball world.”
Joe came in smiling, to be mauled and pounded by his rejoicing comrades.
McRae and Robson beamed upon him.
“Great work, Joe,” said McRae. “Now if you hold them down in the next
inning and our boys get busy with their bats we still have a chance to
cop the game.”
But the Giants, although they got two men on bases in their half of the
eighth, were unable to score, and the ninth opened with St. Louis still
three runs ahead.
They made no more, however, for in their half of the ninth Joe mowed
them down in order, and the Giants came in to make their last stand
with three runs to tie and four to win.
Burkett led off with a nicely placed single in short right. Wheeler
followed with a clean hit over second, on which Burkett tried to reach
third. The ball came back too quickly, however, and he had to turn back
to second, which he reached safely only through a muff by Weston,
who was covering the bag. It was a close call and the Giant rooters
breathed a sigh of relief. McCarney, who had already made two hits and
seemed to have his batting clothes on, fell an easy victim on strikes.
Larry came to the rescue with a neat bunt that got him to first and
advanced his comrades each a base.
The bases were now full, and Hupft, who came next to bat, was implored
to give the ball a ride and bring his mates in. But a groan went up
when he raised an easy pop fly to the box that Leadows caught without
moving from his tracks.
Two men were now out and many of the spectators were beginning to rise
from their seats. They sat down suddenly, however, at the mighty roar
that went up when Joe came to the plate.
Leadows looked him over carefully. He had a wholesome respect for Joe’s
prowess, not only as a pitcher, but as a batter. Here was a foeman
worthy of his best.
Leadows took an unusually long time winding up. Then he sent in a
swift incurve that just missed the corner of the plate. Joe remained
motionless.
An outcurve followed, and again Joe let it go by.
The third was a fast one with a hop to it, and came over the plate half
way between knee and waist. Joe met it full on the seam.
There was a resounding crash and the ball started on its journey to the
bleachers.
It started almost on a line, rising steadily as it soared toward
right field. On and on it went as though it had wings. The Cardinal
outfielders started for it and then stopped and threw up their hands in
despair. The ball cleared the field, cleared the bleachers, cleared the
wall. Where it finally landed no one knew, no one cared.
Joe had dropped the bat and started like a deer for first. But as he
rounded the bag on his way to second, a glance at the ball told him
there was no need for hurry. So he jogged around the bases at his
leisure following the three comrades who romped joyously to the plate,
while in his ears were the thunderous cheers of the spectators like the
roaring of the sea.
He had made a homer with the bases full. He had pulled the game out of
the fire. At the very last moment he had snatched victory from defeat!