CHAPTER XIIITHE FIRST GAME
The game with the grammar school team came off the following Tuesday on extremely damp grounds and under weather conditions far from ideal. Although it was the first of April, the wind was in the northeast and it blew across the playing field with a most unfriendly ferocity. The game didn’t begin until ten minutes past four, and by that time the few spectators who had courageously turned out to witness the team’s début were shivering with the cold and had deserted the stands to keep their blood in circulation by moving about.
Joe, wrapped in a sweater, hands in pockets, sat with a dozen other substitutes on the home bench and tried to keep his teeth from chattering. It had been agreed that, because of the weather conditions and the lateness of the starting time, the game was to go but six innings. High School presented a batting-list composed, with two exceptions, of seasoned material. Gordon Smith, shortstop, led off, followed by Sidney Morris andJack Strobe. Sidney played centre field and was a good hitter. Smith could be relied on to get his base five times out of ten under ordinary circumstances, and Jack was in third place as cleanup hitter. Buster Healey, second baseman; Steve Hale, third baseman; Frank Foley, first baseman, batted in that order, following Jack. Healey was a good but erratic hitter, Foley at best could be called fair, and Hale, a newcomer on the team this spring, was still an unknown quantity. Captain Craig followed Frank Foley. Then came Walter Cummings, another unproved hitter, and, finally, the pitcher, who today happened to be Toby Williams.
Toby got himself into a bit of a mess in the very first inning when he allowed the second grammar school batter to walk and followed that by offering a straight ball to the opposing team’s captain, who had a local reputation as a hitter. Captain Gandy sent that ball straight down the alley between shortstop and third baseman and took two bases on the hit, promoting the man ahead to third. Toby struck out the next boy, and with two gone, the prospect of escaping being scored on became brighter. But a glaring error by Healey let in two runs and put the fourth batsman safely on first, from whence he departedfor second a moment later and was thrown out, Craig to Smith.
The handful of grammar school youths shouted and exulted and swaggered, reminding each other that “I told you so!” But their delight didn’t last long, for High School fell on their pitcher and swatted the ball all over the lot, filling the bases with no one out. Buster Healey tried to redeem himself by cleaning them off, but only fouled to third baseman, and Hale struck out, more because of a lack of confidence than because the pitcher’s offerings were in any way difficult. When Foley went to bat there seemed but slight chance of scoring and so Tom Pollock, who was coaching behind first, sent out orders for a triple steal. Strangely enough, Foley not only connected with the ball as the runners sprinted, but actually hit it out safely for two bases! That took the heart out of Grammar School’s twirler and he passed Sam Craig, in spite of the captain’s very evident desire to earn his way, and repeated the compliment in the case of Cummings. That advanced Foley to third, and when Toby came to bat he performed very nicely, just as he was told to, trickling a bunt along first base line and beating the throw to the bag. Foley scored unchallenged.
Grammar School began to despair of ever getting that third out! Gordon Smith hit safely, scoring Craig and Cummings and putting Toby Williams on second, Sidney Morris drew a pass, and, living up to his reputation, Jack Strobe cleaned the bases with a long line-hit that didn’t touch the ground until it was able to strike the right field fence on the first bound! But Jack, although he barely managed to reach third on what should have been only a two-bagger, died there a minute or two later when Buster again failed to distinguish himself.
High School jeered and flung derisive remarks in the direction of the small but devoted band of grammar school youths, who, in their dejection, found successful repartee beyond them.
The second inning found a new pitcher in the points for the grammar school, but he was only slightly more puzzling than the deposed twirler, and, after turning the enemy down in one, two, three order, High School proceeded to indulge in another batting-fest. But this time she scored only three runs, bringing her total to twelve. By the end of that inning only the more enthusiastic “fans” remained, the others seeking warmer surroundings. With a lead of ten runs, Coach Talbot decided to begin on his second-string players andmade substitutions right and left during the remainder of the game. Toby Williams gave place to Carl Moran in the fourth, and Moran, heartened by the lead his team possessed, pitched a very pretty article of ball. When Amesville took the field in the fifth inning only four regulars remained in the line-up—Sam Craig, Sidney Morris, Frank Foley and Carl Moran. Buster Healey gave way to Joe, who was secretly hoping to be allowed on first. When, however, Foley did drop out, in the final inning, it was young Farquhar who took his place. Joe wasn’t worried by the rivalry of Farquhar, who was as yet by no means varsity material, but how, he wondered, was he ever to convince Coach Talbot or Captain Craig or anyone else that he could play first base if he never was allowed to get there?
On second Joe played a steady game, but had little to do, since Moran held the visitors in check throughout the two innings. The contest finally ended with the score 17 to 3, the grammar school’s third run having been scored in the fourth by a combination of two scratch hits and an error by shortstop. By the time the last man was out in the sixth the players and the handful of spectators who remained were chilled to the bone and heartily glad to get away. On thewhole, that first baseball game of the season had proved just about what Jack dubbed it, a “frost.”
Perversely, the weather changed its tune the next day, and for a week blue skies and soft breezes held sway, and practice was once more enjoyable. They worked hard, all of them, from Captain Sam himself down to the youngest and newest tyro, but it was work they liked. By the time another week had passed into history improvement was plainly visible. The team was finding itself. Batting was gradually ceasing to be a lost art, wild heaves were becoming fewer, and on the base-paths the fellows began to show what Coach Talbot called almost human intelligence.
The noonday practice in the cage was producing results for Joe and Jack. It would have been strange if it had not, for when you put in from fifteen to twenty minutes six times a week doing nothing but trying to bring a poised bat against a thrown ball you’ve simply got to learn something! And Joe learned that the time to judge a pitched ball was just before it reached the plate and not when it left the pitcher’s glove, and that “the shorter the swing the surer the hit.” They took turns standing in front of the wall at one end of the baseball cage and trying to hit everythingthat came. At first they made no special effort to direct the hits. The game was to let no ball get past. It was fine training for the eye, there could be no doubt of that, and very soon the one who pitched had to use all his cunning to get the ball by the bat. Then the batter tried to put the ball always toward the pitcher, and after he had gained proficiency at that he attempted to hit it to the left or the right.
Naturally enough it was Jack who showed the most cleverness at this, and when they had been holding these batting practices for some three weeks his ability to hit every offering and tap it away to any corner of the cage he liked was almost startling. The boys usually had an audience of from one or two to a dozen, who, coming first to make fun, finally watched with interest and admiration. Many were the requests from the spectators to be allowed to try their skill, but Joe and Jack, by then very earnest at their work, refused to be interfered with. Two other fellows appeared one day with bat and ball and insisted on sharing the cage. But their enthusiasm was short-lived. They came the next day and the third day following that, but never again.
For a time Joe was deeply disappointed, even disgruntled, because that practice in the cagefailed to bring about any improvement on the field. The fact puzzled Jack, too, and he had no very good explanation to offer. The best he could do was to lay it to the difference of conditions. Joe agreed that that was probably it and wanted to know what use there was in keeping on with the cage stunt. But he did keep on, nevertheless, and at last, just when he was reaching a stage of abject hopelessness, the practice bore fruit.
It was one Wednesday afternoon, two weeks after the grammar school game. Two other unimportant contests had been won and in three days Amesville was to play the first of its two scheduled games with Lynton High School. Joe, with a half-dozen others, was at the batting-net and Williams, a bit bored and listless, was pitching. Buster Healey had finally managed to line one to the equally bored substitutes who were fielding the balls, and had stepped aside, giving place to Joe. Joe had already been up once and had had a hard time getting his hit in spite of the fact that Toby was putting very little on the ball. And now he was just as hopeless as ever he had been as he hitched his trousers and gripped his bat.
“Soak it, Faulkner,” said Cummings lazily.“I want another whack at it before Toby’s arm gives out.”
Toby, picking up one of the half-dozen balls that surrounded him, grinned: “If he hits before I get three over on him I’ll chase it myself.”
“That’s a sporting proposition, Faulkner,” exclaimed Hale. “Go to it! I’d love to see Williams trot over to the fence and back!”
Toby was a little more crafty now, took a full wind-up and shot a drop over the base-bag which did duty as a plate. Buster, leaning on his bat behind the net, announced a strike.
“It was a peach, Toby. Now don’t let him work you again, Joe. Watch for a slow one.”
“This is going to be a beaner,” laughed Toby. “Look out!”
But it came waist-high, broke to the left, and failed to win Buster’s approval.
“Ball, Toby,” he said. “Too wide. Come on, now, show your goods!”
Toby’s reply to the challenge was a fast ball with a slight curve and Joe guessed it right. Bat and ball met and, although Joe made only a half-swing, the sphere sped straight over Toby’s head—he ducked involuntarily, to the delight of the batters—and travelled far back down the field.
“Don’t touch it!” bawled Buster. “Let it alone, Loomis! Now, then, Toby, shake a leg, old scout! You said you’d field it, you know.”
Toby smiled wanly and kept his promise, jogging far down the field to the surprise of the fielders and the gleeful chortles of the batting squad.
“That was a peach,” declared Steve Hale as Joe, as much surprised as Toby Williams, measured the hit and relinquished his place to Cummings. Joe looked indifferent, but secretly he was as pleased as Punch. There’s something delightfully heartening in the feel and sound of a good, clean hit, and as Joe moved back he still felt the tingle in his palms and experienced an inward glow of satisfaction. That, he reflected, was the first hit he could remember that he had been entirely satisfied with! Of course, it had been made in practice instead of in a game, but still Toby had really been trying to fool him and some measure of credit was due him.
Toby came back, hot and perspiring, from his jaunt, with the recovered ball in his hand, and proceeded to wreak vengeance on Hale. The fellows at the net still guyed him, however, and Hale speedily found a hit. When Buster’s turn cameagain he asked: “Will you field it, Toby, if I get to you inside of three?”
But Toby had had enough and shook his head, which proved fortunate in the light of succeeding events. Buster, after fouling two, sent a long fly arching out.
When Joe stepped in front of the net Toby waved a hand in sarcastic greeting. “Hit ’em as hard as you like, Faulkner,” he called. “All bets are off!”
Nevertheless, it was soon evident to Joe and the others that Toby didn’t intend his offerings to be hit hard, for he used all his skill, “mixing them up” bewilderingly. One went as a ball, the next was a foul-tip, the third was a doubtful strike, the fourth was another foul. Joe was matching his skill against the pitcher’s, and for the first time he was confident of the result. He let a second strike go past because, although he was certain he could have taken it, it was too low to hit any distance. Again he fouled, going after the ball just as he had been doing down in the schoolhouse basement, and still again. Toby showed impatience.
“Oh, hit one, Faulkner! I’m giving ’em to you soft!”
“Yes, you are!” jeered Buster, behind the improvisedplate. “You’re putting everything you’ve got on them! I dare you to put one in the groove, Toby!”
Toby took the dare, launching a straight, fast ball to the net that looked like a white streak. But Joe glued his eyes to it, swung short but from the shoulders, and there was a fine, resoundingcrack! Toby turned slowly and watched the ball streak far into the field. Then he held up both hands and grinned at Joe.
“You win!” he said.
That was the beginning of Joe’s batting success. After that day he faced the pitcher, whoever he might be, with a confident smile reflecting the inward conviction that he could hit. There was nothing remarkable about his batting that season and he was never spectacular. Usually his contribution proved a single, infrequently a double. He was in no danger of being dubbed “Home-Run” Faulkner. And frequently enough, more frequently than he approved of, you may be sure, he struck out just as ingloriously as anyone else on the team. But, somehow, he showed a reliability that began to be talked about toward the end of the season. It was a fair wager, when he went to the plate, that he would deliver a hit. Often he didn’t; more oftenhe did. And what made his hits go safe was that practice in the baseball cage, for through that he had attained an almost uncanny ability to place them. Few pitchers could make him hit where he didn’t want to. Jack once declared that Joe, who was a right-handed batter, could hit a fast ball to right field and a slow one to left any time he wanted to! This was somewhat of an exaggeration, but certain it is that Joe was a clever batter when it came to “putting them where they ain’t,” and his title of Lucky Faulkner was felt to have been wisely bestowed. But I am ahead of my story, for Joe’s batting prowess, although it came into being that April afternoon at the net, was of gradual growth. When all is said, the way to learn to bat is to bat. And that is the way Joe learned.
Amesville played Lynton one warm, cloudy afternoon on the former’s grounds and took her first beating. Lynton had a way of winning from Amesville when all the signs pointed toward defeat. She never played remarkable ball; never, in fact, won from any other club of Amesville’s ability. But, somehow, almost every year Lynton managed to secure the decision in one or another of the two games played. And every year there came a loud and impatient demand for athird and deciding contest. But the third contest seldom occurred, seldom when it was demanded, because by that time both teams had filled their dates, and never by arrangement at the beginning of the season because at such times Amesville smiled confidently and said: “Well, this year we won’t have any fooling. We’ll take ’em both!”
Lynton’s perversity had secured for her the compliment of being looked on by Amesville as second only to Petersburg as a worthy foeman. Sometimes Lynton won by virtue of her enemy’s errors, caused by over-eagerness. Sometimes she won by sheer luck, as when, two years before, with the score 7 to 6 in Amesville’s favour in the ninth inning, the Amesville pitcher had let down long enough to allow two tail-enders to get to third and second bases, and then, with two down and two strikes on the batsman, had pitched a wild ball that had sent the batter staggering away from the plate and had seen in amazement the ball hit the shouldered bat, bound away to just behind first base, and land fair a yard beyond anyone’s reach while the runners crossed the home plate with enough tallies to take the game! That contest had become famous in Amesville legends, and nowadays it was the usual thing forsomeone to shout at a crucial moment in a game: “Don’t hit his bat, Tom!” Amesville had remained sore over that game for a whole year and had only regained her composure when, the following spring, she had tied the first Lynton contest and then routed her enemy in the second struggle by the generous score of 17 to 6!
This year Amesville appeared a trifle less confident of winning the two battles, although she perhaps secretly expected to do so. At all events, she took no chances in that first game. Tom Pollock started in the box and remained until the seventh inning, at which time Amesville had a satisfactory lead of four runs. Toby Williams relieved him, and Toby had an off-day if ever pitcher had! For two innings he escaped real punishment, although one of several passes resulted in the eighth in a tally for Lynton. But in the first half of the ninth, with the score then 8 to 5 in the home team’s favour, Toby simply laid down in the traces. Afterwards some of the blame was laid at the door of coach and captain, for it was said that Jack Speyer, who was put in Sam Craig’s place behind the bat in the eighth, showed poor judgment. In any case, after getting through the next to the last session at the expense of but one run, Toby went to the badcompletely. Twice, when the batter had three balls and no strikes against him, Speyer and Toby met in consultation between plate and mound and Lynton howled and hooted. In that disastrous ninth Toby gave two passes, hit a batsman and was punished for four hits with a total of six bases! Before Carl Moran could even peel his sweater off preparatory to warming up the mischief was done. When Carl did go in the score was tied and there were runners on second and third, with two men out. The only wonder was that Lynton had managed to score so few runs! Carl did his best, which was not a very good best, but he was facing a desperate situation and was plainly nervous. The next batter hit safely past Hale and two more runs were scored. Then Carl gave a pass, just to show that Toby was not the only generous pitcher on the team, and, after Speyer had overthrown second in an effort to kill a steal and one more runner had scored, he persuaded the Lynton catcher to send a long fly to Jack Strobe’s waiting hands.
When that fatal half-inning was over the score told a far different tale! Lynton was in the lead, eleven runs to Amesville’s eight. Coach Talbot used all his science and shifted and substituted bewilderingly in the last of the ninth, and it wasthen that Joe made his début. Foley, while playing a clean game at the bag, had been hitting miserably all the afternoon, and when Mr. Talbot looked about for someone to bat in his stead Joe was about the only fellow left on the bench eligible to play. By that time Morris had struck out, Jack was on second and Healey on first. Joe faced the Lynton pitcher calmly and smilingly, but he confessed afterwards to Jack that he was a bit weak in the knees! However, that weakness didn’t prevent him from out-guessing the pitcher on the first delivery and driving the ball down the alley between first and second basemen, scoring Jack, putting Buster on third, and reaching second himself on his stomach with no time to spare! But that was the last sputter, for Loomis, rushed into the breach to bat for Speyer, took the count without a swing, and once more Lynton, the incorrigible, pesky varmint, had won!
The visitors went off with laughter and song, cheering and jeering, leaving Amesville to comfort herself with the knowledge of a future meeting and to once more raise the cry of “Give us a third game!”