CHAPTER XWONDERFUL WORK
The Western clubs had come and gone and now the Giants were engaged in a short series with the rest of the Eastern teams before themselves starting on an invasion of the West.
The Western clubs were decidedly the stronger half of the National League, and it was practically certain that one or the other of these would be the one that the Giants would have to beat if they again won the pennant.
And there was not one of them that did not have a “look in” for the flag. St. Louis, as has been said, was especially strong with the bat, and her sluggers were feared by every pitcher in the league. She had a strong pitching staff, too, none of them bright particular stars with the exception of Leadows, but well up to major-league standards.
Pittsburgh, too, was a team to be treated with respect. The boys from the Smoky City had been the runners-up in the previous season and duringthe winter they had secured some very promising material from the minor leagues. Their infield was a stone wall, and very little got by it. Their outfielders were batting well over the .300 mark, and one of them, Morey, the fleet-footed center fielder, was the leading base stealer of the league.
Cincinnati had been going strong since Hughson had taken the reins of management and was maintaining a respectable standing compared with what it had held at the close of the last season. There were some disorganizing elements in the team, however, that would have to be rooted out before the nine could be recognized as a serious contender. Hughson had already spotted these and was casting about for available talent to take the place of those he intended to oust, but this promised to take some time.
Chicago was really the club that the Giants were watching most carefully. Their pitching staff had been greatly strengthened and they were well provided for in every department of the game. They had got off on the wrong foot at the beginning of the season, but were now climbing steadily, and the way the Cubs had clawed their way through the Giant defense in the series lately concluded showed that they had to be reckoned with seriously.
If the pennant were to stay in the East at all that season, the Giants must be depended on forthe victory. Brooklyn had flashes of form in which they were simply unbeatable, especially when their opponents happened to be the Giants, against whom they always put forth their best efforts. But the very day after they had decorated their opponents with a row of goose eggs they were as likely as not to play like a lot of “bushers.” It seemed impossible for them to maintain a winning streak, and it was this in and out playing that militated against their chances for the flag.
Boston had a good team, and when that was said it about “let them out.” It was not a great team, although there were two or three real stars on it that helped keep them in the running. At the present time they were sixth in the race, with very little chance of climbing much higher.
The Phillies were going none too well, although better than the year before. Their outfield was as good as any in the league, and some weak spots in the pitching department had been strengthened by the substitution of new blood. Two or three of their rookies seemed to have in them the making of stars. With a stronger infield they might well be pennant contenders. But even as it was, they were always dangerous, and could stage a rally at the most unexpected moment. Any club that counted on them as “easy” was likely to have a rude awakening.
But all clubs looked alike to Joe, who this season was showing the best form of his life. Never had he whipped the ball over the plate with more terrific speed. Many times the ball was in Mylert’s glove while the batsman was making a vain swing for it. The “hop” ball that he was making a specialty of this season had an uncanny jump just before it reached the plate that completely fooled the opposing batters. His fadeaway, too, had all the deceptive qualities that had made it a terror, and his other curves and slants were working with magical efficiency.
Many elements combined to make him by far the finest pitcher in either league. One was the fact that he kept himself in perfect condition. He had no bad habits to sap his strength, no surreptitious drinking, no “jazzing it up” at all night dancing and card parties, such as too often have proved the ruin of promising players. He started every day with a clear head, a rested body, and with strength and vigor pulsing through his veins.
Moreover, he had gained the knowledge and experience that gave him confidence when he faced the batters. He knew the strength and weakness of every player in the league, what kind of balls they liked, what kind they found hard to hit, and he served them up to them accordingly. And his control was so perfect that he could split the plate or cut the corners at will.
With many clubs it is the custom of the catcher to signal the pitcher just what kind of ball to throw next. It was a tribute to Joe that Mylert had long since given this up, as he had learned to trust Joe’s judgment rather than his own.
But apart from his natural pitching ability, there was a special reason for the wonderful record that Joe was making this season. The very fact that he felt himself the object of a conspiracy to discredit him roused all the resistance in his nature and made him determine that he would not be discredited. Every time he went into the box he put all that he had on the ball, and pitched as though that special game was one of the World Series. Of course he lost games once in a while, but they were so infrequent as to provoke surprise when it happened.
McRae was delighted, and yet at the same time a little anxious for fear Joe would break down under the tremendous strain.
“You’re doing wonderful work, boy,” he said one day in Philadelphia, when Joe had pitched a superb game, shutting out the Quaker City boys and allowing them only two hits, one of them a scratch. “But you want to be careful not to throw your arm out. If anything happened to that arm of yours, our chances for the pennant would glimmer away.”
“Nothing to worry about, Mac,” laughed Joe.“It feels as fine as silk. If I had nothing more than that to worry over I’d be happy.”
The last words had slipped from him before he thought, and the alert manager pounced upon them like a hawk.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, in some alarm. “What’s troubling you? Anything happened at home?”
“Nothing like that,” answered Joe. “I couldn’t possibly be happier than I am in my home life.”
“Then what is the matter?” persisted McRae. “You’ve as much as admitted that there is something. Come, out with it! Maybe I can help you in some way.”
Joe reflected for a moment. He had said too much not to say more. He liked McRae, not only as a manager but as a man, and he had confidence in his discretion. Besides, it was something that in a certain sense McRae had a right to know. But he resolved not to mention names as yet.
“I’ll tell you, Mac,” he said slowly. “I know you’ll keep it under your hat—for the present, anyway.”