Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball

“Yes,” broke in Ainslee, “and the first college game in 1859 was won by Amherst over Williams by a score of 66 to 32.”

“Gee,” said Hinsdale, “the outfielders in those days must have had something to do, chasing the ball.”

“They certainly did,” agreed Reddy, “but, of course, that sort of thing didn’t last very long. The pitchers soon got the upper hand, and then, good-by to the big scores.

“I suppose,” he went on, “that the real beginning of baseball, as we know it to-day, goes back to the old ‘Red Stockings’ of Cincinnati, in ’69 and ’70. There was a team for you. George and Harry Wright and Barnes and Spalding, and a lot of others just as good, went over the country like a prairie fire. There wasn’t anybody that could stand up against them. Why, they went all though one season without a single defeat. It got to be after a while that the other teams felt about them just as they say boxers used to feel when they stood up against Sullivan. They were whipped before they put up their hands. The next year they got their first defeat at the hands of the old Atlantics of Brooklyn. I was a wee bit of a youngster then, but I saw that game through a hole in the fence. Talk about excitement! At the end of the ninth inning the score was tied, and the Atlantics were anxious to stop right there. It was glory enough to tie the mighty Red Stockings – a thing that had never been done before – without taking any further chances. But Harry Wright, the captain, was stubborn – I guess he was sorry enough for it afterwards – and the game went on, only to have the Atlantics win in the eleventh by a score of 7 to 6. I’ve seen many a game since, but never one to equal that.

“Of course the game has kept on improving all the time. I ain’t denying that. There used to be a good deal of ‘rough stuff’ in the old days. The gamblers started in to spoil it, and sometimes as much as $20,000 would be in the mutual pools that used to be their way of betting. Then, too, the players didn’t use to get much pay and, with so much money up, it was a big temptation to ‘throw’ games. It got to be so, after a while, that you wouldn’t know whether the game was on the level or not. The only salvation of the game was to have some good strong men organize and put it on a solid footing and weed out the grafters. They did this and got a gang of them ‘dead to rights’ in the old Louisville team. They expelled four of them and barred them from the game forever, and, although they moved heaven and earth to get back, they never did. And since that time the game has been as clean as a hound’s tooth. As a matter of fact, it’s about the only game in America, except perhaps football, that you can count on as being absolutely on the square.

“It’s a great sport, all right, and I don’t wonder it is called the national game. It’s splendid exercise for every muscle of the body and every faculty of the brain. Rich or poor, great or small, everybody with a drop of sporting blood in his veins likes it, even if he can’t play it. At the Washington grounds a box seat is reserved for the President, and I notice that no matter how heavy the ‘cares of state,’ he’s usually on hand and rooting for the home team. Why, I’ve heard that when the committee went to notify Lincoln that he was nominated for President, he was out at the ball ground, playing ‘one old cat,’ and the committee had to wait until he’d had his turn at bat. It may not be true, but it’s good enough to be.”

“And not only is it our national game,” put in Ainslee, “but other countries are taking it up as well. They have dandy baseball teams in Cuba and Japan, that would make our crack nines hustle to beat them, and, in Canada, it is already more popular than cricket.”

“I’ve heard,” said Tom, “that not long ago they made a cable connection with some island way up in the Arctic Circle. The World’s Series was being played then, and the very first message that came over the cable from the little bunch of Americans up there was: ‘What’s the score?’”

“Yes,” laughed Ainslee, “it gets in the blood, and with the real ‘dyed in the wool’ fan it’s the most important thing in the world. You’ve heard perhaps of the pitcher who was so dangerously sick that he wasn’t expected to live. The family doctor stood at the bedside and took his temperature. He shook his head gravely.

“‘It’s 104,’ he said.

“‘You’re a liar,’ said the pitcher, rousing himself, ‘my average last season was .232, and it would have been more if the umpire hadn’t robbed me.’”

The train drew up at Washington just then, and the laughing crowd hustled to get their traps together. Here they played the last game of the season with the strong Georgetown University nine, and just “nosed them out” in an exciting game that went eleven innings. While in the city they visited the Washington Monument, that matchless shaft of stone that dwarfs everything else in the National Capital. Of course the boys wanted to try to catch a ball dropped from the top, but the coach would not consent.

“Only two or three men in the world have been able to do that,” he said, “and they took big chances. I’ve had too much trouble getting you fellows in good condition, to take any needless risks.”

So the boys turned homeward, bronzed, trained, exultant over their string of well-earned victories, and, in the approving phrase of Reddy, “fit to fight for a man’s life.” Ainslee left them at New York to join his team amid a chorus of cheers from the young athletes that he had done so much to form. From now on, it was “up to them” to justify his hopes and bring one more pennant to the dear old Alma Mater.

CHAPTER V

Winning His Spurs

“Play ball!” shouted the umpire, and the buzz of conversation in the grandstand ceased. All eyes were fastened on the two teams about to enter on the first important game of the season, and people sat up straight and forgot everything else, so great was their interest in the forthcoming event.

All the games that the Blues had played up to this time had been with teams over which they felt reasonably sure of winning a victory, but the nine they had to face to-day was a very different proposition. Most of the young fellows composing it were older and had had more experience than the Blues, and the latter knew that they would have to do their very utmost to win, if win they did. The thing they most relied on, however, was the fact that their pitcher was very good, and they believed that he would probably win the day for them.

Of course, they had a lot of confidence in themselves, too, but the importance of a steady, efficient pitcher to any team can hardly be exaggerated. It gives them a solid foundation on which to build up a fast, winning team, and nobody realized this better than Mr. Ainslee, their veteran coach.

“Only give me one good pitcher,” he was wont to say, “and I’ll guarantee to turn out a team that will win the college championship.”

The star on the college team this year, Winters, was, without doubt, an exceptionally good pitcher. He had considerable speed and control, and his curves could generally be counted on to elude the opposing batsmen. He was the only son in a wealthy family, however, and, as a consequence, had a very exaggerated idea of his own importance. He was inclined to look down on the fellows who did not travel in what he called “his set,” and often went out of his way to make himself disagreeable to them.

As Dick put it, “He liked to be the ‘main squeeze,’” and he had been much irritated over the way in which Bert had attracted the coach’s attention, and the consequent talk on the campus regarding the “new pitcher.” He and his friends made it a point to sneer at and discredit these stories, however, and to disparage Bert on every possible occasion.

The veteran trainer had not forgotten, however, and moreover he was worried in secret about Winters. It was, of course, his duty to see that all the players attended strictly to business, and let no outside interests interfere with their training. Of late, however, he had heard from several sources that Winters had been seen in the town resorts at various times when he was supposed to be in bed, and Reddy knew, none better, what that meant.

However, he hoped that the pitcher would not force him to an open rebuke, and so had said nothing as yet. Nevertheless, as has been said, he kept Bert in mind as a possible alternative, although he hoped that he would not be forced to use him.

“He’s had too little experience yet,” he mused. “If I should put him in a game, he’d go up like a rocket, most likely. Them green pitchers can’t be relied upon, even if he did fool Ainslee,” and the veteran, in spite of his worry, was forced to smile over the memory of how Bert had struck the great coach out in practice.

Previous to the actual start of the game both teams had been warming up on the field, and each had won murmurs of applause from the grandstands. To the wise ones, however, it was apparent that the Blues were a trifle shaky in fielding work, and many were seen to shake their heads dubiously.

“The youngsters will have to do some tall hustling if they expect to win from the visitors,” one gray-haired man was heard to say, “but they say they have a crackerjack pitcher, that’s one thing in their favor.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed his friend, “but it’s not only that; the other fellows have had a whole lot more experience than our boys. And that counts an awful lot when it comes to a pinch.”

“You’re right, it does,” acquiesced the other; “however, there’s no use crossing the bridge till we come to it. We’ll hope for the best, anyway.”

After a little more practice both teams retired to the clubhouse to make their last preparations. Not many minutes later everything was in readiness, and the teams trotted into their positions. Of course, the visitors went to bat first, and then could be heard the umpire’s raucous cry of “Play ball!” that ushered in the game.

A wave of handclapping and a storm of encouraging shouts and yells swept over the grandstand, and then ensued a breathless silence. The first two balls Winters pitched were wild, but then he steadied down, and struck the first batter out. The second man up swung wildly, but after having two strikes called, popped an easy fly toward first base that Dick smothered “easier than rolling off a log,” as he afterwards said. The third man met with no better fate, and Winters struck him out with apparent ease.

As the fielders trotted in, the elderly gentleman who had entertained such doubts before chuckled, “Well, now if our boys can only get in a little stick work, and keep on holding them down like this, it looks as though they might win, after all.”

Tom was the first man up at the bat for the Blues. But the pitcher opposed to him had lots of “stuff” on his delivery, and the best Tom could do was to lift an easy foul that dropped into the catcher’s glove.

The next man up was struck out, as was also the third, and the inning ended without a run for either team.

From his seat on the substitutes’ bench, Bert had watched the game up to this point with eager eyes, and had felt that he would almost have given ten years of his life to take part in it. He knew there was practically no chance of this, however, and so with a sigh of regret settled back to watch the further progress of the game.

The next two innings also passed without a run scored on either side, and it became more and more evident as the game went on that this was to be a pitchers’ battle.

The first man up at bat for the visitors at the beginning of the fourth inning was considered their heaviest hitter, and as he walked up to the plate he was swinging two bats, one of which he threw aside as he stepped to the plate. From the way he crouched in readiness for the ball it could be seen that he meant business, and the coach called Winters over to him.

“You want to be mighty careful what you feed this man,” he whispered, “and whatever you do, keep them low. He likes high balls, and if you give him one up as high as his shoulder, he’ll swat it, sure.”

“Oh, you can bet he won’t get a hit off me,” replied Winters, carelessly. “I’ve got that team eating out of my hand.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, my lad,” warned the coach, but Winters only smiled in a superior fashion and strolled back to the box.

The first ball he pitched was an incurve, but it looked good to the batter, and he swung at it viciously. He missed it clean, and the umpire shouted, “One strike!”

This made Winters a little careless, and the next ball he pitched was just the one that the coach had warned him against. The batter took a step forward, swung fiercely at the ball, and there was a sharp crack as the ball and bat connected. The ball shot back with the speed of a bullet, and the outfielders started in hopeless chase. Baird, the batter, tore around the bases, and amid a veritable riot of cheering from the visiting rooters and a glum silence from the home supporters, charged across the sack for a home run!

Too late now Winters thought of Reddy’s warning, and wished he had given it more heed. He knew that in so close a contest as this promised to be, one run would probably be enough to win the game, and this knowledge made him nervous. The breaks from training that he had been guilty of lately began to tell, also, and he commenced to lose confidence, a fatal thing in a pitcher. However, he managed to get through the inning somehow, and walked to the bench with a crestfallen air.

The coach forbore to reproach him just then, as he knew that it would probably do more harm than good. However, he kept a sharp eye on him, and inwardly was very much worried. He knew that Benson was not speedy enough to stand much chance against as strong a team as they were now playing, and though a great admirer of Bert, he did not know whether he had the stamina to go a full game. He resolved to give Winters every chance to recover himself, and prayed that he would be able to do so.

The first man of the home team to go to bat struck out on the hot curves served up to him, but Dick connected with the ball for a clean two-base hit. A great cheer went up at this feat, but it was destined to have little effect. The second man fouled out and the third raised an easy fly to the pitcher’s box, and so Dick’s pretty drive did them no good.

In the fifth inning Winters’ pitching became more and more erratic, and to Reddy’s experienced eye it became evident that he would soon “blow up.” So he strolled over to the substitutes’ bench and sat down beside Bert.

“How does your arm feel to-day, Wilson?” he inquired. “Do you feel as though you could pitch if I happened to need you?”

Bert’s heart gave a great leap, but he managed to subdue his joy as he realized the trainer’s meaning, and answered, “Why, yes, I think I could make out all right. Do you think you will need me?”

“Well, there’s just a chance that I may,” replied Reddy, “and I want you to be ready to jump out and warm up the minute I give you the signal.”

“I’ll be ready, sir, I can promise you that,” replied Bert, earnestly, and the trainer appeared a little more hopeful as he turned away.

“I can at least count on that young chap doing the best that is in him, at any rate,” he thought; “he certainly doesn’t look like a quitter to me.”

In their half of the fifth inning the home team was unable to make any headway against the opposing pitcher’s curves, which seemed to get better and better as the game progressed. Dick felt, in some mysterious way, that his team was losing heart, and his one hope was that the coach would give Bert a chance to pitch. The boys, one after another, struck out or lifted easy flies, and not one man reached first base.

The visitors now came to bat again, and the first ball Winters pitched was slammed out into left field for a two-base hit. The next batter up stepped to the plate with a grin on his face, and one of his teammates called, “Go to it, Bill. Eat ’em alive. We’ve got their goat now.”

The man thus adjured leaned back, and as Winters delivered a slow, easy ball he swung viciously and sent a smoking grounder straight for the pitcher’s box. The ball passed Winters before he had time to stoop for it, but White, the shortstop, made a pretty pick-up, and slammed the ball to Dick at first. The ball arrived a second too late to put the runner out, however, and in the meantime the first man had reached third. Now was a crucial moment, and everything depended on the pitcher. All eyes were fastened on him, but from something in his attitude Reddy knew that he was on the verge of a breakdown. Nor was he mistaken in this, for out of the next five balls Winters pitched, only one strike was called. The rest were balls, and the umpire motioned to the batter to take first base. Of course this advanced the man on first to second base, thus leaving all the bases full and none out.

As Winters was winding up preparatory to delivering one of his erstwhile famous drops, Reddy motioned to Bert, and in a second the latter was up and had shed his sweater. He trotted over to where Reddy was standing, and said, “You wanted me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Reddy, in a tense voice; “get Armstrong there” – motioning toward the substitute catcher – “and warm up as quickly as you can. Take it easy, though!” he commanded; “don’t start in too hard! You might throw your arm out on the first few balls. Just limber up gradually.”

“All right, sir,” replied Bert, and called to Armstrong.

In the meantime Winters had pitched two wild balls, and the visiting rooters were yelling like maniacs. The third ball was an easy inshoot, and the batter, making a nice calculation, landed it fair and square. It flew over into left field, between the pitcher’s box and third base, and before it could be returned to the waiting catcher two runners had crossed the plate. This made the score three to none in favor of the visitors, with two men on base and none out. Matters looked hopeless indeed for the home team, and one of the spectators groaned, “It’s all over now but the shouting, fellows. Winters is up higher than a kite, and we’ve got nobody to put in his place. This game will just be a slaughter from now on.”

“How about young Wilson?” asked his friend. “I heard the other day that he had showed up pretty well in practice. It looks now as though Reddy meant to put him in the box. See, he’s warming up over there right now.”

“Ye gods and little fishes!” lamented the other. “Now we are cooked, for fair. It was bad enough with Winters pitching, but now when they put that greenhorn Freshie in, we’ll just be a laughing stock, that’s all. Why doesn’t the band play the funeral march?”

“Aw, wait and see,” said the other. “I don’t suppose we’ve got the ghost of a show, but Dick Trent was telling me of some pretty good stunts this boy Wilson has pulled off before this. He was telling me about a race in which Wilson drove a car across the tape a winner after a dickens of a grilling race. Any fellow that’s got nerve enough to drive a racing auto ought to be able to hold his own at baseball or anything else. You just sit tight and don’t groan so much, and he may show us something yet.”

“Forget it, Bill, forget it,” returned the other. “They’ve got our team running, and they’ll keep it running, take my word for it.”

“That’s right,” agreed another, “we might as well go home now as to wait for the slaughter. This game is over, right now.”

“Hey, look at that!” yelled the first speaker, excitedly. “There goes Wilson into the box. Three cheers for Wilson, fellows. Now! One! two! three!”

The cheers were given by the faithful fans, but they had given up hope. It was indeed, as the rooter had said, however, and Bert was actually being given an opportunity to pitch in a big game, when he had only been with the team a few months! Many a pitcher has been a substitute until his junior year, and never had a chance like this one. And, to tell the truth, Reddy himself would have been the last one to put what he considered an inexperienced pitcher into the box, if he had had any alternative. Now, however, it was a case of having no choice, because he knew that the game was irretrievably lost if Winters continued to pitch, so he put Bert in as a forlorn hope, but without any real expectation that he would win.

As he noticed the confident way in which Bert walked to the box, however, he plucked up courage a little, but immediately afterward shook his head. “Pshaw,” he thought, “they’ve got too big a lead on us. If Wilson can only hold them down so that they don’t make monkeys of us, it will be more than I have a right to hope.”

For all Bert’s nonchalant air, however, it must not be thought that he was not excited or nervous. He had had comparatively little baseball experience in such fast company as this. He had learned, however, to keep a cool and level head in times of stress, and he knew that everything depended on this. So he just gritted his teeth, and when he motioned to the catcher to come up and arrange signals, the latter hardly suspected what a turmoil was going on under Bert’s cool exterior.

“Just take it easy, kid,” he advised. “Don’t try to put too much stuff on the ball at first, and pitch as though we were only practising back of the clubhouse. Don’t let those blamed rooters get you nervous, either. Take your time before each ball, and we’ll pull through all right. Now, just get out there, and show them what you’ve got.”

Bert took his position in the box, and the umpire tossed him a brand new ball. Remembering the catcher’s advice, he wound up very deliberately, and pitched a swift, straight one square over the middle of the plate. The batsman had expected the “greenhorn” to try a fancy curve, and so was not prepared for a ball of this kind. “One str-r-rike!” yelled the umpire, and the catcher muttered approvingly to himself. The batter, however, took a fresh grip on his bat, and resolved to “knock the cover off” the next one. Bert delivered a wide out curve, and the batter swung hard, but only touched the ball, for a foul, and had another strike called on him. “Aw, that kid’s running in luck,” he thought. “But watch me get to him this time.”

The next ball Bert pitched looked like an easy one, and the batter, measuring its flight carefully with his eye, drew his bat back and swung with all the weight of his body. Instead of sending the ball over the fence, however, as he had confidently expected, the momentum of his swing was spent against empty air, and so great was its force that the bat flew out of his hand. “Three strikes,” called the umpire, and amid a riot of cheering from the home rooters the batter gazed stupidly about him.

“By the great horn spoon,” he muttered, under his breath, “somebody must have come along and stolen that ball just as I was going to hit it. I’ll swear that if it was in the air when I swung at it that I would have landed it.”

As he walked to the bench the captain said, “What’s the matter with you, Al? Has the freshie got you buffaloed?”

“Aw, nix on that, cap,” replied the disgruntled batter. “Wait until you get up there. Either that kid’s having a streak of luck or else he’s got that ball hypnotized. That last one he pitched just saw my bat coming and dodged under it. I think he’s got ’em trained.”

“Why, you poor simp,” laughed the captain; “just wait till I get up there. Why, we all saw that last ball you bit on so nicely. It was a cinch, wasn’t it, boys?”

It sure was, they all agreed, but the unfortunate object of these pleasantries shook his head in a puzzled way, and stared at Bert.

As it happened, the next batter was the same who had scored the home run in the first part of the game, and he swaggered confidently to the plate.

Bert had overheard what the coach had told Winters in regard to this batter, so he delivered a low ball, which the batter let pass. “One ball,” called the umpire, and the captain of the visitors’ team remarked, “I thought he couldn’t last. That was just a streak of ‘beginner’s luck,’ that’s all.”

The next ball looked good to the batsman, and he lunged hard at the white sphere. It was a tantalizing upshoot, however, and he raised an easy fly to Dick at first. The man on second had become so absorbed in watching Bert, that when Dick wheeled like lightning and snapped the ball to second, he was almost caught napping, and barely got back in time.

The home rooters, who up to now had been rather listless in their cheering, now started in with a rush, and a veritable storm of cheering and singing shook the grandstand. The coach drew a deep breath, and began to allow himself the luxury of a little hope.