CHAPTER XI
THE NINTH INNING
The morning of the all-important day on which the Blues and Maroons wereto lock horns in order that the pennant question might be finallysettled dawned gloriously. There was not a cloud in the sky and scarcelya breath of wind stirring. A storm two days before had cooled the airand settled the dust, and altogether a finer day for the decidingstruggle could not have been imagined.
The game was to be played on the enemy's grounds, and that, of course,gave them a great advantage. This was further increased by the fact thatit was Commencement Week, and from all parts of the country greatthrongs of the old graduates had been pouring for days into the littletown that held so large a place in their memories and affections. Theycould be depended on to a man to be present that afternoon, rooting withall their might and yelling their heads off to encourage the home team.
However, they would not have it all their own way in that matter,although of course they would be in the majority. The train thatbrought Bert and his comrades on the day before was packed with wildlyenthusiastic supporters, and a whole section of the grandstand would bereserved for them. They had rehearsed their songs and cheers and wereready to break loose at any time on the smallest provocation and "makeRome howl." And, as is the way of college rooters, they had little doubtthat when they took the train for home they would carry their enemies'scalps at their belts. They would have mobbed anybody for the meresuggestion that their favorites could lose.
They packed the hotel corridors with an exuberant and hilarious crowdthat night that "murdered sleep" for any one within earshot, and it wasin the "wee, sma' hours" when they at last sought their beds, to snatcha few hours' sleep and dream of the great game on the morrow. Not so theteam themselves, however. They had been carried away to a secludedsuite, where after a good supper and a little quiet chat in whichbaseball was not permitted to intrude, they were tucked away in theirbeds by their careful trainer and by ten o'clock were sleeping soundly.
At seven the next morning they were astir, and, after a substantialbreakfast, submitted themselves to "Reddy's" rubdown and massage, at theconclusion of which their bodies were glowing, their eyes bright, andthey felt "fine as silk," in Reddy's phrase, and ready for anything. Itwas like getting a string of thoroughbreds thoroughly groomed andsending them to the post fit to race for a kingdom. To keep them fromdwelling on the game, Reddy took them for a quiet stroll in the country,returning only in time for a leisurely though not hearty dinner, afterwhich they piled into their 'bus and started for the ball field.
As they drove into the carriage gate at the lower end of the field theyfairly gasped at the sight that met their eyes. They had never playedbefore such a tremendous crowd as this. Grandstands and bleachers, thewhole four sides of the field were packed with tier upon tier of noisyand jubilant rooters. Old "grads," pretty girls and their escorts wavingflags, singing songs, cheering their favorites, shouting their classcries, made a picture that, once seen, could never be forgotten.
"Some crowd, all right," said Dick to Bert, as they came out on thefield for preliminary practise.
"Yes," said Bert, "and nine out of ten of them expect and hope to see uslose. We must put a crimp in that expectation, from the stroke of thegong."
"And we will, too," asserted Tom, confidently, "they never saw the daywhen they were a better team than ours, and it's up to our boys to proveit to them, right off the reel."
"How does your arm feel to-day?" asked Dick. "Can you mow them down inthe good old way, if you go in the box?"
"Never felt better in my life," rejoined Bert. "I feel as though I couldpitch all day if necessary."
"That sounds good," said Dick, throwing his arm over Bert's shoulder."If that's the way you feel, we've got the game sewed up already."
"Don't be too sure, old man," laughed Bert. "You'd better 'knock wood.'We've seen too many good things go wrong to be sure of anything in thisworld of chance. By the way," he went on, "who is that fellow up nearour bench? There's something familiar about him. By George, it'sAinslee," and they made a rush toward the stalwart figure that turned tomeet them with a smile of greeting.
"In the name of all that's lucky," cried Dick, as he grasped his handand shook it warmly, "how did you manage to get here? I thought you werewith your team at Pittsburgh. There's no man on earth I'd rather seehere to-day."
"Well," returned the coach, his face flushing with pleasure at thecordial greeting, "I pitched yesterday, and as it will be two or threedays before my turn in the box comes round again, I made up my mind itwas worth an all-night's journey to come up here and see you whale thelife out of these fellows. Because of course that's what you're going todo, isn't it? You wouldn't make me spend all that time and money fornothing, would you?" he grinned.
"You bet we won't," laughed Dick, "just watch our smoke."
The presence of the coach was an inspiration, and they went on fortheir fifteen minutes' practise with a vim and snap that sobered up theover-confident rooters on the other side. Their playing fairly sparkled,and some of the things put across made the spectators catch theirbreath.
Just in front of the grandstand, Bert and Winters tried out theirpitching arms. Commencing slowly, they gradually increased their pace,until they were shooting them over with railroad speed. The trainer andmanager, reinforced by Mr. Ainslee, carefully watched every ball thrown,so as to get a line on the comparative speed and control. While theyintended to use Bert, other things being equal, nobody knew better thanthey that a baseball pitcher is as variable as a finely strung racehorse. One day he is invincible and has "everything" on the ball; thenext, a village nine might knock him all over the lot.
But to-day seemed certainly Bert's day. He had "speed to burn." Hiscurves were breaking sharply enough to suit even Ainslee's critical eye,and while Winters also was in fine fettle, his control was none toogood. Hinsdale was called into the conference.
"How about it, Hin?" asked Ainslee. "How do they feel when they comeinto the glove?"
"Simply great," replied the catcher, "they almost knock me over, and hischange of pace is perfect."
"That settles it," said Ainslee, and the others acquiesced.
So that when at last the starting gong rang and a breathless silencefell over the field, as Tom strode to the plate, Bert thrilled with theknowledge that he had been selected to carry the "pitching burden," andthat upon him, more than any other member of the team, rested that day'sdefeat or victory.
The lanky, left-handed pitcher wound up deliberately and shot one overthe plate. Tom didn't move an eyelash.
"Strike one!" called the umpire, and the home crowd cheered.
The next one was a ball.
"Good eye, old man!" yelled Dick from the bench. "You've got himguessing."
The next was a strike, and then two balls followed in rapid succession.The pitcher measured the distance carefully, and sent one right over thecenter of the rubber. Tom fouled it and grinned at the pitcher. A littleoff his balance, he sent the next one in high, and Tom trotted down tofirst, amid the wild yells of his college mates.
Flynn came next with a pretty sacrifice that put Tom on second. Drakesent a long fly that the center fielder managed to get under. But beforehe could get set for the throw in, Tom, who had left second the instantthe catch was made, slid into third in a cloud of dust just before theball reached there.
"He's got his speed with him to-day," muttered Ainslee, "now if Trentcan only bring him home."
But Tom had other views. He had noticed that the pitcher took anunusually long wind-up. Then too, being left-handed, he naturally facedtoward first instead of third, as he started to deliver the ball. Footby foot, Tom increased his lead off third, watching the pitchermeanwhile, with the eye of a hawk. Two balls and one strike had beencalled on Dick, when, just as the pitcher began his wind-up, Tom made adash for the plate and came down the line like a panic-strickenjack-rabbit.
Warned by the roar that went up from the excited crowd, the pitcherstopped
his wind-up, and hurriedly threw the ball to the catcher. Butthe unexpectedness of the move rattled him and he threw low. There was amixup of legs and arms, as Tom threw himself to the ground twenty feetfrom the plate and slid over the rubber, beating the ball by a hair. Thevisiting crowd went wild, and generous applause came even from the homerooters over the scintillating play, while his mates fairly smotheredhim as he rose and trotted over to the bench.
"He stole home," cried Reddy, whose face was as red as his hair withexcitement. "The nerve of him! He stole home!"
It was one of the almost impossible plays that one may go all throughthe baseball season without seeing. Not only did it make sure of oneprecious run--and that run was destined to look as big as a mountain asthe game progressed--but it had a tendency to throw the opposing teamoff its balance, while it correspondingly inspired and encouraged thevisitors.
However, the pitcher pulled himself together, and although he passedDick to first by the four-ball route, he made Hodge send up a high foulto the catcher and the side was out.
The home crowd settled back with a sigh of relief. After all, only onerun had been scored, and the game was young. Wait till their heavyartillery got into action and there would be a different story to tell.They had expected that Winters, the veteran, would probably be the oneon whom the visitors would pin their hopes for the crucial game, andthere was a little rustle of surprise when they saw a newcomer movetoward the box. They took renewed hope when they learned that he was aFreshman, and that this was his first season as a pitcher. No matter howgood he was, it stood to reason that when their sluggers got after himthey would quickly "have his number."
"Well, Wilson," said Ainslee, as Bert drew on his glove, "the fellowshave given you a run to start with. You can't ask any more of them thanthat. Take it easy, don't let them rattle you, and don't use yourfadeaway as long as your curves and fast straight ones are workingright. Save that for the pinches."
"All right," answered Bert, "if the other fellows play the way Tom isdoing, I'll have nothing left to ask for in the matter of support, andit's up to me to do the rest."
For a moment as he faced the head of the enemy's batting order, andrealized all that depended on him, his head grew dizzy. The immensethrong of faces swam before his eyes and Dick's "Now, Bert, eat themup," seemed to come from a mile away. The next instant his braincleared. He took a grip on himself. The crowd no longer wavered beforehis eyes. He was as cold and hard as steel.
"Come, Freshie," taunted Ellis, the big first baseman, as he shook hisbat, "don't cheat me out of my little three bagger. I'll make it a homerif you don't hurry up."
He jumped back as a swift, high one cut the plate right under his neck.
"Strike," called the umpire.
"Naughty, naughty," said Ellis, but his tone had lost some of itsjauntiness.
The next was a wide outcurve away from the plate, but Ellis did not"bite," and it went as a ball.
Another teaser tempted him and he lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale, whosmothered it easily.
Hart, who followed, was an easy victim, raising a pop fly to Sterling atsecond. Gunther, the clean-up hitter of the team, sent a grounder toshort that ordinarily would have been a sure out, but, just beforereaching White, it took an ugly bound and went out into right. Sterling,who was backing up White, retrieved it quickly, but Gunther reachedfirst in safety. The crowd roared their delight.
"Here's where we score," said one to his neighbor. "I knew it was only amatter--Thunder! Look at that."
"That" was a lightning snap throw from Bert to Dick that caught Guntherfive feet off first. The move had been so sudden and unexpected thatDick had put the ball on him before the crowd fairly realized that ithad left the pitcher's hand. It was a capital bit of "inside stuff" thatbrought the Blues to their feet in tempestuous cheering, as Bert walkedin to the bench.
"O, I guess our Freshie is bad, all right," shouted one to Ellis, as hewalked to his position.
"We'll get him yet," retorted the burly fielder. "He'll blow up when histime comes."
But the time was long in coming. In the next three innings, only ninemen faced him, and four of these "fanned." His "whip" was getting betterand better as the game progressed. His heart leaped with the sense ofmastery. There was something uncanny in the way the ball obeyed him. Ittwisted, curved, rose and fell like a thing alive. A hush fell on thecrowd. All of them, friend and foe, felt that they were looking at agame that would make baseball history. Ainslee's heart was beating asthough it would break through his ribs. Could he keep up that demonpitching? Would the end come with a rush? Was it in human nature for amere boy before that tremendous crowd to stand the awful strain? Helooked the unspoken questions to Reddy, who stared back at him.
"He'll do it, Mr. Ainslee, he'll do it. He's got them under his thumb.They can't get to him. That ball fairly talks. He whispers to it andtells it what to do."
The other pitcher, too, was on his mettle. Since the first inning, noone of his opponents had crossed the rubber. Only two hits had beengarnered off his curves and his drop ball was working beautifully. Hewas determined to pitch his arm off before he would lower his colors tothis young cub, who threatened to dethrone him as the premier twirler ofthe league. It looked like a pitchers' duel, with only one or two runsdeciding the final score.
In the fifth, the "stonewall infield" cracked. Sterling, the "oldreliable," ran in for a bunt and got it easily, but threw the ball "amile" over Dick's head. By the time the ball was back in the diamond,the batter was on third, and the crowd, scenting a chance to score, wasshouting like mad. The cheer leaders started a song that went boomingover the field and drowned the defiant cheer hurled at them in return.The coachers danced up and down on the first and third base lines, andtried to rattle Bert by jeers and taunts.
"He's going up now," they yelled, "all aboard for the air ship. Getafter him, boys. It's all over but the shouting."
But Bert had no idea of going up in the air. The sphere whistled as hestruck out Allen on three pitched balls. Halley sent up a sky scraperthat Sterling redeemed himself by getting under in fine style. Ellisshot a hot liner straight to the box, that Bert knocked down with hisleft hand, picked up with his right, and got his man at first. It was anarrow escape from the tightest of tight places, and Ainslee and Reddybreathed again, while the disgusted home rooters sat back and groaned.To get a man on third with nobody out, and yet not be able to get himhome. Couldn't they melt that icicle in the pitcher's box? What licensedid he have anyway to make such a show of them?
The sixth inning passed without any sign of the icicle thawing, butAinslee detected with satisfaction that the strain was beginning to tellon the big southpaw. He was getting noticeably wild and finding itharder and harder to locate the plate. When he did get them over, thebatters stung them hard, and only superb support on the part of hisfielders had saved him from being scored upon.
At the beginning of the seventh, the crowd, as it always does at thatstage, rose to its feet and stretched.
"The lucky seventh," it shouted. "Here's where we win."
They had scarcely settled down in their seats however, when Tom crackedout a sharp single that went like a rifle shot between second and short.Flynn sent him to second with an easy roller along the first base line.The pitcher settled down and "whiffed" Drake, but Dick caught one righton the end of the bat and sent it screaming out over the left fielder'shead. It was a clean home run, and Dick had followed Tom over the platebefore the ball had been returned to the infield.
Now it was the Blues' turn to howl, and they did so until they werehoarse, while the home rooters sat back and glowered and the majoritygave up the game as lost. With such pitching to contend against, threeruns seemed a sure winning lead.
In the latter half of the inning, however, things changed as though bymagic. The uncertainty that makes the chief charm of the game asserteditself. With everything going on merrily with the visitors, the goddessof chance gave a twist to the kaleidoscope, and the whole scene took
ona different aspect.
Gunther, who was still sore at the way Bert had showed him up at first,sent up a "Texas leaguer" just back of short. White turned and ran forit, while big Flynn came rushing in from center. They came together withterrific force and rolled over and over, while the ball fell betweenthem.
White rose dizzily to his feet, but Flynn lay there, still and crumpled.His mates and some of the opposing team ran to him and bore him to thebench. It was a clean knockout, and several minutes elapsed before heregained consciousness and was assisted from the field, while Ames, asubstitute outfielder, took his place. Tom had regained the ball in themeantime and held Gunther at second. The umpire called "play" and thegame went on.
But a subtle something had come over the Blues. An accident at a criticaltime like this was sure to be more or less demoralizing. Their nerves,already stretched to the utmost tension, were not proof against thesudden shock. Both the infield and outfield seemed to go to pieces all atonce. The enemy were quick to take advantage of the changed conditions.Gunther took a long lead off second, and, at a signal from his captain,started for third. Hinsdale made an awful throw that Tom only stopped bya sideway leap, but not in time to get the runner. Menken sent a grounderto White that ordinarily he would have "eaten up," but he fumbled it justlong enough to let the batter get to first, while Gunther cantered overthe plate for their first run of the game amid roars of delight from thefrantic rooters. It looked as though the long-expected break was comingat last.
The next man up struck out and the excitement quieted down somewhat,only to be renewed with redoubled fervor a moment later, when Halleycaught a low outcurve just below the waist and laced it into center fora clean double. Smart fielding kept the man on first from gettingfurther than third, but that seemed good enough. Only one man was outand two were on bases, and one of their heaviest batters was coming up.Bert looked him over carefully and then sent him deliberately four wideballs. He planned to fill the bases and then make the next man hit intoa double play, thus retiring the side.
It was good judgment and Ainslee noted it with approval. Many a time hehad done the same thing himself in a pinch and "gotten away with it."
As Bert wound up, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Halley wastaking a long lead off second. Quick as lightning, he turned and shotthe ball to White, who ran from short to cover the base. The throw wasso true that he could easily have nailed Halley, as he frantically triedto get back. But although White had pluckily insisted on being allowedto play, his head was still spinning like a top from the recentcollision, and a groan went up from the "Blue" supporters as the ballcaromed off his glove and rolled out to center. The three men on basesfairly burned up the base lines as they galloped around the bags, andwhen Ames' hurried return of the ball went over Hinsdale's head to thegrand stand, all the bases were cleared, and the score stood four tothree in favor of the home team. It had all occurred so suddenly thatthe visitors were in a daze, and the home nine itself could hardlyrealize how quickly the tables had been turned.
For a moment rage took possession of Bert. What was the matter with thefellows anyway? Why were they playing like a bunch of "Rubes"? Didthey expect him to win the game all by himself? Was the victory to besnatched away just as it was within sight? Were these jubilant, yellingrooters, dancing about and hugging each other, to send him and hiscomrades away, downcast and beaten? Were they to "laugh last" andtherefore "best"? And the fellows hundreds of miles away, gathered atthis moment around the bulletin board of the dear old college----
No! No! A thousand times, no! In a moment he was himself again--the sameold Bert, cool, careful, self-reliant. He stooped down and pretended totie his shoe lace, in order to give his comrades a moment to regaintheir self-possession. Then he straightened up and shot a beauty rightover the plate. The batter, who had been ordered to wait and takeadvantage of Bert's expected case of "rattles," let it go by. Twoperfect strikes followed and the batter was out. The next man updribbled a roller to the box and Bert threw him out easily. The inningwas over, and Bert had to take off his cap to the storm of cheers thatcame from the "Blue" supporters as he walked to the bench.
Ainslee scanned him carefully for any sign of collapse after this"baptism of fire." Where were the fellow's nerves? Did he have any? Bertmet his glance with an easy smile, and the coach, reassured, heaved asigh of relief. No "yellow streak" there, but clear grit through andthrough.
"It's the good old fadeaway from now on, Wilson," he said as he clappedhim on the back, "usually I believe in letting them hit and rememberingthat you have eight men behind you to help you out. But just now there'sa little touch of panic among the boys, and while that would soon wearoff, you only have two innings left. This game has got to be won in thepitcher's box. Hold them down and we will bat out a victory yet."
"All right," answered Bert; "I've only used the fadeaway once or twicethis game, and they've had no chance to size it up. I'll mix it in withthe others and try to keep them guessing."
Drake and Dick made desperate attempts to overcome the one run advantagein their half of the eighth. Each cracked out a hot single, but thethree that followed were unable to bring them home, despite the franticadjurations of their friends to "kill the ball."
Only one more inning now, one last chance to win as a forlorn hope, orfall fighting in the last ditch.
A concerted effort was made to rattle Bert as he went into the box, butfor all the effect it had upon him, his would-be tormentors might aswell have been in Timbuctoo. He was thoroughly master of himself. Theball came over the plate as though shot from a gatling gun for the firstbatter, whose eye was good for curves, but who, twice before, had provedeasy prey for speedy ones. A high foul to the catcher disposed of him.Allen, the next man up, set himself for a fast one, and was completelyfooled by the lazy floater that suddenly dropped a foot below his bat,just as it reached the plate. A second and third attempt sent himsheepishly back to the bench.
"Gee, that was a new one on me," he muttered. "I never saw such a dropin my life. It was just two jerks and a wiggle."
His successor was as helpless as a baby before the magical delivery, andamid a tempest of cheers, the Blues came in for their last turn at bat.Sterling raised their hopes for a moment by a soaring fly to center. Butthe fielder, running with the ball, made a beautiful catch, fallingas he did so, but coming up with the ball in his hand. Some of thespectators started to leave, but stopped when White shot a scorcher sohot that the second baseman could not handle it. Ames followed with ascreaming single to left that put White on third, which he reached by adesperate slide. A moment later Ames was out stealing second, and withtwo men out and hope nearly dead, Bert came to the plate. He caught thefirst ball pitched on the end of his bat and sent it on a line betweenright and center. And then he ran.
How he ran! He rounded first like a frightened deer and tore towardsecond. The wind whistled in his ears. His heart beat like a trip hammer.He saw as in a dream the crowds, standing now, and shouting like fiends.He heard Dick yelling: "Go it, Bert, go it, go it!" He caught a glimpseof Tom running toward third base to coach him in. He passed second. Theground slipped away beneath his feet. He was no longer running, he wasflying. The third baseman tried to block him, but he went into him like acatapult and rolled him over and over. Now he was on the road to home.But the ball was coming too. He knew it by the warning cry of Reddy, bythe startled urging of Tom, by the outstretched hands of the catcher.With one tremendous effort he flung himself to the ground and made afallaway slide for the plate, just touching it with his finger tips, asthe ball thudded into the catcher's mitt. Two men in and the score fiveto four, while the Blues' stand rocked with thunders of applause.
"By George," cried Ainslee, "such running! It was only a two base hit,and you stretched it into a homer."
The next batter was out on a foul to left, and the home team came into do or die. If now they couldn't beat that wizard of the box, theirgallant fight had gone for nothing. They still had courage, but it wasthe courage
of despair. They were used to curves and rifle shots. Theymight straighten out the one and shoot back the other, but that newmysterious delivery, that snaky, tantalizing, impish fadeaway, hadrobbed them of confidence. Still, "while there was life there was hope,"so----
Ainslee and Reddy were a little afraid that Bert's sprint might havetired him and robbed him of his speed. But they might have spared theirfears. His wind was perfect and his splendid condition stood him ingood stead. He was a magnificent picture of young manhood, as for thelast time he faced his foes. His eyes shone, his nerves thrilled, hismuscles strained, his heart sang. His enemies he held in the hollow ofhis hand. He toyed with them in that last inning as a cat plays with amouse. His fadeaway was working like a charm. No need now to sparehimself. Ellis went out on three pitched balls. Hart lifted a feeblefoul to Hinsdale. Gunther came up, and the excitement broke all bounds.
The vast multitude was on its feet, shouting, urging, begging, pleading.A hurricane of cheers and counter cheers swept over the field. Reddy wasjumping up and down, shouting encouragement to Bert, while Ainslee satperfectly still, pale as death and biting his lips till the blood came.Bert cut loose savagely, and the ball whistled over the plate. Guntherlunged at it.
"One strike!" called the umpire.
Gunther had been expecting the fadeaway that had been served to the twobefore him, and was not prepared for the swift high one, just below theshoulder. Bert had outguessed him.
Hinsdale rolled the ball slowly back along the ground to the pitcher'sbox. Bert stopped, picked it up leisurely, and then, swift as a flash,snapped it over the left hand corner of the plate. Before the astonishedbatsman knew it was coming, Hinsdale grabbed it for the second strike.
"Fine work, Bert!" yelled Dick from first. "Great head."
Gunther, chagrined and enraged, set himself fiercely for the next. Bertwound up slowly. The tumult and the shouting died. A silence as of deathfell on the field. The suspense was fearful. Before Bert's eyes came upthe dear old college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowdat this moment gathered there about the bulletin---- Then he let go.
For forty feet the ball shot toward the plate in a line. Gunther gaugedit and drew back his bat. Then the ball hesitated, slowed, seemed toreconsider, again leaped forward, and, eluding Gunther's despairingswing, curved sharply down and in, and fell like a plummet in Hinsdale'seager hands.
"You're out," cried the umpire, tearing off his mask. The crowd surgeddown over the field, and Bert was swallowed up in the frantic rush offriends and comrades gone crazy with delight. And again he saw the dearold college, the gray buildings and the shaded walks, the crowd at thismoment gathered there about the bulletin----.
* * * * *
Some days after his fadeaway had won the pennant--after the triumphaljourney back to the college, the uproarious reception, the bonfires,the processions, the "war dance" on the campus--Bert sat in hisroom, admiring the splendid souvenir presented to him by the collegeenthusiasts. The identical ball that struck out Gunther had been encasedin a larger one of solid gold, on which was engraved his name, togetherwith the date and score of the famous game. Bert handled it caressingly.
"Well, old fellow," he said, half aloud, "you stood by me nobly, but itwas a hard fight. I never expect to have a harder one."
He would have been startled, had he known of the harder one just ahead.That Spring he had fought for glory; before the Summer was over he wouldfight for life. How gallant the fight he made, how desperate the chanceshe took, and how great the victory he won, will be told in
"BERT WILSON, WIRELESS OPERATOR."
THE END
Transcriber's Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--The author's long dash style has been preserved.
Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball Page 11