THE REDHEADED OUTFIELD
There
was Delaney's red-haired trio--Red Gilbat, left fielder; Reddy
Clammer, right fielder, and Reddie Ray, center fielder, composing the
most remarkable outfield ever developed in minor league baseball. It
was Delaney's pride, as it was also his trouble.Red
Gilbat was nutty--and his batting average was .371. Any student of
baseball could weigh these two facts against each other and
understand something of Delaney's trouble. It was not possible to
camp on Red Gilbat's trail. The man was a jack-o'-lantern, a
will-o'-the-wisp, a weird, long- legged, long-armed, red-haired
illusive phantom. When the gong rang at the ball grounds there were
ten chances to one that Red would not be present. He had been
discovered with small boys peeping through knotholes at the vacant
left field he was supposed to inhabit during play.Of
course what Red did off the ball grounds was not so important as what
he did on. And there was absolutely no telling what under the sun he
might do then except once out of every three times at bat he could be
counted on to knock the cover off the ball.Reddy
Clammer was a grand-stand player--the kind all managers hated--and he
was hitting .305. He made circus catches, circus stops, circus
throws, circus steals--but particularly circus catches. That is to
say, he made easy plays appear difficult. He was always strutting,
posing, talking, arguing, quarreling--when he was not engaged in
making a grand-stand play. Reddy Clammer used every possible incident
and artifice to bring himself into the limelight.Reddie
Ray had been the intercollegiate champion in the sprints and a famous
college ball player. After a few months of professional ball he was
hitting over .400 and leading the league both at bat and on the
bases. It was a beautiful and a thrilling sight to see him run. He
was so quick to start, so marvelously swift, so keen of judgment,
that neither Delaney nor any player could ever tell the hit that he
was not going to get. That was why Reddie Ray was a whole game in
himself.Delaney's
Rochester Stars and the Providence Grays were tied for first place.
Of the present series each team had won a game. Rivalry had always
been keen, and as the teams were about to enter the long homestretch
for the pennant there was battle in the New England air.The
September day was perfect. The stands were half full and the
bleachers packed with a white-sleeved mass. And the field was
beautifully level and green. The Grays were practicing and the Stars
were on their bench."We're
up against it," Delaney was saying. "This new umpire,
Fuller, hasn't got it in for us. Oh, no, not at all! Believe me, he's
a robber. But Scott is pitchin' well. Won his last three games. He'll
bother 'em. And the three Reds have broken loose. They're on the
rampage. They'll burn up this place today."Somebody
noted the absence of Gilbat.Delaney
gave a sudden start. "Why, Gil was here," he said slowly.
"Lord!--he's about due for a nutty stunt."Whereupon
Delaney sent boys and players scurrying about to find Gilbat, and
Delaney went himself to ask the Providence manager to hold back the
gong for a few minutes.Presently
somebody brought Delaney a telephone message that Red Gilbat was
playing ball with some boys in a lot four blocks down the street.
When at length a couple of players marched up to the bench with Red
in tow Delaney uttered an immense sigh of relief and then, after a
close scrutiny of Red's face, he whispered, "Lock the gates!"Then
the gong rang. The Grays trooped in. The Stars ran out, except
Gilbat, who ambled like a giraffe. The hum of conversation in the
grand stand quickened for a moment with the scraping of chairs, and
then grew quiet. The bleachers sent up the rollicking cry of
expectancy. The umpire threw out a white ball with his stentorian
"Play!" and Blake of the Grays strode to the plate.Hitting
safely, he started the game with a rush. With Dorr up, the Star
infield played for a bunt. Like clockwork Dorr dumped the first ball
as Blake got his flying start for second base. Morrissey tore in for
the ball, got it on the run and snapped it underhand to Healy,
beating the runner by an inch. The fast Blake, with a long slide,
made third base. The stands stamped. The bleachers howled. White,
next man up, batted a high fly to left field. This was a sun field
and the hardest to play in the league. Red Gilbat was the only man
who ever played it well. He judged the fly, waited under it, took a
step hack, then forward, and deliberately caught the ball in his
gloved hand. A throw-in to catch the runner scoring from third base
would have been futile, but it was not like Red Gilbat to fail to
try. He tossed the ball to O'Brien. And Blake scored amid applause."What
do you know about that?" ejaculated Delaney, wiping his moist
face. "I never before saw our nutty Redhead pull off a play like
that."Some
of the players yelled at Red, "This is a two-handed league, you
bat!"The
first five players on the list for the Grays were left-handed
batters, and against a right- handed pitcher whose most effective
ball for them was a high fast one over the outer corner they would
naturally hit toward left field. It was no surprise to see Hanley bat
a skyscraper out to left. Red had to run to get under it. He braced
himself rather unusually for a fielder. He tried to catch the ball in
his bare right hand and muffed it, Hanley got to second on the play
while the audience roared. When they got through there was some
roaring among the Rochester players. Scott and Captain Healy roared
at Red, and Red roared back at them."It's
all off. Red never did that before," cried Delaney in despair.
"He's gone clean bughouse now."Babcock
was the next man up and he likewise hit to left. It was a low,
twisting ball--half fly, half liner--and a difficult one to field.
Gilbat ran with great bounds, and though he might have got two hands
on the ball he did not try, but this time caught it in his right,
retiring the side.The
Stars trotted in, Scott and Healy and Kane, all veterans, looking
like thunderclouds. Red ambled in the last and he seemed very
nonchalant."By
Gosh, I'd 'a' ketched that one I muffed if I'd had time to change
hands," he said with a grin, and he exposed a handful of
peanuts. He had refused to drop the peanuts to make the catch with
two hands. That explained the mystery. It was funny, yet nobody
laughed. There was that run chalked up against the Stars, and this
game had to be won."Red,
I--I want to take the team home in the lead," said Delaney, and
it was plain that he suppressed strong feeling. "You didn't play
the game, you know."Red
appeared mightily ashamed."Del,
I'll git that run back," he said.Then
he strode to the plate, swinging his wagon- tongue bat. For all his
awkward position in the box he looked what he was--a formidable
hitter. He seemed to tower over the pitcher--Red was six feet
one--and he scowled and shook his bat at Wehying and called, "Put
one over--you wienerwurst!" Wehying was anything but red-
headed, and he wasted so many balls on Red that it looked as if he
might pass him. He would have passed him, too, if Red had not stepped
over on the fourth ball and swung on it. White at second base leaped
high for the stinging hit, and failed to reach it. The ball struck
and bounded for the fence. When Babcock fielded it in, Red was
standing on third base, and the bleachers groaned.Whereupon
Chesty Reddy Clammer proceeded to draw attention to himself, and
incidentally delay the game, by assorting the bats as if the audience
and the game might gladly wait years to see him make a choice."Git
in the game!" yelled Delaney."Aw,
take my bat, Duke of the Abrubsky!" sarcastically said Dump
Kane. When the grouchy Kane offered to lend his bat matters were
critical in the Star camp.Other
retorts followed, which Reddy Clammer deigned not to notice. At last
he got a bat that suited him--and then, importantly, dramatically,
with his cap jauntily riding his red locks, he marched to the plate.Some
wag in the bleachers yelled into the silence, "Oh, Maggie, your
lover has come!"Not
improbably Clammer was thinking first of his presence before the
multitude, secondly of his batting average and thirdly of the run to
be scored. In this instance he waited and feinted at balls and fouled
strikes at length to work his base. When he got to first base
suddenly he bolted for second, and in the surprise of the
unlooked-for play he made it by a spread-eagle slide. It was a circus
steal.Delaney
snorted. Then the look of profound disgust vanished in a flash of
light. His huge face beamed.Reddie
Ray was striding to the plate.There
was something about Reddie Ray that pleased all the senses. His lithe
form seemed instinct with life; any sudden movement was suggestive of
stored lightning. His position at the plate was on the left side, and
he stood perfectly motionless, with just a hint of tense waiting
alertness. Dorr, Blake and Babcock, the outfielders for the Grays,
trotted round to the right of their usual position. Delaney smiled
derisively, as if he knew how futile it was to tell what field Reddie
Ray might hit into. Wehying, the old fox, warily eyed the youngster,
and threw him a high curve, close in. It grazed Reddie's shirt, but
he never moved a hair. Then Wehying, after the manner of many veteran
pitchers when trying out a new and menacing batter, drove a straight
fast ball at Reddie's head. Reddie ducked, neither too slow nor too
quick, just right to show what an eye he had, how hard it was to
pitch to. The next was a strike. And on the next he appeared to step
and swing in one action. There was a ringing rap, and the ball shot
toward right, curving down, a vicious, headed hit. Mallory, at first
base, snatched at it and found only the air. Babcock had only time to
take a few sharp steps, and then he plunged down, blocked the hit and
fought the twisting ball. Reddie turned first base, flitted on toward
second, went headlong in the dust, and shot to the base before White
got the throw-in from Babcock. Then, as White wheeled and lined the
ball home to catch the scoring Clammer, Reddie Ray leaped up, got his
sprinter's start and, like a rocket, was off for third. This time he
dove behind the base, sliding in a half circle, and as Hanley caught
Strickland's perfect throw and whirled with the ball, Reddie's hand
slid to the bag.Reddie
got to his feet amid a rather breathless silence. Even the coachers
were quiet. There was a moment of relaxation, then Wehying received
the ball from Hanley and faced the batter.This
was Dump Kane. There was a sign of some kind, almost imperceptible,
between Kane and Reddie. As Wehying half turned in his swing to
pitch, Reddie Ray bounded homeward. It was not so much the boldness
of his action as the amazing swiftness of it that held the audience
spellbound. Like a thunderbolt Reddie came down the line, almost
beating Wehying's pitch to the plate. But Kane's bat intercepted the
ball, laying it down, and Reddie scored without sliding. Dorr, by
sharp work, just managed to throw Kane out.Three
runs so quick it was hard to tell how they had come. Not in the major
league could there have been faster work. And the ball had been
fielded perfectly and thrown perfectly."There
you are," said Delaney, hoarsely. "Can you beat it? If
you've been wonderin' how the cripped Stars won so many games just
put what you've seen in your pipe and smoke it. Red Gilbat gets
on--Reddy Clammer gets on--and then Reddie Ray drives them home or
chases them home."The
game went on, and though it did not exactly drag it slowed down
considerably. Morrissey and Healy were retired on infield plays. And
the sides changed. For the Grays, O'Brien made a scratch hit, went to
second on Strickland's sacrifice, stole third and scored on Mallory's
infield out. Wehying missed three strikes. In the Stars' turn the
three end players on the batting list were easily disposed of. In the
third inning the clever Blake, aided by a base on balls and a hit
following, tied the score, and once more struck fire and brimstone
from the impatient bleachers. Providence was a town that had to have
its team win."Git
at 'em, Reds!" said Delaney gruffly."Batter
up!" called Umpire Fuller, sharply."Where's
Red? Where's the bug? Where's the nut? Delaney, did you lock the
gates? Look under the bench!" These and other remarks, not
exactly elegant, attested to the mental processes of some of the
Stars. Red Gilbat did not appear to be forthcoming. There was an
anxious delay Capt. Healy searched for the missing player. Delaney
did not say any more.Suddenly
a door under the grand stand opened and Red Gilbat appeared. He
hurried for his bat and then up to the plate. And he never offered to
hit one of the balls Wehying shot over. When Fuller had called the
third strike Red hurried back to the door and disappeared."Somethin'
doin'," whispered Delaney.Lord
Chesterfield Clammer paraded to the batter's box and, after gradually
surveying the field, as if picking out the exact place he meant to
drive the ball, he stepped to the plate. Then a roar from the
bleachers surprised him."Well,
I'll be dog-goned!" exclaimed Delaney. "Red stole that sure
as shootin'."Red
Gilbat was pushing a brand-new baby carriage toward the batter's box.
There was a tittering in the grand stand; another roar from the
bleachers. Clammer's face turned as red as his hair. Gilbat shoved
the baby carriage upon the plate, spread wide his long arms, made a
short presentation speech and an elaborate bow, then backed away.All
eyes were centered on Clammer. If he had taken it right the incident
might have passed without undue hilarity. But Clammer became
absolutely wild with rage. It was well known that he was unmarried.
Equally well was it seen that Gilbat had executed one of his famous
tricks. Ball players were inclined to be dignified about the
presentation of gifts upon the field, and Clammer, the dude, the
swell, the lady's man, the favorite of the baseball gods--in his own
estimation-- so far lost control of himself that he threw his bat at
his retreating tormentor. Red jumped high and the bat skipped along
the ground toward the bench. The players sidestepped and leaped and,
of course, the bat cracked one of Delaney's big shins. His eyes
popped with pain, but he could not stop laughing. One by one the
players lay down and rolled over and yelled. The superior Clammer was
not overliked by his co- players.From
the grand stand floated the laughter of ladies and gentlemen. And
from the bleachers-- that throne of the biting, ironic, scornful
fans-- pealed up a howl of delight. It lasted for a full minute.
Then, as quiet ensued, some boy blew a blast of one of those infernal
little instruments of pipe and rubber balloon, and over the field
wailed out a shrill, high-keyed cry, an excellent imitation of a
baby. Whereupon the whole audience roared, and in discomfiture Reddy
Clammer went in search of his bat.To
make his chagrin all the worse he ingloriously struck out. And then
he strode away under the lea of the grand-stand wall toward right
field.Reddie
Ray went to bat and, with the infield playing deep and the outfield
swung still farther round to the right, he bunted a little teasing
ball down the third-base line. Like a flash of light he had crossed
first base before Hanley got his hands on the ball. Then Kane hit
into second base, forcing Reddie out.Again
the game assumed less spectacular and more ordinary play. Both Scott
and Wehying held the batters safely and allowed no runs. But in the
fifth inning, with the Stars at bat and two out, Red Gilbat again
electrified the field. He sprang up from somewhere and walked to the
plate, his long shape enfolded in a full-length linen duster. The
color and style of this garment might not have been especially
striking, but upon Red it had a weird and wonderful effect. Evidently
Red intended to bat while arrayed in his long coat, for he stepped
into the box and faced the pitcher. Capt. Healy yelled for him to
take the duster off. Likewise did the Grays yell.The
bleachers shrieked their disapproval. To say the least, Red Gilbat's
crazy assurance was dampening to the ardor of the most blindly
confident fans. At length Umpire Fuller waved his hand, enjoining
silence and calling time."Take
it off or I'll fine you."From
his lofty height Gilbat gazed down upon the little umpire, and it was
plain what he thought."What
do I care for money!" replied Red."That
costs you twenty-five," said Fuller."Cigarette
change!" yelled Red."Costs
you fifty.""Bah!
Go to an eye doctor," roared Red."Seventy-five,"
added Fuller, imperturbably."Make
it a hundred!""It's
two hundred.""ROB-B-BER!"
bawled Red.Fuller
showed willingness to overlook Red's back talk as well as costume,
and he called, "Play!"There
was a mounting sensation of prophetic certainty. Old fox Wehying
appeared nervous. He wasted two balls on Red; then he put one over
the plate, and then he wasted another. Three balls and one strike!
That was a bad place for a pitcher, and with Red Gilbat up it was
worse. Wehying swung longer and harder to get all his left behind the
throw and let drive. Red lunged and cracked the ball. It went up and
up and kept going up and farther out, and as the murmuring audience
was slowly transfixed into late realization the ball soared to its
height and dropped beyond the left-field fence. A home run!Red
Gilbat gathered up the tails of his duster, after the manner of a
neat woman crossing a muddy street, and ambled down to first base and
on to second, making prodigious jumps upon the bags, and round third,
to come down the home- stretch wagging his red head. Then he stood on
the plate, and, as if to exact revenge from the audience for the fun
they made of him, he threw back his shoulders and bellowed: "HAW!
HAW! HAW!"Not
a handclap greeted him, but some mindless, exceedingly adventurous
fan yelled: "Redhead! Redhead! Redhead!"That
was the one thing calculated to rouse Red Gilbat. He seemed to flare,
to bristle, and he paced for the bleachers.Delaney
looked as if he might have a stroke. "Grab him! Soak him with a
bat! Somebody grab him!"But
none of the Stars was risking so much, and Gilbat, to the howling
derision of the gleeful fans, reached the bleachers. He stretched his
long arms up to the fence and prepared to vault over. "Where's
the guy who called me redhead?" he yelled.That
was heaping fuel on the fire. From all over the bleachers, from
everywhere, came the obnoxious word. Red heaved himself over the
fence and piled into the fans. Then followed the roar of many voices,
the tramping of many feet, the pressing forward of line after line of
shirt- sleeved men and boys. That bleacher stand suddenly assumed the
maelstrom appearance of a surging mob round an agitated center. In a
moment all the players rushed down the field, and confusion reigned."Oh!
Oh! Oh!" moaned Delaney.However,
the game had to go on. Delaney, no doubt, felt all was over.
Nevertheless there were games occasionally that seemed an unending
series of unprecedented events. This one had begun admirably to break
a record. And the Providence fans, like all other fans, had
cultivated an appetite as the game proceeded. They were wild to put
the other redheads out of the field or at least out for the inning,
wild to tie the score, wild to win and wilder than all for more
excitement. Clammer hit safely. But when Reddie Ray lined to the
second baseman, Clammer, having taken a lead, was doubled up in the
play.Of
course, the sixth inning opened with the Stars playing only eight
men. There was another delay. Probably everybody except Delaney and
perhaps Healy had forgotten the Stars were short a man. Fuller called
time. The impatient bleachers barked for action.Capt.
White came over to Delaney and courteously offered to lend a player
for the remaining innings. Then a pompous individual came out of the
door leading from the press boxes--he was a director Delaney
disliked."Guess
you'd better let Fuller call the game," he said brusquely."If
you want to--as the score stands now in our favor," replied
Delaney."Not
on your life! It'll be ours or else we'll play it out and beat you to
death."He
departed in high dudgeon."Tell
Reddie to swing over a little toward left," was Delaney's order
to Healy. Fire gleamed in the manager's eye.Fuller
called play then, with Reddy Clammer and Reddie Ray composing the
Star outfield. And the Grays evidently prepared to do great execution
through the wide lanes thus opened up. At that stage it would not
have been like matured ball players to try to crop hits down into the
infield.White
sent a long fly back of Clammer. Reddy had no time to loaf on this
hit. It was all he could do to reach it and he made a splendid catch,
for which the crowd roundly applauded him. That applause was wine to
Reddy Clammer. He began to prance on his toes and sing out to Scott:
"Make 'em hit to me, old man! Make 'em hit to me!" Whether
Scott desired that or not was scarcely possible to say; at any rate,
Hanley pounded a hit through the infield. And Clammer, prancing high
in the air like a check-reined horse, ran to intercept the ball. He
could have received it in his hands, but that would never have served
Reddy Clammer. He timed the hit to a nicety, went down with his old
grand-stand play and blocked the ball with his anatomy. Delaney
swore. And the bleachers, now warm toward the gallant outfielder,
lustily cheered him. Babcock hit down the right-field foul line,
giving Clammer a long run. Hanley was scoring and Babcock was
sprinting for third base when Reddy got the ball. He had a fine arm
and he made a hard and accurate throw, catching his man in a close
play.Perhaps
even Delaney could not have found any fault with that play. But the
aftermath spoiled the thing. Clammer now rode the air; he soared; he
was in the clouds; it was his inning and he had utterly forgotten his
team mates, except inasmuch as they were performing mere little
automatic movements to direct the great machinery in his direction
for his sole achievement and glory.There
is fate in baseball as well as in other walks of life. O'Brien was a
strapping fellow and he lifted another ball into Clammer's wide
territory. The hit was of the high and far-away variety. Clammer
started to run with it, not like a grim outfielder, but like one
thinking of himself, his style, his opportunity, his inevitable
success. Certain it was that in thinking of himself the outfielder
forgot his surroundings. He ran across the foul line, head up, hair
flying, unheeding the warning cry from Healy. And, reaching up to
make his crowning circus play, he smashed face forward into the
bleachers fence. Then, limp as a rag, he dropped. The audience sent
forth a long groan of sympathy."That
wasn't one of his stage falls," said Delaney. "I'll bet
he's dead. . . . Poor Reddy! And I want him to bust his face!"Clammer
was carried off the field into the dressing room and a physician was
summoned out of the audience."Cap.,
what'd it--do to him?" asked Delaney."Aw,
spoiled his pretty mug, that's all," replied Healy, scornfully.
"Mebee he'll listen to me now."Delaney's
change was characteristic of the man. "Well, if it didn't kill
him I'm blamed glad he got it. . . . Cap, we can trim 'em yet. Reddie
Ray'll play the whole outfield. Give Reddie a chance to run! Tell the
boy to cut loose. And all of you git in the game. Win or lose, I
won't forget it. I've a hunch. Once in a while I can tell what's
comin' off. Some queer game this! And we're goin' to win. Gilbat lost
the game; Clammer throwed it away again, and now Reddie Ray's due to
win it. . . . I'm all in, but I wouldn't miss the finish to save my
life."Delaney's
deep presaging sense of baseball events was never put to a greater
test. And the seven Stars, with the score tied, exhibited the temper
and timber of a championship team in the last ditch. It was so
splendid that almost instantly it caught the antagonistic bleachers.Wherever
the tired Scott found renewed strength and speed was a mystery. But
he struck out the hard-hitting Providence catcher and that made the
third out. The Stars could not score in their half of the inning.
Likewise the seventh inning passed without a run for either side;
only the infield work of the Stars was something superb. When the
eighth inning ended, without a tally for either team, the excitement
grew tense. There was Reddy Ray playing outfield alone, and the Grays
with all their desperate endeavors had not lifted the ball out of the
infield.But
in the ninth, Blake, the first man up, lined low toward right center.
The hit was safe and looked good for three bases. No one looking,
however, had calculated on Reddie's Ray's fleetness. He covered
ground and dove for the bounding ball and knocked it down. Blake did
not get beyond first base. The crowd cheered the play equally with
the prospect of a run. Dorr bunted and beat the throw. White hit one
of the high fast balls Scott was serving and sent it close to the
left-field foul line. The running Reddie Ray made on that play held
White at second base. But two runs had scored with no one out.Hanley,
the fourth left-handed hitter, came up and Scott pitched to him as he
had to the others --high fast balls over the inside corner of the
plate. Reddy Ray's position was some fifty yards behind deep short,
and a little toward center field. He stood sideways, facing
two-thirds of that vacant outfield. In spite of Scott's skill, Hanley
swung the ball far round into right field, but he hit it high, and
almost before he actually hit it the great sprinter was speeding
across the green.The
suspence grew almost unbearable as the ball soared in its parabolic
flight and the red- haired runner streaked dark across the green. The
ball seemed never to be coming down. And when it began to descend and
reached a point perhaps fifty feet above the ground there appeared
more distance between where it would alight and where Reddie was than
anything human could cover. It dropped and dropped, and then dropped
into Reddie Ray's outstretched hands. He had made the catch look
easy. But the fact that White scored from second base on the play
showed what the catch really was.There
was no movement or restlessness of the audience such as usually
indicated the beginning of the exodus. Scott struck Babcock out. The
game still had fire. The Grays never let up a moment on their
coaching. And the hoarse voices of the Stars were grimmer than ever.
Reddie Ray was the only one of the seven who kept silent. And he
crouched like a tiger.The
teams changed sides with the Grays three runs in the lead. Morrissey,
for the Stars, opened with a clean drive to right. Then Healy slashed
a ground ball to Hanley and nearly knocked him down. When old Burns,
by a hard rap to short, advanced the runners a base and made a
desperate, though unsuccessful, effort to reach first the Providence
crowd awoke to a strange and inspiring appreciation. They began that
most rare feature in baseball audiences--a strong and trenchant call
for the visiting team to win.The
play had gone fast and furious. Wehying, sweaty and disheveled,
worked violently. All the Grays were on uneasy tiptoes. And the Stars
were seven Indians on the warpath. Halloran fouled down the
right-field line; then he fouled over the left-field fence. Wehying
tried to make him too anxious, but it was in vain. Halloran was
implacable. With two strikes and three balls he hit straight down to
white, and was out. The ball had been so sharp that neither runner on
base had a chance to advance.Two
men out, two on base, Stars wanting three runs to tie, Scott, a weak
batter, at the plate! The situation was disheartening. Yet there sat
Delaney, shot through and through with some vital compelling force.
He saw only victory. And when the very first ball pitched to Scott
hit him on the leg, giving him his base, Delaney got to his feet,
unsteady and hoarse.Bases
full, Reddie Ray up, three runs to tie!Delaney
looked at Reddie. And Reddie looked at Delaney. The manager's face
was pale, intent, with a little smile. The player had eyes of fire, a
lean, bulging jaw and the hands he reached for his bat clutched like
talons."Reddie,
I knew it was waitin' for you," said Delaney, his voice ringing.
"Break up the game!"After
all this was only a baseball game, and perhaps from the fans'
viewpoint a poor game at that. But the moment when that lithe,
redhaired athlete toed the plate was a beautiful one. The long crash
from the bleachers, the steady cheer from the grand stand, proved
that it was not so much the game that mattered.Wehying
had shot his bolt; he was tired. Yet he made ready for a final
effort. It seemed that passing Reddie Ray on balls would have been a
wise play at that juncture. But no pitcher, probably, would have done
it with the bases crowded and chances, of course, against the batter.Clean
and swift, Reddie leaped at the first pitched ball. Ping! For a
second no one saw the hit. Then it gleamed, a terrific drive, low
along the ground, like a bounding bullet, straight at Babcock in
right field. It struck his hands and glanced viciously away to roll
toward the fence.Thunder
broke loose from the stands. Reddie Ray was turning first base.
Beyond first base he got into his wonderful stride. Some runners run
with a consistent speed, the best they can make for a given distance.
But this trained sprinter gathered speed as he ran. He was no
short-stepping runner. His strides were long. They gave an impression
of strength combined with fleetness. He had the speed of a race
horse, but the trimness, the raciness, the delicate legs were not
characteristic of him. Like the wind he turned second, so powerful
that his turn was short. All at once there came a difference in his
running. It was no longer beautiful. The grace was gone. It was now
fierce, violent. His momentum was running him off his legs. He
whirled around third base and came hurtling down the homestretch. His
face was convulsed, his eyes were wild. His arms and legs worked in a
marvelous muscular velocity. He seemed a demon--a flying streak. He
overtook and ran down the laboring Scott, who had almost reached the
plate.The
park seemed full of shrill, piercing strife. It swelled, reached a
highest pitch, sustained that for a long moment, and then declined."My
Gawd!" exclaimed Delaney, as he fell back. "Wasn't that a
finish? Didn't I tell you to watch them redheads!"
THE RUBE
It was the most
critical time I had yet experienced in my career as a baseball
manager. And there was more than the usual reason why I must pull
the team out. A chance for a business deal depended upon the
good-will of the stockholders of the Worcester club. On the
outskirts of the town was a little cottage that I wanted to buy,
and this depended upon the business deal. My whole future happiness
depended upon the little girl I hoped to install in that
cottage.
Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team, I
had found a strong aggregation and an enthusiastic following. I
really had a team with pennant possibilities. Providence was a
strong rival, but I beat them three straight in the opening series,
set a fast pace, and likewise set Worcester baseball mad. The
Eastern League clubs were pretty evenly matched; still I continued
to hold the lead until misfortune overtook
me.
Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid off.
Mullaney got spiked while sliding and was out of the game. Ashwell
sprained his ankle and Hirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great
pitcher, hurt his arm on a cold day and he could not get up his old
speed. Stringer, who had batted three hundred and seventy-one and
led the league the year before, struck a bad spell and could not
hit a barn door handed up to him.
Then came the slump. The team suddenly let down;
went to pieces; played ball that would have disgraced an amateur
nine. It was a trying time. Here was a great team, strong
everywhere. A little hard luck had dug up a slump--and now! Day by
day the team dropped in the race. When we reached the second
division the newspapers flayed us. Worcester would never stand for
a second division team. Baseball admirers, reporters,
fans--especially the fans--are fickle. The admirers quit, the
reporters grilled us, and the fans, though they stuck to the games
with that barnacle-like tenacity peculiar to them, made life
miserable for all of us. I saw the pennant slowly fading, and the
successful season, and the business deal, and the cottage, and
Milly----
But when I thought of her I just could not see
failure. Something must be done, but what? I was at the end of my
wits. When Jersey City beat us that Saturday, eleven to two,
shoving us down to fifth place with only a few percentage points
above the Fall River team, I grew desperate, and locking my players
in the dressing room I went after them. They had lain down on me
and needed a jar. I told them so straight and flat, and being
bitter, I did not pick and choose my
words.
"And fellows," I concluded, "you've got to brace.
A little more of this and we can't pull out. I tell you you're a
championship team. We had that pennant cinched. A few cuts and
sprains and hard luck--and you all quit! You lay down! I've been
patient. I've plugged for you. Never a man have I fined or thrown
down. But now I'm at the end of my string. I'm out to fine you now,
and I'll release the first man who shows the least yellow. I play
no more substitutes. Crippled or not, you guys have got to get in
the game."
I waited to catch my breath and expected some
such outburst as managers usually get from criticized players. But
not a word! Then I addressed some of them
personally.
"Gregg, your lay-off ends today. You play Monday.
Mullaney, you've drawn your salary for two weeks with that spiked
foot. If you can't run on it--well, all right, but I put it up to
your good faith. I've played the game and I know it's hard to run
on a sore foot. But you can do it. Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I
know--now, can you run?"
"Sure I can. I'm not a quitter. I'm ready to go
in," replied Ashwell.
"Raddy, how about you?" I said, turning to my
star twirler.
"Connelly, I've seen as fast a team in as bad a
rut and yet pull out," returned Radbourne. "We're about due for the
brace. When it comes --look out! As for me, well, my arm isn't
right, but it's acting these warm days in a way that tells me it
will be soon. It's been worked too hard. Can't you get another
pitcher? I'm not knocking Herne or Cairns. They're good for their
turn, but we need a new man to help out. And he must be a
crackerjack if we're to get back to the
lead."
"Where on earth can I find such a pitcher?" I
shouted, almost distracted.
"Well, that's up to you," replied
Radbourne.
Up to me it certainly was, and I cudgeled my
brains for inspiration. After I had given up in hopelessness it
came in the shape of a notice I read in one of the papers. It was a
brief mention of an amateur Worcester ball team being shut out in a
game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsville played Sunday ball,
which gave me an opportunity to look them
over.
It took some train riding and then a journey by
coach to get to Rickettsville. I mingled with the crowd of talking
rustics. There was only one little "bleachers" and this was loaded
to the danger point with the feminine adherents of the teams. Most
of the crowd centered alongside and back of the catcher's box. I
edged in and got a position just behind the stone that served as
home plate.
Hunting up a player in this way was no new thing
to me. I was too wise to make myself known before I had sized up
the merits of my man. So, before the players came upon the field I
amused myself watching the rustic fans and listening to them. Then
a roar announced the appearance of the Rickettsville team and their
opponents, who wore the name of Spatsburg on their Canton flannel
shirts. The uniforms of these country amateurs would have put a
Philadelphia Mummer's parade to the blush, at least for bright
colors. But after one amused glance I got down to the stern
business of the day, and that was to discover a pitcher, and
failing that, baseball talent of any kind.
Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the
Rickettsville twirler. He was far over six feet tall and as lean as
a fence rail. He had a great shock of light hair, a sunburned,
sharp-featured face, wide, sloping shoulders, and arms enormously
long. He was about as graceful and had about as much of a baseball
walk as a crippled cow.
"He's a rube!" I ejaculated, in disgust and
disappointment.
But when I had seen him throw one ball to his
catcher I grew as keen as a fox on a scent. What speed he had! I
got round closer to him and watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He
was a giant. To be sure, he was lean, rawboned as a horse, but
powerful. What won me at once was his natural, easy swing. He got
the ball away with scarcely any effort. I wondered what he could do
when he brought the motion of his body into
play.
"Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?" I asked
of a boy.
"Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but it
ain't. Huh!" replied this country youngster. Evidently my question
had thrown some implication upon this particular
player.
"I reckon you be a stranger in these parts," said
a pleasant old fellow. "His name's Hurtle --Whitaker Hurtle. Whit
fer short. He hain't lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee!
Never pitched any before, nuther."
Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting
name!
