CHAPTER XXXIITHE FINAL GAME
Belmont was looking her prettiest on the day before Commencement. It seemed as if the town, the college grounds, the buildings, the trees, and even nature itself had summoned the pleasantest expression to greet the host of guests that thronged to the Commencement exercises. Of these exercises the great baseball game formed one of the most important and interesting in the eyes at least of graduates and undergraduates; and the special interest that centered in this game had brought to Belmont a largely increased number of friends.
We were expecting the Park men on the 11:30 train; so, shortly after eleven o’clock, Tony Larcom, Ray Wendell, and I went down to the depot with an omnibus to meet them. We were determined that no charge of rudeness or neglect should be brought to our door, so we had made provision for the Park men at our club a week in advance, and had arranged for rooms where they could leave their baggage.
They seemed to take this as a matter of course, and manifested neither by word nor act the least appreciation of the care we had taken to make them comfortable.
Long before two o’clock—the hour of beginning the game—the box office at the entrance to the grounds was besieged by a large and jostling crowd of students and graduates who had been unable to get reserved seats in the grand stand and were compelled to take their chances of a seat on the benches that flanked two sides of the diamond.
“Just listen to that, Harry,” remarked Tony, as the clink of silver greeted our ears. “A great treasury we’ll have to-night.”
During the next quarter hour, the grand stand and benches filled rapidly; and by the time we stepped out on the field in our uniforms a double row of spectators, who had been unable to get seats of any kind, almost encircled the grounds.
We were greeted with three times three cheers, and settled down to practice in good spirits. The Park men, in their turn, received a generous greeting, and were given a chance to exhibit themselves. As we came in from the field Ray nodded to me with a pleasant smile.
“Our fellows are in good feather, Harry,” he said. “If we can’t beat them to-day, we never can.”
At this moment the umpire came out with the new ball in his hand. Ray and Beard approached him; a few words were exchanged, the coin was tossed, and then Ray turned on his heel and came back toward me.
“They won the toss,” he said. “Get your bat ready, Harry; you are first on the list.”
I stepped forward to the homeplate, the Park men took their various positions; the crowd became still; the umpire tossed the snowy white ball along the ground to Arnold, then raised his hand and cried, “Play!”
Instantly the ball came in like a flash of light. I was unprepared for it, but struck at it fiercely, and to my own surprise, drove a fine two base hit out toward right field. It was an auspicious beginning, and was greeted by an uproar from the benches.
This sobered Arnold, who began more cautiously with George Ives, who followed me, and succeeded in striking him out. Then came Alfred Burnett, who knocked to shortstop, and was thrown out at first base; I in the mean time reaching third base. Dick Palmer was next at the bat, and proved himself worthy of the trust we had always reposed in his batting abilities by making a single base hit, and bringing me home, thus scoring the first run. The half inning was closed by Percy Randall’s knocking a high fly which was captured by the Park left fielder. We then took the field.
I had pitched only a few balls when I discovered that the Park men had improved considerably in batting since we last met them, and that I would need all the strength and skill I could summon to manage them. They hit hard nearly every time, and it was only good fielding on the part of our men that prevented their scoring several runs in the first inning. As it was they earned one run, and the score stood 1–1. Inthis condition it remained for two more innings, but in the ending of the fourth inning, their strong batting secured two more runs for them.
In the fifth inning Ray Wendell opened with a base hit, stole second base by a good run, and was followed by myself, who made another base hit which sent Ray to third. George Ives knocked a fly ball straight up in the air, which was caught by Arnold. This was unfortunate, for neither Ray nor I gained a base thereby. Then Alfred Burnett struck out—a most exasperating piece of ill luck.
The fate of the inning now hung upon Dick Palmer, whose safe hit had been so timely before. I scarcely dared hope that he would repeat his exploit, but almost before I had time to think of the matter, bang! went another base hit and Ray ran in, scoring our second run, while I reached third base. Then came Percy Randall, who struck the second ball pitched and sent it out between center and right fields.
Amidst a great outburst of cheers, he dashed around the bases, Dick Palmer well ahead of him. I reached home in safety of course, and was expecting Dick to follow me, when, to my surprise, I saw him standing still on third base. His action was explained by the fact that the right fielder had stopped the ball sooner than we had anticipated, and had promptly passed it in to the first baseman, who stood ready to throw it home if Dick attempted to run.
Percy Randall had not seen this, but supposed the ball was still in the outfield; so, with his head down,and not noticing Dick, he kept on running around the bases. We shouted to him in warning, but, to our consternation, we saw that he misunderstood us, and it was not until he reached third base and found Dick Palmer also there that he realized the situation. He was badly cut up about the blunder, as were the rest of us, for it robbed us of an opportunity to win the lead by securing two more runs. It was too late to be helped. Dick Palmer was promptly thrown out at home plate, and we were retired with the score 3–3. The loss of this opportunity was still more keenly felt in the last half of the inning, when, after one man had been put out, we found ourselves with two men on bases and Arnold at the bat.
I knew only too well that it was fatal to give Arnold a good ball, so I tried to deceive him by making a swift motion and delivering a slow ball in front of the plate, hoping that he would strike over it. I threw it too far, however, and it proved to be a good ball directly over the plate. I saw Arnold set his lips, lean back, and then I knew what was coming. He struck the ball with a terrific crack and drove it far out over the center fielder’s head, where it rolled on toward the gate. My heart sank as I turned and gazed after it, for I saw there was no hope of recovering it before Arnold had encircled the bases. He made a home run, bringing in two men besides himself, and making the score 6–3 in their favor. It was with long faces and depressed spirits that we closed that inning.
“Well, boys,” said Ray, as we walked to our bench.“It was a bad turn, but we have four innings more and we can make it up. All the same, we don’t want to let it happen again.”
“No, indeed,” I answered; “another hit like that and we are gone coons.”
The spectators were growing alarmed as to the results of the game, and were quiet and serious. The few Park men who had accompanied the nine were, on the other hand, jubilant and noisy.
“See here, boys,” exclaimed Percy Randall, coming over from the side of the field where the Park men were ranged, “we want to lay these fellows out and no mistake. What do you think they have done? They’ve just sent a boy to the telegraph office with a message to Berkeley, ‘Score 6–3. Prepare dinner for the nine.’ I overheard them give the directions. How is that for cheek?”
Ray Wendell began to laugh.
“Well, it is a pity to disappoint them, but we’ll have to all the same,” he said. “Here, give me my bat and see me knock that dinner into a cocked hat.”
Ray fulfilled his prophecy by striking a two base hit. This was a cheerful start, and we succeeded in making two runs before the inning closed. The spirits of the spectators rose in proportion, and when we began the seventh inning with the score 6–5 in their favor the interest grew rapidly. To the delight of our friends we closed the Park men out without a run, and made one ourselves, thus tying the score.
The excitement was now intense, and remained soduring the eighth inning, in which neither side made a run. The ninth inning was opened by Percy Randall, who made a single base hit. The two men that followed him were put out, but in the mean time, Percy, by his magnificent base running, had succeeded in reaching third base. There being two men out, Percy was on the alert for the least chance to run in home. In throwing the ball back to Arnold after the first pitch, the catcher of the Park nine made a slip, and the ball rolled several yards behind Arnold. Seizing this small opportunity, Percy suddenly dashed toward home.
It was an audacious move and altogether unexpected by Arnold. A cry from the catcher, however, warned him, and in an instant he had picked up the ball and hurled it to the home plate. There seemed to be no chance for Percy, but when he was within twelve feet of the base he threw himself headlong and slid into the home plate amidst a cloud of dust. It seemed almost the same instant that the catcher caught the ball and touched Percy.
It was a terrible moment of suspense for us. The crowd had been cheering vociferously, but suddenly ceased and hung breathlessly upon the umpire’s decision. For a second there was a dead silence. Then the umpire’s voice rang out:
“Safe on home.”
For a few minutes it seemed as if we could scarcely hear our own voices, such an uproar arose from the spectators. The grand stand fairly rocked with theswaying, shouting mass of people that filled it. Out around the grounds the other spectators were dancing and throwing their hats in the air. For a short period the movement of the game was interrupted, it being almost impossible to play in such confusion. Then the calm, steady voice of the umpire was heard again:
“Play!”
We made no more runs, and the last half of the ninth inning opened with the score 7–6 in our favor. The first batter struck a hard line hit about two feet above the ground and straight at me. I caught it neatly, but I took no particular credit to myself for so doing, for the truth of the matter was that I couldn’t get out of the way of the ball. Then came a long line hit which sent the batter to second base. The next man struck out, but he was followed by a batter who secured his first base and sent the runner to third base.
This worried me, especially as I saw that Arnold was again at the bat. There were two men out, and two men on bases. If Arnold made another long hit—which he was quite able to do—the game and the championship would be lost to us. I stood fingering the ball and looking at Arnold. I had profited by my former experience, and did not try to deceive him again by an easy ball.
“I must pitch him a swift ball, and take the chances; so here goes!” I said to myself, and hurled the ball in with all my might. Arnold’s bat whizzed through the air and struck the ball with a disheartening crack.I had given up hope, and turned about in the full expectation of finding the ball landed safely out in center field. Then came the great play of the season. Ray Wendell ran desperately backward, and, with a frantic bound, leaped in the air, andcaught the ball with one hand.
The Crimson Banner was ours!
Such a day of triumph Belmont had never known before. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, and during the evening, at the promenade concert on the campus, we were the heroes of the hour, and the recipients of plaudits and congratulations from every side.
In those proud and happy hours we reaped a golden reward for our services to ouralma mater. Our doubts and disappointments were all forgotten in that glad season of triumph, when, surrounded by countless friends, we felt the warm clasp of the many hands extended to congratulate us, and heard our names on many lips, coupled with words of warmest commendation. And now when I think of the long hours of training we went through, the anxious days of expectation, and the exciting moments of contest, I sometimes catch myself wondering whether I would go through it all again; and then, as I think of those dear old days and that supremely happy night of triumph, every vein in my body tingles with the answer:
“Yes, a thousand times again, if Belmont needed me!”
The town hall was crowded almost to suffocation the next day; and by the time the exercises began it seemed impossible to admit another person. I had practical reasons for knowing this, for I was one of the ushers, and was at my wits’ end to dispose of the masses of people that packed the building.
The hall was gayly decorated with flags and flowers, and at the upper end, behind the stage, hung a glorious banner of crimson, with inscriptions upon it in letters of gold. The banner ordinarily would not have come to us for some little time after the game; but Tony Larcom determined that it should grace Ray Wendell’s valedictory speech, and, partly by strategy, partly by bluff, succeeded in obtaining it from Berkeley in time for the exercises. Even cold Dr. Drayton could not resist a smile as he saw it hanging there; and, in his words of introduction, he alluded in a dignified but graceful manner to the victory of the previous day. From what he said I had a sneaking notion that he even went to see the game himself—a remarkable concession on the doctor’s part.
There all the dear boys sat in a row, robed in their black gowns, and awaiting their turn to speak. Among the first were Clinton Edwards and Elton, both of whom delivered fine orations. Then, near the last, came Len Howard, whose oration had evidently been prepared with scrupulous care, and whose delivery was marked for its manly and vigorous tone. And as he spoke, I saw his eyes wander frequently to the third row of seats, where sat an old man with snowwhite hair, who was leaning forward intently, his hand to his ear, that not a syllable should be lost, a tender smile upon his lips, and his kind eyes dimmed with tears.
And last of all came the valedictory; and as Ray Wendell, pale and handsome, stepped quietly forward and stood before the audience, a roar of applause that shook the building went up from the crowd, and gently fluttered the Crimson Banner that hung behind the speaker and gracefully framed him in.
And when the touching and pathetic words of farewell had been spoken by Ray, one further tribute remained. A messenger had come to the door during the delivery of the valedictory, and had put into my hands a magnificent basket of flowers. I hurried up the aisle, and, as Ray closed his oration and bowed, I held the flowers toward him. He blushed deeply as he leaned over to take the basket from my hands, and then for the first time I noticed a tiny card fastened to the bouquet by a strip of blue ribbon, and bearing the name, “Miss Nettie Fuller.”
Transcriber’s Notes:Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.