At the Old Ballgame

by Jeff Silverman

  Baseball Joe’s Winning Throw

  Lester Chadwick

  For a moment Tom stood there a bit embarrassed, for he saw that something unusual had happened.

  “I—I hope I’m not intruding,” he stammered. “I didn’t think—I came right in as I always do. Has anything—”

  “It’s all right!” exclaimed Joe quickly. “We just got word that Dad has lost his patent case.”

  “Gee! That’s too bad!” exclaimed Tom, who knew something of the affair. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to pitch against the Resolutes, the first thing I do!” cried Joe. “After that I’ll decide what’s next. But is my glove mended, Clara? Come on, Tom, we mustn’t be late. We’re going to wallop them—just as you said.”

  “I hope you do!” burst out Clara.

  “Play a good game and—and—don’t worry,” whispered Mrs. Matson to her son as he kissed her good-bye.

  The team and substitutes were to go to Rocky Ford in two big stages, in time to get in some practice on the grounds that were none too familiar to them. A crowd of Silver Star “rooters” were to follow on the trolley. The captain and managers of the rival teams watched their opponents practice with sharp eyes.”

  “They’re snappier than when they beat us before,” was Darrell’s conclusion.

  “They’ve got a heap sight better pitcher in Joe than Sam Morton ever was,” concluded Captain Hen Littell of the Resolutes, who twirled for his team. “I shouldn’t wonder but what we’d have a mighty close game.”

  The last practice was over. The scattered balls had been collected, the batting list made out and final details arranged. Once more came the thrilling cry of the umpire:

  “Play ball!”

  The Resolutes were to bat last, and Seth Porter went up to bat first for the Stars.

  “Swat it,” pleaded the crowd, and Seth smiled. But he fanned the air successively as well as successfully and soon went back to the bench. Then came Fred Newton’s turn and he knocked a little pop fly that was easily caught before he reached first. Captain Rankin himself was up next and managed to get to first on a swift grounder that got past the shortstop. But he died on second, for the next man up fanned. No runs for the Stars.

  The Resolutes were jubilant, thinking this argued well for them, but they looked a little blank when Joe retired their first two men hitless. For Joe had started off in good form. With the first ball he delivered he knew that he was master of the horsehide—at least for a time.

  “But oh! I hope I don’t slump!” and he almost found himself praying that such a thing would not happen.

  He was in an agony of fear when he heard the crack of the bat on the ball when the third man came up. The spheroid went shooting off in center field, but by a magnificent stop Percy Parnell gathered it in and the side was retired runless. Things were not so bad for the Stars.

  For the next two innings neither side got a run, though there were some scattered hits. Again was there talk of a pitchers’ battle, though in the strict sense of the word this was not so, as both Joe and Hen Littell were hit occasionally, and for what would have been runs only for the efficient fielding on both sides.

  “See if we can’t do something this inning!” pleaded Rankin when his side came up in their half of the fourth. The lads all tried hard and Joe knocked a pretty one that was muffed by the second baseman. However, he quickly picked it up and hurled it to first. Joe got there about the same time the ball did, and to many he seemed safe, but he was called out.

  “Aw, that’s rotten!” cried Tom Davis.

  “Let it go!” said Darrell sharply, and Tom subsided.

  The Stars got another goose egg—four straight—and in their half of the fourth the Resolutes got their first run. The crowd went wild and Joe found himself clenching his hands, for the run came in because he had given a man his base on balls. The runner had successively stolen second and third, and went home on a nice fly.

  “I hope I’m not going to slump!” thought Joe and there was a lump in his throat. For an instant he found himself thinking of his father’s troubles, and then he firmly dismissed them from his mind. “I’ve got to pitch!” he told himself fiercely.

  “We’ve got him going!” chanted the Resolute “rooters.” Joe shut his teeth grimly and struck out the next man. Then he nipped the runner stealing second and threw him out with lightning speed. That somewhat silenced the jubilant cries and when Joe managed to retire one of the Resolutes’ heaviest hitters without even a bunt a big crowd rose up and cheered him.

  “They’re only one ahead,” said Rankin as his lads came in to bat. “Let’s double it now.”

  And double it they did, the Star boys playing like mad and getting enough hits off Littell to make two runs.

  “That’s the way to wallop ’em!” sang someone in the visiting crowd and the song composed for the occasion was rendered with vim.

  Desperately as the Resolutes tried in their half of the fifth to catch up to their rivals, they could not do it. Joe was at his best and in that half inning did not allow a hit. He had almost perfect control, and his speed was good. Only once or twice did he pitch at all wild and then it did no harm as there was no one on base.

  The sixth inning saw a run chalked up for each team, making the score three to two in favor of the Stars.

  “Oh, if we can only keep this up!” exclaimed Darrell, “we’ll have them. Can you do it, Joe?”

  “I guess so—yes, I can!” he said with conviction.

  Then came the lucky seventh, in which the Stars pounded out three runs, setting the big crowd wild with joy, and casting corresponding gloom over the cohorts of the Resolutes. The Stars now had six runs and their rivals were desperate. They even adopted unfair tactics, and several decisions of the umpire were manifestly in their favor. The crowd hooted and yelled, but the young fellow who was calling strikes and balls held to his opinion, and the Resolutes closed their half of the seventh with two runs.

  “Six to four in our favor,” murmured the Stars’ manager. “If we can only keep this lead the game is ours.”

  “That word ‘if’ is a big one for only two letters,” spoke Captain Rankin grimly. “But maybe we can.”

  Neither side scored in the eighth and then came the final trial of the Stars unless there should be a tie, which would necessitate ten innings.

  Joe was to the bat in this inning, and oh! how hard he tried for a run! He knocked a two-bagger and stole third. There was one out when Bart Ferguson came up, and Bart was a heavy hitter. But somehow he did not make good this time. He managed to connect with the ball, however, and as soon as Joe heard the crack he started for home.

  But there was brilliant playing on the part of the Resolutes. With a quick throw to home the shortstop nipped Joe at the plate, and then the catcher, hurling the ball to first, got the horsehide into the baseman’s hands before Bart arrived. It was a pretty double play and retired the Stars with a goose egg.

  Still they had a lead of two runs and they might be able to hold their rivals down. It was a critical point in the game. As Joe took his place and faced the batter he felt his heart wildly throbbing. He knew he must hold himself well in hand or he would go to pieces. The crowd of Resolute sympathizers was hooting and yelling at him. Darrell saw how things might go and ran out to the pitcher.

  “Hold hard!” he whispered. “Just take it easy. Pitch a few balls to Bart and your nerve will come back. We’ve got to win.”

  “And we will!” exclaimed Joe. The delivery of a few balls, while the batter stepped away from the plate, showed Joe that he still had his speed and control. He was going to be wary what kind of curves he delivered.

  He struck out the first man up with an ease that at first caused him wild elation, and then he calmed himself.

  “There are two more,” he reasoned. “I’ve got to get two more—two mo
re.”

  He was almost in despair when he was hit for a two-bagger by the next player, and he was in a nervous perspiration about the man stealing to third. Then Darrell signaled him to play for the batter, and Joe did, getting him out with an easy fly.

  Then there was a mix-up when the next man hit, and by an error of the left fielder the man on second, who had stolen to third, went home with a run, while the man who had brought him in got to the last bag.

  “That’s the stuff!” yelled the crowd. “Now one more to make it a tie and another to win!”

  “Steady, boys! Steady!” called Darrell, as he saw his team on the verge of a breakdown. “We can beat ’em!”

  There were now two out, one run was in, a man was on third and a heavy batter was up—one of the best of the Resolutes.

  “Swat it, Armstrong! Swat it!” cried the crowd, and the big left fielder smiled confidently.

  “Ball one!” cried the umpire, after Joe’s first delivery.

  There was a gasp of protest from Bart behind the plate, for the sphere had come over cleanly. Darrell signaled to the catcher to make no protest. Joe felt a wave of anger, but he endeavored to keep cool. But when the second ball was called on him he wanted to run up and thrash the umpire. The latter was grinning derisively.

  “Here’s a strike!” cried Joe in desperation and he was gratified when Armstrong struck at it and missed.

  “Why didn’t you call that a ball?” asked Bart of the umpire. The latter did not answer.

  Another ball was called and then a strike. Now came the supreme moment. Two men out, a man on third waiting to rush in with the tying run, a heavy hitter at bat and three balls and two strikes called on him. No wonder Joe’s hand trembled a little.

  “Easy, old man!” called Darrell to him. “You can make him fan.”

  Joe thought rapidly. He had studied the batter and he thought that by delivering a swift in-shoot he could fool Armstrong. It was his last chance, for another ball meant that the batter would walk, and there was even a better stick-man to follow.

  Joe wound up, and sent in a swift one. His heart was fluttering, he could hardly see, there was a roaring in his ears. And then he dimly saw Armstrong strike at the ball desperately. Almost at the same moment Joe knew he would miss it.

  The ball landed in the center of Bart’s big glove with a resounding whack. He held it exactly where he had caught it. Joe had delivered the winning throw.

  “Strike three—batter’s out!” howled the umpire, and then his voice was drowned in a yell of joy from the sympathizers of the Stars.

  For their team had won! The Resolutes were retired with but one run in the ninth and the final score was five to six in favor of our friends. They had beaten their old rivals on their own grounds and they had won the county championship!

  “Great work, old man! Great!” yelled Darrell in Joe’s ear. “You saved the day for us.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Joe modestly.

  “Three cheers for Baseball Joe!” yelled Tom Davis, and how those cheers did ring out.

  “Three cheers for the Stars—they beat us fair and square!” called Captain Littell, and this was quite a different ending than that which had marked the previous game.

  Some wanted to carry Joe around on their shoulders but he slipped away, and got off his uniform. Soon the team was on its way back to Riverside.

  “You ought to be in a bigger team,” Darrell told Joe. “You’ve got the making of a great pitcher in you.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to stick around here for a while yet,” replied our hero, as he thought of the fallen finances of his father. Never in all his life had he so longed for the chance to go to boarding school, and thence to college. But he knew it could not be, chiefly through the treachery of Benjamin and Holdney. Joe felt a wave of resentment against them sweep over him, and his thoughts were black and bitter.

  Tom walked as far as Joe’s street with him. He had a silent sympathy that spoke more than mere words could have done.

  “So long,” he said softly as they parted. “It was a great game, Joe, and I’m almost glad you’ve got to stay with the Stars.”

  “Well, did you win?” asked his mother, as Joe entered the house—entered it more listlessly than winning a big game would seem to warrant. “Did you beat the Resolutes, Joe?”

  “Yes, we did—why, Mother, what’s the matter?” cried the young pitcher, for there was a look of joy and happiness on her face, a look entirely different than when he had left her after the bad news. “Has anything—anything good happened?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, “there has. I just had another telegram from your father. Everything is all right. He gets back his patents.”

  “No!” cried Joe, as if unable to believe the news.

  “But I tell you yes!” repeated Mrs. Matson, and there was joy in her voice. “At first your father believed that all was lost, just as he wired us. Then, most unexpectedly he tells me, they were able to obtain some evidence from outside parties which they had long tried for in vain.

  “It seems that a witness for Mr. Benjamin and his side, on whom they very much depended, deserted them, and went over to your father and his lawyer, and—”

  “Hurray for that witness, whoever he was!” cried Joe.

  “Be quiet,” begged Clara, “and let Mother tell.”

  “There isn’t much to tell,” went on Mrs. Matson. “With the unexpected evidence of this witness your father’s lawyer won the case, almost at the last moment. In fact your father had given up, and was about ready to leave the court when the man sent in word that he would testify for them. That was after your father sent the telegram that came just before you went off to the game, Joe.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad!” cried Clara.

  “Now it’s your turn to be quiet and listen,” admonished Joe, with a smile at his sister.

  “I have just about finished,” went on their mother. “The judge decided in your father’s favor, and he doesn’t even have to share the profits of the invention with the harvester company or with Mr. Rufus Holdney, as he at one time thought he would, for they have violated their contract. So we won’t be poor, after all, children. Aren’t you glad?”

  “You bet!” exploded Joe, throwing his arms around his mother’s neck.

  “And we won’t have to leave this nice house,” added Clara, looking around the comfortable abode.

  “Then I can go to boarding school—and pitch on the school nine; can’t I, Mother?” cried Joe, throwing his arms around her.

  “Oh, yes; I suppose so,” she answered, with half a sigh. “But I do wish you’d do something else besides play baseball.”

  “Something else besides baseball, Mother! Why, there’s nothing to be compared to it. Hurray! I’m going to boarding school! I’m going to boarding school!” and Joe, catching Clara around the waist, waltzed her around the room. Then he caught his mother on his other arm—the arm that won the victory for the Stars that day—and her, too, he whirled about until she cried for mercy.

  “Oh, but this is great!” Joe cried when he stopped for breath. “Simply great! I must go and tell Tom. Maybe he can go to boarding school with me.”

  And whether Tom did or not, and what were our hero’s further fortunes on the diamond, will be related in the next volume, to be called: “Baseball Joe on the School Nine; or, Pitching for the Blue Banner.”

  There was an impromptu feast that night for the victorious Silver Stars and Joe was the hero of the occasion. He was toasted again and again, and called upon to make some remarks, which he did in great confusion. But his chums thought it the best speech they had every heard.

  “Three cheers for Baseball Joe!” called Tom Davis, and the room rang with them, while Joe tried to hide his blushes by drinking glass after glass of lemonade.

  And now, for a time, we will take lea
ve of him, crying as his chums did after the great victory on the diamond: “Hurrah for Baseball Joe!”

  Mr. Dooley on Baseball

  Finley Peter Dunne

  “D ’ye iver go to a baseball game?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

  “Not now,” said Mr. Dooley. “I haven’t got th’ intellick f’r it. Whin I was a young fellow nathin’ plazed me betther thin to go out to th’ ball grounds, get a good cosy seat in th’ sun, take off me collar an’ coat an’ buy a bottle iv pop, not so much, mind ye, f’r th’ refrishment, because I niver was much on pop, as to have something handy to reprove th’ empire with whin he give an eeronyous decision. Not only that, me boy, but I was a fine amachure ballplayer mesilf. I was first baseman iv th’ Prairie Wolves whin we beat th’ nine iv Injine Company Five be a scoor iv four hundherd an’ eight to three hundherd an’ twinty-five. It was very close. Th’ game started just afther low mass on a Sunah mornin’ an’ was called on account iv darkness at th’ end iv th’ fourth inning. I knocked th’ ball over th’ fence into Donovan’s coal yard no less thin twelve times. All this talk about this here young fellow Baker makes me smile. Whin I was his age I wudden’t count anything but home-runs. If it wasn’t a home-run I’d say: “Don’t mark it down’ an’ go back an’ have another belt at th’ ball. Thim were th’ days.

  “We usen’t to think base-ball was a science. No man was very good at it that was good at annything else. A young fellow that had a clear eye in his head an’ a sthrong pair iv legs undher him an’ that was onaisy in th’ close atmosphere iv th’ school room, an’ didn’t like th’ profissyon iv plumbing was like as not to join a ball team. He come home in th’ fall with a dimon in his shirt front an’ a pair iv hands on him that looked like th’ boughs iv a three that’s been sthruck be lightenin’ and he was th’ hero in th’ neighborhood till his dimon melted an’ he took to drivin’ a thruck. But ’tis far different nowadays. To be a ball-player a man has to have a joynt intilleck. Inside base-ball, th’ paapers calls it, is so deep that it’d give brain fever to a pro-fissor iv asthronomy to thry to figure it out. Each wan iv these here mathymatical janiuses has to carry a thousand mysteeryous signals in his head an’ they’re changed ivry day an’ sometimes in the middle iv th’ game. I’m so sorry f’r th’ poor fellows. In th’ old days whin they were through with th’ game they’d maybe sthray over to th’ Dutchman’s f’r a pint iv beer. Now they hurry home to their study an’ spind th’ avnin’ poorin’ over books iv allgibera an’ thrigynomethry.