CHAPTER XXTHE TRY-OUT
By the first of June Hillman’s baseball team had settled into its stride. Four successive victories had restored the confidence of players and adherents alike, and the final test of the season, the game with Farview Academy, played this year at Orstead, was being viewed in prospect with less apprehension. Laurie had somewhat solved the science of throwing to bases from the plate and was running a very even race with Elk Thurston, a fact that did nothing to increase the entente cordiale between those two. Elk seldom missed an opportunity to make himself disagreeable to his rival, and since Elk was both older and bigger, and possessed also the prestige of being a member of the upper-middle class, Laurie had to keep his temper many times when he didn’t want to. After all, though, Elk’s offenses weren’t important enough to have excused serious reprisals.He made fun of the younger boy and “ragged” him when he was at work. Sometimes he got a laugh from his audience, but more often he didn’t, for his humor was a bit heavy. His antagonism was largely personal, for he did not accept Laurie seriously as a rival.
He liked best of all to tease the other on the score of the latter’s failure to make good his boast of transforming the impossible Kewpie Proudtree into a pitcher. Elk, like about every one else, had concluded that Laurie had given up that task in despair. But whereas the others had virtually forgotten the amusing episode, Elk remembered and dwelled on it whenever opportunity presented. That Laurie failed to react as Elk expected him to annoyed him considerably. Laurie always looked cheerfully untroubled by gibes on that subject. Any one but Elk would have recognized failure and switched to a more certain method, but Elk was not very quick of perception.
On a Saturday soon after the beginning of the month the Blue met Loring in a game remarkable for coincidences. Each team made eleven hits and eleven runs in the eleven innings that wereplayed—errors and brilliant plays alternating. George Pemberton started for Hillman’s but gave way to Nate Beedle in the second. Elk caught the final two innings in creditable style, and Laurie again looked on from the bench.
On the following Monday afternoon Laurie laid in wait for Mr. Mulford on the gymnasium steps. “We’re ready for that try-out whenever you are, sir,” he announced.
“Eh? What try-out is that?” asked the coach.
“Proudtree’s, sir. You know you said you’d give him one.”
“Proudtree? Why I understood he’d quit long ago!”
“No, sir, he didn’t quit. He’s been practising at least an hour every day, except Sundays, for more than two months.”
“He has? Well, well! And you think he can pitch some, do you?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Laurie firmly.
“All right. Now, let’s see. I don’t believe I’ll have time to look at him to-day, Turner. How about to-morrow morning?”
“Tuesday? He hasn’t anything from eleven fifteen to twelve, sir.”
“Good. Tell him to be over at the field at eleven twenty. You’ll catch for him? I hope this isn’t just a flivver, my boy, for from present indications we’re going to need pitchers next year.”
“Wouldn’t we be able to use another this year, if we had him?” asked Laurie, grinning. Mr. Mulford smiled responsively.
“Hm, we might, and that’s a fact,” he acknowledged. “Well, have your champion on hand to-morrow morning, Turner.” He hurried on into the gymnasium, and, after a thoughtful stare into space, Laurie followed him.
“Next year!” scoffed Kewpie when, after practice, Laurie reported the gist of his talk with the coach. “He’s crazy! What’s the matter with this year? I’ll bet you I can pitch as good ball as Orville Croft right now.”
“And that wouldn’t be saying much, either,” assented Laurie.
“Well, they’ve got him on the team,” grumbled Kewpie. “Pinky’s got a nerve if he thinksI’m going to wait around for a whole year after the way I’ve been working all spring!”
“Yes, he ain’t so well in his nerve,” mused Laurie. “Ought to see a doctor about—”
“Well, didn’t you tell him I wanted to play this year?” demanded Kewpie impatiently. Laurie shook his head.
“No, you see, dear old lad, I didn’t want to overtax his brain. You know how these baseball coaches are. They can wrestle with one idea, but when it comes to two at the same time—” Laurie shrugged eloquently. Kewpie viewed him doubtfully.
“Oh, shut up,” he said, grinning. “Well, anyway, he’s got to give me a chance with the team this year. If he doesn’t he won’t get me next.”
“I’ll mention that to him to-morrow,” replied the other soberly. “I dare say if we take a firm attitude with him he will come around. Well, eleven twenty, then. I’ll wait for you in front.”
“In front” at Hillman’s meant the steps of School Hall or their immediate vicinity, and on the steps the two met the next forenoon. Lauriehad brought his mitten, and Kewpie had his glove and a ball in his pockets. On the way along Summit Street to the athletic field, which was a quarter of a mile to the south, Kewpie was plainly nervous. He didn’t have much to say, but at intervals he took the ball from his pocket, curved his heavy fingers about it, frowned, sighed and put it away again.
Mr. Mulford was awaiting them, and Kewpie, for one, was glad to see that he was alone. After greetings the boys laid aside their coats, and Kewpie rolled his shirt-sleeves up. Mr. Mulford seated himself on a bench near the batting-net, crossed his knees and waited. His attitude and general demeanor told Laurie that he was there to fulfill a promise rather than in the expectation of being thrilled.
“Start easy,” counseled Laurie. “Don’t try to pitch until you’ve tossed a few, Kewpie.”
Kewpie nodded, plainly very conscious of the silent figure on the bench. He wound up slowly, caught sight of Laurie’s mitten held palm outward in protest, and dropped his arms, frowning.
“Yes,” said Mr. Mulford, “better start slow, Proudtree.”
Kewpie tossed five or six balls into Laurie’s mitt without a wind-up and between tosses stretched and flexed the muscles of his stout arm.
“All right,” said Laurie finally. He crouched and signaled under the mitten. Kewpie shook his head.
“I don’t know your signals,” he objected. “You tell me what you want.”
“Pitch some straight ones,” suggested the coach.
Kewpie obliged. His stand in the box and his wind-up were different from what they had been when Laurie had last caught him. Considering his build, Kewpie’s appearance and movements were easy and smooth. He had a queer habit of bringing the pitching hand back close to the left thigh after the delivery, which, while novel, was rather impressive. Kewpie’s deliveries were straight enough to please any one, but Mr. Mulford called:
“Speed them up, son. You’d never get past the batsman with those!”
Kewpie shot the ball away harder. Laurie returned it and thumped his mitt encouragingly.“That’s the stuff, Kewpie! Steam ’em up! Now then!”
Kewpie pitched again and once more. Mr. Mulford spoke. “You haven’t any speed, Proudtree,” he said regretfully. “The weakest batter on the scrub could whang those out for home runs. Got anything else?”
Kewpie had recovered his assurance now. “Sure,” he answered untroubledly. “What do you want?”
Mr. Mulford replied a trifle tartly. “I want to see anything you’ve got that looks like pitching. I certainly haven’t seen anything yet!”
“Curve some,” said Laurie.
Kewpie fondled the ball very carefully, wound up, and pitched. The result was a nice out-shoot that surprised even Laurie, who nearly let it get past him into the net. “That’s pitching,” he called. “Let’s have another.”
Kewpie sent another. Mr. Mulford arose from the bench and took up a position behind the net. “Let’s have that out-curve again,” he commanded. Kewpie obeyed. “All right,” said the coach. “Not bad. Try a drop.”
Kewpie’s first attempt went wrong, but the next one sailed to the plate a little more than knee-high and then sought to bury itself in the dust. Laurie heard the coach grunt. A third attempt attained a similar result. “What else have you got?” asked Mr. Mulford. Laurie detected a note of interest at last.
“Got an in-shoot,” replied Kewpie with all of his accustomed assurance, “and a sort of floater.”
“Show me,” answered the coach.
The in-shoot was just what its name implied, and Kewpie presented two samples of it. The “floater,” however, was less impressive, although Laurie thought to himself that it might prove a hard ball to hit if offered after a curve. Mr. Mulford grunted again. “Now pitch six balls, Proudtree,” he said, “and mix ’em up.”
Kewpie pitched an out, a straight drop, an out-drop, a straight ball, an in, and a “floater.”
“That’s enough,” said Mr. Mulford to Laurie. “Come over to the bench.” Laurie dropped the ball in his pocket, signaled to Kewpie, and followed the coach. Kewpie ambled up inquiringly. “Sit down, son,” said Mr. Mulford. Then, “Where’d you learn that stuff?” he asked.
With Laurie’s assistance, Kewpie told him.
“Wilkins,” mused the coach. “Must have been the year before I took hold here. I don’t remember any game with High School in which we got licked that badly. He must be all he says he is, though, if he can teach any one else to pitch that stuff. Well, I’m not going to tell you you’re a Christy Mathewson, Proudtree, for you’ve got a long way to go yet before you’ll be getting any medals. I guess I don’t have to tell you that you aren’t built quite right for baseball, eh?”
“Oh, I’m down to a hundred and fifty-four,” answered Kewpie calmly, “and I’m not so slow as I look.”
“I don’t mean your weight,” said the coach, suppressing a smile. “I mean your build. You’ll have to work just about twice as hard as Beedle would, for instance, to get the same result. You’re—well, you’re just a little bit too close-coupled, son!”
“I’ve seen fellows like me play mighty good baseball,” said Kewpie.
“I dare say. If you have, you’ve seen them work mighty hard at it! Well, I’m not trying to discourage you. I’m only telling you this toimpress you with the fact—and it is a fact, Proudtree—that you’ll have to buckle down and work mighty earnestly if you want to be a really capable pitcher next year.”
“Well, what about—” Kewpie glanced fittingly at Laurie—“what about this year, sir?”
Laurie saw the coach’s gaze waver. “This year?” he echoed. “Why, I don’t know. We’re fixed pretty well this year, you see. Of course I’m perfectly willing to let you work with the crowd for the rest of the season. Pitching to the net will teach you a whole lot, for you can’t judge your stuff until you’ve got some ambitious chap swinging at it. Some of that stuff you’ve just showed me would be candy for a good hitter. You’ve got one weakness, Proudtree, and it’s an important one. You haven’t speed, and I don’t believe you’ll have it. That’s your build; no fault of yours, of course.”
“I know that,” agreed Kewpie, “but Brose Wilkins says I don’t need speed. He says I’ve got enough without it. He says there are heaps of mighty good pitchers in the Big League that can’t pitch a real fast ball to save their lives!”
“Maybe, but you’re not a candidate for the BigLeague yet. If you’ve ever watched school-boy baseball, you’ve seen that what they can’t hit, five times out of seven, is a really fast ball. They like to say they can, and I guess they believe it, but they can’t. Maybe one reason is that they don’t often get fast ones, for there aren’t many youngsters of your age who can stand the strain of pitching them. Mind, I don’t say that you won’t be able to get by without more speed than you’ve got, but I do say that not having speed is a weakness. I’m emphasizing this because I want you to realize that you’ve got to make your curves mighty good to make up for that shortcoming.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Kewpie almost humbly. “I understand.”
“Good. Now, then, let’s see. Oh, yes, about that ball you call a ‘floater.’ Did Wilkins teach you that?”
“No, sir, I—I got that out of a book. It—it isn’t as good as it might be, I guess, but I’m getting the hang of it, sir.”
“Well, I wouldn’t monkey with it just now. It’s a hard ball to pitch—hard on the muscles. You don’t want too many things. If I were you,son, I’d stick to the curves and drops. That out-drop of yours isn’t so bad right now, and I guess you can make it even better. If you have five things to offer the batter, say, an in, an out, a drop, a drop-curve, and a slow ball, you’ve got plenty. If you’ve got control and can change your pace without giving yourself away you’ve got as much as the most successful pitcher ever did have. It’s control, son, that counts. All the fancy stunts ever known aren’t worth a cent unless you can put the ball where you want it to go. And that’s that.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Kewpie said: “Mr. Mulford, if I work hard and pitch to the net and all that couldn’t I get into a game some time? I mean some game this spring?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said the coach slowly. “What’s the idea? Want to get your letter?”
“No, sir, but I’d—why, I’d just like to, sir,awfully.”
“There are only four games left before the Farview game,” was the answer, “and I don’t want to promise anything like that, Proudtree. But I will agree to put you in if the chance comes. Look here, you chaps, why don’t you work togetherand get to know each other? There’s a lot in the pitcher and catcher being used to each other’s ways. Then, perhaps, I can give you both a whack at a couple of innings some day. I’d do that, I think. You look after Proudtree, Turner. Make him work. Keep his nose to the grindstone. Remember that there’s another year coming, eh?”
“I’ll make him work,” laughed Laurie.
“Then do I—do I get on the team?” asked Kewpie anxiously.
“You get on the squad,” was the answer. “Report to-morrow afternoon. There’s a game on, and you won’t get much work, but you can pitch to Turner a while and learn the ropes. Let’s get back now.” Coach Mulford arose. “Turner, I suspected that you were going to waste my time this morning, but I was wrong. Your dark horse looks to me well worth the grooming!”
He set off across the field toward the gridiron on a short cut to the village, and the two boys walked back to school. For the first dozen paces nothing was said. Then Kewpie laughed and turned to his companion. “Told you I’d do it!”he exclaimed triumphantly. “Told you I could pitch ball as well as the rest of them! Didn’t I, now?”
“You told me a lot of things, you poor cheese,” answered Laurie crushingly, “but where’d you be if Ned and I hadn’t managed you? I’ll tell you. You’d still be lying on your window-seat, like a fat seal, reading ‘How to Pitch’!”
“Huh, is that so? I guess if it comes to that, you fat-head, Brose Wilkins is the guy—”
“He sure is,” agreed Laurie, “he sure is! And, prithee, you half-baked portion of nothing at all, who discovered Brose? Who persuaded him to waste his time on a big, fut lummox like you?”
“Well, anyway,” replied Kewpie, quite unaffected by the insults, “neither you nor Ned nor Brose Wilkins could have made a pitcher out of me if I hadn’t had the—the ability!”
“You ain’t so well in your ability,” said Laurie scathingly. “All you’ve got is a start, old son, and so don’t get to thinking that you’re a Big Leaguer! Maybe with prayer and hard work I’ll make you amount to something bynext year, but right now you’re nothing but a whispered promise!”
“Oh, is that so?” said Kewpie, and again, “Is that so?” He wasn’t quick at repartee, and just then that was the best he could do.