CHAPTER VIIA BITTER STRUGGLE
Leete, the slugging left fielder of the Brooklyns, a veteran who for a dozen years back had averaged .300 and for two years had led the league, came swaggering to the plate, carrying three bats.
He threw two of them away and faced the pitcher.
“Why don’t you throw that other one away, too?” chaffed Joe. “It won’t do you any good.”
“It won’t, eh?” returned Leete. “Just put one over and see me murder it.”
“Oh, very well, since you insist on going through the motions,” retorted Joe, “murder this one.”
He sent the ball over like a bullet. Leete swung at it and missed.
“You’ll never get hung for murder,” grinned Joe. “I knew you weren’t as bad as you painted yourself.”
“Close your trap and play ball!” snapped Leete.
The next, judging from the wind-up, was to be another fast one, but it drifted slowly up to the plate and Leete nearly broke his back trying for it.
“Strike two!” called the umpire.
“Perhaps you’d better try another bat,” suggested Joe, with simulated concern. “That one seems to have holes in it.”
Leete growled something inarticulate and got a firmer toehold.
Joe wound the next one around his neck, but Leete refused to bite and it went as a ball.
The next whizzed across the plate, rising with a sharp hop just as it reached the rubber, and Leete swung six inches beneath it.
“You’re out!” cried the umpire, and Leete went back disconsolately to the bench while a cheer arose at the first strike-out of the season.
Mornier, the Brooklyn first baseman, came next and dribbled a little one to the box that Joe got to first in plenty of time. Tonsten was third man up, and Joe set him down on three called strikes, the batsman not even offering at them.
“What did you stand there like a dummy for and not even take a chance?” asked Thompson, the Brooklyn manager, as Tonsten came back.
“Guess he had me hypnotized,” mumbled Tonsten. “They came so fast I couldn’t see ’em.But he can’t keep that up and I’ll get him next time good and proper.”
“Fine work, Joe,” approved McRae, as the pitcher came in to the bench. “Just keep that up and it will be all over but the shouting.”
“All the boys need to do is to give him a run or two and we’ll have the game sewed up,” exulted Robbie.
But it was evident from the way Rance, the Brooklyn pitcher, started that that run or two was going to be difficult to get. He was in splendid shape, all his slants and curves were working well, and his control left nothing to be desired.
Tonsten at third made a fast play on Curry’s bunt and threw him out at first. Renton took two strikes and three balls and then struck out on an incurve. Burkett failed utterly to find Rance and fanned.
It was a snappy, quickly played inning and demonstrated that the Brooklyns were trying to enact their old rôle as Giant-killers, and Rance got a generous meed of applause even from the home fans for his good work.
“Looks as if it were going to be a pitcher’s duel,” muttered McRae, as the Giants went out into the field.
“If it comes to that I know who’ll win,” declared Robbie with confidence.
The next three innings went far toward justifyingMcRae’s prediction. Each pitcher was “making monkeys” of the members of the opposition. Rance kept up his good work and Joe was pitching like a man possessed.
That long sinewy arm of his was working with the regularity of a piston rod. In those three innings only nine men faced him. He struck out five men and forced the others to send up fouls that were caught by Mylert or feeble grassers to the infield that were easily relayed to first.
He made the ball do stunts that stood his opponents on their heads. It dipped, rose, and did everything that the batsman did not want or expect it to do. It was a wonderful exhibition of pitching skill.
Rance was the first to weaken under the strain. Joe had found him for a single in the fourth and Burkett had been robbed of a hit only by a phenomenal leap and catch by Naylor at second. But Rance put on steam, and none of Joe’s comrades were able to bring him in.
The Brooklyns came in to bat in the fifth inning, but they were hardly in long enough to know just why. Joe contented himself with just three pitches. Maley grounded out to Burkett at first who only had to set his foot on the base, Reis hoisted a high foul that Mylert gathered in and Trench sent up a pop fly that came gently into the shortstop’s hands. It was just a case of comingup, taking a swing, and going away to hide.
Thompson, the Brooklyn manager, was furious.
“If you can’t hit him why don’t you wait him out?” he snarled to his discomfited henchmen. “If we can only get a man on base, he may work himself around.”
“Wait him out!” returned Trench. “That would be suicide, the way that bird is working the corners of the plate. He isn’t giving any bases on balls. If we don’t strike at ’em the umpire will call ’em strikes anyway. We might as well die one way as another.”
“You’re a lot of old women,” growled Thompson. “I’m going to fire this team and get another from the Old Ladies’ Home.”
In the fifth the Giants broke the ice.
Ralston was first at bat. He swung at the first one and missed. Then came two wide ones that Ralston, with good judgment, passed up, and they went as balls. The next he sent out toward right. It was a corking blow and had all the signs of a homer, but the wild cheer that rose from the stands died down when it fell foul by a matter of inches.
Ralston, who had already rounded first, came back grumbling and picked up his bat. The count was now three and two, and Rance was “in the hole.” Perhaps that colossal hit had shaken him somewhat, for the next one came up to the plateas big as a balloon and Ralston laced it out sharply between first and second. Naylor made a dive for it but could not reach, and the ball rolled out to center, where Maley retrieved it smartly and got it back to second in time to prevent Ralston from stretching the hit into a two-bagger.
Jackwell was next up and Joe ordered him to sacrifice. He made one or two ineffectual attempts, but finally laid down a baby bunt that Rance got in time to put Jackwell out at first. But it had accomplished its purpose, for Ralston was roosting on second.
Bowen made a mighty effort and poled out a long fly to center that Maley pulled down after a long run. As soon as the catch was made Ralston legged it for third and made it, though it was a close race between him and the ball that came on a beautiful line throw to Tonsten.
With two out and a man on third, it was up to Mylert to bring him in.
Twice he swung at the ball and missed. The next three were wide of the plate. Mylert bent down, rubbed his hands in the dirt, pulled his cap down closer and set himself for the next.
The mighty arm of Rance uncoiled and the ball sped toward the batsman. Mylert was crowding the plate for a long reach. At first it looked as though the ball was going wideof the rubber. But it curved in just as it neared the plate, and Mylert caught it on the end of his bat. There was a sharp crash and the ball darted like a bullet between second and short. It was the cleanest of clean hits and Mylert galloped to first while Ralston came down the third base chalkline and dented the rubber for the first run of the game.
A tremendous shout went up from the stands.
“We’ve got him going!”
“He’s cracking!”
“Get after him!”
But Rance was too much of a veteran to let the crowd get him rattled. He pulled himself together and struck out Curry on three pitched balls, leaving Mylert cooling his heels on first.
But a run was a run, and it was with fresh heart and courage that the Giants took the field.
Two more innings passed without any change in the score. The Giants were finding Rance now as they had been unable to do earlier in the game. They were meeting the ball on the trademark, and the bats rang as they crashed against it. But again and again he was saved by superb support. Leete committed highway robbery by picking a ball off the fence that, if he had missed, would have been a three-bagger at least and probably a homer. Naylor at second took a Texas Leaguer toward left, running with his back tothe ball and barely picking it off his shoe tops.
“They’re certainly getting all the breaks,” grumbled McRae.
“They sure are,” agreed Robbie. “But we’ve got to admit, John, that those boys are playing ball.”
Joe in the meantime was breezing along under wraps. He had not winded himself in the least. He was conscious of enormous reserve force if he should be called upon to put it in play. His fast ball was working perfectly. He worked the corners of the plate to perfection. His curves were breaking sharply. On occasion he called on his hop and fadeaway. He had never felt more completely master of the situation.
But a game is never won until it is over, and in the Brooklyn’s ninth, their last chance, the unexpected happened.
Tonsten came up first and Joe set him down on strikes. Maley followed and popped up an easy fly to Renton at short. It was the simplest kind of catch, and perhaps for that very reason Renton let it slip through his fingers.
There was a startled roar from the crowd and those of the spectators who had begun to move toward the gates, thinking the game was as good as over, promptly sat down again.
Rattled by his misplay, Renton hurriedly picked up the ball, which had rolled a little distance away,and hurled it toward first. The ball was high, and although Burkett made a desperate leap it went over his head and rolled toward the right field stands.
By the time Burkett had retrieved it Maley had rounded second and was making for third. Burkett threw to Jackwell. It struck the dirt in front of him, bounded over his head, and before it could be secured Maley had crossed the plate for the run that tied the score!