BASEBALL JOECHAMPION OF THE LEAGUECHAPTER IA PROMISING START
BASEBALL JOECHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE
“Great Scott, Joe, what are you trying to do?” demanded Jim Barclay, as he threw back the ball he had just caught and wrung the hand that had got the brunt of the impact. “Trying to murder me, or just cripple me for life?”
Joe Matson, “Baseball Joe,” as he was known to idolizing fans all over the country, looked at his comrade with a grin.
“Was it as hot as all that?” he asked.
“Hot!” exclaimed Jim. “I should say it was! It was fairly smoking as it came in. Have a heart. Save those whizzers for the Pirates and the Cubs when the season opens.”
“I’ll ease up a little,” promised Joe. “I didn’t realize that I was putting so much tabasco into the pitching. But the old soup bone feels so good that it’s a big temptation to let it out for all it’s worth.”
“You’re ready for the gong right now,” declaredJim. “You’ve rounded into form sooner than any other member of the team.”
“If I felt any better I’d be afraid of myself,” said Joe, with a smile. “I’m mighty glad of it, for I’ve mapped out a program this year that will keep me hustling to make good on it.”
“Seems to me if you just keep up to the standard of last year, you’ll be all to the merry,” said Jim. “A pitching percentage of over .900 and a batting average that tops the .400 mark. Isn’t it enough to lead the league in both departments? Aren’t you ever going to be satisfied?”
“Not on your life!” replied Joe emphatically. “The minute a man’s satisfied he starts to go back. He may not know it, but he’s sliding all the same. I’ll never be satisfied as long as I am in the game. If I strike out eight men, I’ll be sore because I didn’t make it ten. If I make a base hit, I’ll kick myself because it wasn’t a double, a three-bagger, or a homer.”
“That’s the way I like to hear a man talk,” came in a hearty voice from behind him, and Joe turned to see McRae, the veteran manager of the Giants, who had led his men to more championships than any other in either league. “Put that spirit in your men, Joe, and we’ll just breeze through to another flag this year.”
“Sure as shooting,” chimed in Robson, the fat, rubicund coach and assistant manager, whohad come up with McRae and whose closest friend he had been since they had played together on the famous old Orioles. “It’s that spirit or the lack of it that makes or breaks a team.”
“I’ll do my best,” replied Joe, who was not only the star batter and pitcher of the team, but its captain as well. “I’ve got a lot of good material to work with,” he added, as he looked with pride at his men who were batting out flies and grounders and shooting the ball around the bases in practice.
“Yes,” admitted McRae thoughtfully, “it seems to me that we’ve plugged up the weak spots on the team pretty well. We’re stronger at short, for one thing. Young Renton is developing fast and plays with his head as well as his hands. Mechanically, he’s not as good yet as Iredell was, but he can play rings about him when it comes to brain work.”
“He’s a comer, all right,” affirmed Joe confidently.
“Then, too, that exchange we made of Wheeler for Ralston was a good one, I think, even if we did have to throw in a lot of coin in addition,” went on McRae. “That boy can certainly lam the ball, and he has added strength to our outer garden.”
“His coming has given us the strongest outfield in the league, bar none,” replied Joe. “Ralstonis a little hard to manage, but he’s there with the goods all right.”
“Jackwell and Bowen ought to be worth more to us than they were last year,” mused McRae.
“They’re championship material,” declared Joe. “They got off on the wrong foot last year. That Texas oil trouble had them buffaloed a good deal of the time. But now that that’s off their mind, they’re going along like a house afire. Jackwell’s a regular Jerry Denny at third, and Bowen is gobbling up everything that comes his way in center. They’re slamming them out with the stick too.”
“Take it by and large,” put in Robbie, as Robson was invariably called, “I don’t remember when the Giants ever had a better balanced team. It’s strong in batting, fielding, base-running and inside stuff. And when it comes to pitching—well, with Joe and Jim here as our first string and Bradley and Merton and Markwith to help them out, to say nothing of the rookies we picked up in the draft, there isn’t a staff in the league that has any license to beat us.”
“It certainly looks good,” assented the cautious McRae. “But don’t bank too much on appearances, Robbie. There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, and if that’s true anywhere, it’s especially true in baseball. I’ve seen a team that looked unbeatable on paper go to pieces in aweek. Suppose, for instance, Joe should get his arm broken—all our hopes would go geflooey.”
“May the saints forbid!” exclaimed Robbie with such fervor that Joe could not repress a grin.
“Oh, I guess the Giants would come through all right,” said Joe. “It isn’t a one-man team.”
“No,” agreed McRae. “But it’s nearer to it than it’s ever been before in my experience. There have been many times in the last few years, my boy, when you’ve carried the team on your back. But now it’s time to pick a couple of teams for this afternoon’s practice. Come here, you fellows!” he shouted, waving his hand to the other members of the team, who quickly left their positions and gathered around him.
“Now, boys,” the manager went on, while they gave him close attention, “I haven’t ridden you very hard since we’ve been down here in this training camp because I’m a believer in slow development. I’ve wanted you to get the kinks out of your muscles and the fat off your waistlines before I put you through the hoops.
“But now you’ve got to the point where I want you to play ball as it ought to be played and as you’ve got to play it when the bell rings. So I’m going to pick out two teams this afternoon and I want each team to play against the other as though it were playing the Pittsburghs or the Chicagos. One team will be made up chiefly ofthe regulars, and they’ll play in the positions they’re expected to play in this season.
“The other team will be made up largely of the rookies and substitutes. For the sake of a name, we’ll call them the Yannigans. And I want them to play their heads off against the regulars and take some of the conceit out of them. I’ll be watching every move and so will Robbie. Any man that lies down on the job will get the rough side of my tongue, and some of you fellows know how rough that is when I get going.”
There was a general grin among the players, who could corroborate this to their cost, for McRae, though a just man, was a severe one.
“I want to even up things a little so that each side will have a chance,” continued the manager. “So I’m going to have Matson pitch for the Yannigans.”
There was an exclamation of satisfaction from the rookies at this, and the rather supercilious smiles that had come on the faces of the Regulars disappeared and they lost some of their confidence.
“Markwith will do the hurling for the Regulars,” concluded McRae.
He then went on to pick out the men who were to play on the second team and assign them their respective places. A coin was tossed to decide which nine should go to the bat first, and luckpronounced against the Regulars, who for the occasion posed as the visiting team.
Joe drew his recruits aside to have a little talk with them before the game began.
“Now, boys,” he said, “the old-timers think we’re going to be easy meat, and we want to give them a surprise party. I’m looking to every one of you to do your level best. Don’t let them block you off the bag or get your goat by gibing at you or by any other tricks of the game. I’m not going to try much for strike-outs, because I want you to do your share of the work and get the practice you need. But I’ll try to tighten up in the pinches. Now get out to your positions and show these fellows what you’re made of. And remember that McRae is watching you like a hawk. Now’s your chance to make good with him.”
Curry came first to the plate for the Regulars and grinned at his comrade.
“Put over a good one, Joe, and I’ll give this punk team of yours a little exercise,” he said.
“Just for that I’m going to make this first one a strike,” laughed Joe.
He wound up with deliberation and the ball whizzed over the plate like a bullet.
It plunked into the catcher’s mitt as Curry swung at it. A laugh went up from the bench, and Curry looked sheepish.
“The fielders of my punk team didn’t get much exercise that time, did they?” asked Joe tantalizingly.
“I hadn’t got set yet,” grunted Curry, as he took a firm toehold for the next ball.
Thinking that Joe would rely on a change of pace, Curry looked this time for a floater or a curve. But again the ball shot over, splitting the plate for a perfect strike. Again the big left fielder swung and missed.
“Did you see that, John?” asked Robbie, bringing his hand down with a resounding slap on McRae’s knee. “That arm of his isn’t an arm at all. It’s a cannon!”
“It sure is,” agreed McRae. “His speed is blinding. But for the love of Pete, Robbie, remember that knee of mine is flesh and blood and keep that big ham of yours off it.”
“I’m going to let you hit this one, Curry,” Joe promised, “but it won’t do you any good.”
He put one over that forced Curry to hit it into the dust. It came on a bound to Joe, who threw to first in plenty of time for an out.
“’Twas just playing with him he was, like a cat with a mouse,” gloated Robbie, as Curry came back discomfited to the bench. “What that boy can do to a batter is a shame.”
Burkett, the burly first baseman, took a ball and a strike and then knocked a grasser to short.It had all the earmarks of an easy out and ordinarily would have been just that. But as luck would have it, the ball struck a stone and took a sudden bound over the shortstop’s head. It rolled out into center and before it could be retrieved Burkett was roosting on second.
“First blood for the Regulars!” he shouted in glee, as he cavorted about the bag.
Joe caught the ball as it was thrown in and turned round to face the plate. But instead of making a half turn, he swung completely around and shot the ball to second and before the startled Burkett could get back to the bag the baseman had put the ball on him.
“How about that first blood?” asked the grinning Joe as Burkett passed him on his way in. “Dried up pretty quickly, didn’t it?”
“Wriggling snakes!” chortled Robbie, while McRae quickly shifted his knee out of reach, “was that quick work or wasn’t it? I’m asking you, John.”
“Greased lightning,” agreed McRae. “His arm is working some of the time. His head is working all the time.”
Larry Barrett, the jovial second baseman, came next, and, hitting the ball on the under side, sent it up in the air for a towering foul that the catcher nabbed without moving from his tracks.
“You made monkeys of us that time, Joe,”laughed Larry, as he went out to his position, “but the game’s young and we’ll get back at you yet.”
Markwith, the lanky southpaw, was on his mettle too, and he made short work of the rookies who faced him, setting them down in one, two, three order.
The game went on with varying fortunes, both sides playing good ball. All the players were on their toes, the Regulars to avoid the ignominy of being beaten by the youngsters and the Yannigans inspired by the ambition to show their manager the best they had in stock.
The Regulars scored one in the third, but the Yannigans came back at them in the fifth on a triple by Joe with the bases full that scored three runs, though Joe himself was left at third because of Ledwith’s inability to bring him in.
In the seventh a temporary case of rattles among the youngsters let in three runs, putting the Regulars one ahead.
Then Joe, who, in accordance with his plan to give his fielders exercise, had made few attempts for strike-outs, settled down and pitched the brand of ball that had made him famous. In the eighth and ninth he struck out six men in succession, not giving them, as Larry complained, “even a sniff at the ball.”
Still the Regulars were a run ahead, and thatrun loomed large as the Yannigans came in for their last time at bat.
The first man up struck out, and a groan went up from the bench as the rookies saw their hopes go glimmering. But the next moment a cheer arose as young Thompson laced out a clean single to center. Gloom resumed its sway, however, when Markwith put on steam and struck out Bailey.
It was Joe’s turn next, and he came to the bat with a gleam of determination in his eyes that made Markwith uneasy. He had seen that look too often not to recognize what it meant. He knew the execution the old wagon tongue that Joe swung was capable of. So he promptly decided to play safe and take his chance with the next batter.
He signaled to Mylert and sent up a ball that was six feet off from the plate.
“Be a sport, Markwith,” pleaded Joe.
“Not a chance,” grinned Markwith. “I’d rather be a live coward than a dead hero.”
It was the highest kind of a compliment, but Joe was not looking for compliments just then. The one thing he craved was to get that ball within reach.
Another impossible one came over in the track of the first.
“Playing the baby act!” taunted Joe. “The Regulars afraid of the Yannigans!”
“What are you kicking at?” retorted Markwith, as the ball was returned to him. “You’re going to get a base without working for it, aren’t you? What more do you want? Some fellows are never satisfied.”
Another ball came up that was over Joe’s head and that Mylert had to jump to reach.
“A dead game sport,” jeered Joe. “Say, Markwith, you wouldn’t bet that you’re alive.”
Whether Markwith was nettled by the laugh that rose from the bench or whether he really lost control, no one knew. But the next ball came barely within reach and Joe caught it full on the seam near the end of his bat.
There was a mighty crash, and the ball sailed out between right and center almost on a line but rising slightly as it went. On and on it sped as if with wings. Still on and on! Would it never stop?
Bowen and Ralston had started at the crack of the bat with their backs to the diamond, legging it toward the fence, while the Yannigans had leaped to their feet and were yelling like mad.
On the ball went and on until at last it cleared the fence and disappeared from view.
Joe had rounded first like a deer, but as he noted the course of the ball he slackened speedand just jogged around the bases, following his comrade over the plate with the run that won the game for the Yannigans.
McRae and Robbie were all smiles as Joe dented the rubber.
“That was some wallop,” beamed McRae. “I’ll bet there has never been such another one made on these training grounds.”
“Sure, the ball’s going yet,” exulted Robbie. “It won’t stop till it crosses the state line. Joe, my boy, you’re there with the goods. Keep up that kind of batting and pitching all through the season and we’ll have the flag sewed up.”
There was a lot of good-natured chaffing in the clubhouse, as the players changed into their street clothes. The Regulars were a little chagrined and the Yannigans correspondingly elated, but there was none of the glumness that would have followed a defeat by an outside team. When everything was said and done, it was all in the family. And the game had shown that the Giants as a team were in fine fettle and ready for the opening of the championship season.
The game had been quickly played, and it would be some time before supper would be ready in the hotel where the Giants were putting up during their stay in the little southern town where they were going through their spring training. So, instead of going directly back to their quarters,Joe and Jim took a roundabout way that led through the outskirts of the town.
They had reached a sparsely settled district where the houses were few and far between when an exclamation broke from Joe.
“Look!” he said, grasping his friend’s arm and pointing to a house a little way in front of them. “That house is on fire!”
Jim looked in the direction indicated.
“I don’t see any flames,” he said doubtfully. “Maybe it’s just the reflection of the setting sun on the window panes.”
“It’s fire, I tell you!” cried Joe.
There was a crash of glass and a great volume of smoke and flames burst through a window and roared up the side of the building.
The next instant Joe was running toward the house with the speed of the wind with Jim close on his heels.