Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball

Five innings without a tally doesn’t sound exciting, and yet, if we except the second, every one of those five innings had kept the audience on the edges of the seats. In every inning save the second Robinson had placed men on bases, and at the end of each the supporters of the Purple had heaved sighs of heartfelt relief, finding sufficient satisfaction in the fact that the Brown had not scored. Only once had Erskine dared hope for a tally. That was in the third. The tally didn’t come. It had been a pitcher’s battle, and the palm had gone to Vose, the tall, thin fellow whose spindle-shanks were encased in brown stockings. Not a single hit had been made off him, while Gilberth had been struck freely, yet had frequently managed to puzzle the batsman when a single would have brought in a run, or possibly two. When summed up it came to this: Erskine had been outplayed, and that Robinson did not now lead by several tallies was due to her inability to make her hits at the right time. The players of each college, in batting order, were as follows:

Erskine

Perkins, catcher, captain.

Motter, first base.

Gilberth, pitcher.

Bissell, center-field.

Knox, shortstop.

King, left-field.

Northup, right-field.

Stiles, second base.

Billings, third base.

Robinson

Cox, first base.

Condit, catcher.

Hopkins, third base.

Morgan, shortstop.

Devlin, left-field.

Wood, center-field, captain.

Richman, second base.

Regan, right-field.

Vose, pitcher.

At the beginning of the sixth inning it was anybody’s game. Billings, the tag-ender, went to bat. On the Erskine stand the cheering died away and the purple flags ceased waving and fluttering in the still afternoon air. Across the diamond the band laid aside its instruments, and the shadow of the western stand crept along the turf until its edge touched the line of white that marked the coacher’s box. On the players’ benches the men leaned forward anxiously and watched Billings thrust his cap back and grip his bat determinedly.

But it was soon evident to the watchers that Erskine was not to score. Billings hit a short grounder to first-baseman who scooped it up and tagged the bag before the batsman was half-way toward it. Joe Perkins had two strikes called on him ere he found the ball, and sent a high foul into the hands of left-fielder. He tossed aside the bat with a look of disgust and paused on his way back to the bench to whisper into the ear of Motter, the next victim to the deceptive curves of the merciless Vose. Joe crowded into a space between Billings and Tracy Gilberth.

“I can’t find him,” he sighed.

“No, hang him,” growled Tracy, “he’s too much for any of us. But I’ll bet he’ll let down before the game’s over; and then – well, then we want to be ready, Joe!”

“Do you think he will? It doesn’t look like it.”

Tracy nodded knowingly.

“His arm’s getting stiff. I know the signs. So’s mine, for that matter, and I’ve pitched perfectly rotten ball, Joe!”

“Nonsense, you’ve done good work. But let me know as soon as you want to quit, Tracy. How about the next inning?”

“That’s for you to say,” answered Tracy. “But I guess I can hold out through the seventh, if you don’t mind.”

“All right; I’ll put King in for the eighth. Oh, hang! Come on, fellows! Out on the run!”

Motter had struck out, and was trotting to his position at first, drawing on his glove and looking wofully sad. The Robinson band struck up again, and the Erskine contingent, not to be outdone, started the cheers once more, while the purple-sleeved players spread out over the diamond.

Joe thumped his big mitten and Tracy picked up the ball. The umpire, a rotund little man in a navy-blue blouse shirt, ran nimbly to his position.

“First man!” cried Joe confidently.

The batsman was the Robinson captain and center-fielder, Wood. Tracy was not greatly afraid of Wood, and so saved his arm by pitching a few slow balls, none of which the Robinson captain was able to touch. When he struck out the Erskine cheers rang across the field. Richman came next. He was the first of the Brown’s tail-enders on the batting list, and he followed the way of his captain, while the purple flags fluttered joyously.

Perhaps Tracy was overconfident, for when Regan, the enemy’s right-fielder, stepped to the plate, he shook his head at Joe’s signal for an outshoot, and sent a straight, slow ball over the corner of the base. And Regan got it on his bat and sent it arching in easy flight toward second, and raced for the bag.

“Mine!” called Stiles.

“Take it!” shouted little Knox, backing him up.

But Stiles didn’t take it. Instead he let it slip through his fingers, and so when Knox had recovered and fielded it to Motter the runner was safe.

“Twenty minutes!” yelled the Robinson coach derisively. Then he began a desperate effort to rattle Gilberth. “On your toes!” he shrieked. “Go on, go on! He daren’t throw it! Way off now! I’ll look out for you! Way off! Now! Now! NOW!”

Tracy was disgusted because he had allowed Regan to hit him, and the shrieks of the coacher annoyed him. Earlier in the game he would not have minded twenty coachers, but now his arm was aching and growing stiff and tired and his temper and nerves were not so well in command. The next batsman was Vose, the Robinson pitcher. Vose was the poorest performer with the stick of any of his team, and in the natural order of things should have been struck out without difficulty. But this time he found the second ball that came to him and hit it safely into right-field, and Regan took second. Then came Cox, the head of the batting list, and swung his ash wickedly while he waited.

There were coaches behind both first and third now, and their shrieks hurtled back and forth across the diamond. Tracy looked bothered, and Joe strove to hide his anxiety under a show of confidence.

“Next man, fellows!” he called cheerily. Motter took his cue from him and added his voice. “He’s a goner, Tracy! Strike him out, old man!”

And for a while it seemed that Tracy would do it. But when the little fat umpire had called two strikes and two balls on him Cox managed to find something that suited him, and cracked it out past shortstop. Regan reached third, and, with two out, the bases were full. Joe and Tracy had a whispered consultation, while the Robinson stands hooted derisively, and then took their places again. Condit, the Brown’s catcher, and one of the best batters, tapped the plate and looked as though he meant to bring in a run. The coachers kept up their medley of taunts and warnings, but Tracy had found his head again and paid not the slightest attention.

The first ball went wide, and Joe’s brilliant stop brought forth a burst of applause. Tracy hurried up, apologetic, keeping an eye on the bases. “Sorry, Joe,” he said.

“All right, old man,” answered the captain cheerfully. “Now let’s put him out.”

Two strikes followed.

“Good eye, Tracy!” “Fine work, old man!” “That’s the pitching!” encouraged the infielders. Then the batsman elicited laughter and applause from his supporters by crossing the plate and suddenly becoming a left-handed batter. Tracy looked surprised, and his next two efforts were pronounced balls. Joe leaned far to the left and squeezed his hands between his knees. Tracy nodded. But the batsman was an old hand, and was not deceived by the inshoot that followed. “Three balls!” cried the umpire. Everything depended on the next pitch. Tracy straightened his arms, swung his foot, and hurled a straight ball waist high for the plate. Condit met it with his bat, but failed to hit it squarely, and it went high into the air, and the men on bases raced toward home.

When the sphere came down it was undeniably second-baseman’s ball, and Stiles stood ready for it. Regan reached home, and the next man, Vose, swung around third. Suddenly a shout of joy burst from the Robinson stands and the coachers were screaming like mad. Stiles had muffed!

Vose, with a coacher racing along beside him, sped for home. But Knox had seized the ball almost before it had touched the ground, and now he threw it straight and sure toward the plate. Vose hurled himself forward when fully ten feet distant, and slid for his goal, but the ball was there before him, and Joe’s right hand swept down and tagged him. The side was out. The Erskine players hurried in to the bench, and Gilberth picked out his bat.

It was the beginning of the seventh inning, but the score was no longer a blank; Robinson led 1 to 0. The band played wildly. Jack Weatherby, on the bench, felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find Hanson speaking.

“You cover second, Weatherby,” said the coach.

CHAPTER XXIII

A TRIPLE PLAY

The seventh inning began with Tracy Gilberth at bat. He watched Vose with interest while that lanky youth settled himself to his task, hopeful that at last Robinson’s star player was weary enough to allow the opponents to hit him. But Tracy was doomed to disappointment. Vose’s arm was tired, beyond a doubt, but he only took more time at his work, his curves remaining as puzzling as ever. Tracy struck out ingloriously, just as he had done pretty much all through the game. Vose was still on his mettle.

Bissell’s fate was the same, while as for Knox, although he managed, by good judgment, to get three balls to his credit, yet in the end he too tossed aside his bat in deep disgust; and the nines again changed sides.

Robinson’s first man up was the redoubtable Hopkins; he had gained the sobriquet of “Hard-hitting Hopkins” last season. So far to-day, while he had managed to find Tracy rather frequently, his hits had netted little. But Tracy judged discretion the better part of valor, and deliberately gave Hopkins his base, while the purple-decked stands hooted loudly. Having given the other his base, Tracy next tried to take it away from him, but Hopkins was quick on his feet and time and again Motter got the ball too late to tag him out. Tracy gave it up finally, and turned his attention to the next batsman, Morgan.

Morgan popped a foul to the foot of the stand, and Joe, hurling aside his mask, got it after a brilliant sprint of twenty yards. Devlin struck out and Hopkins stole second. The Brown’s captain came to the plate with determination to do great deeds written large on his face. After getting two strikes on him, Tracy couldn’t put the ball over the base, and Wood walked to first.

Then, with two on bases, Robinson saw visions of another tally. But Tracy settled down again and struck out the third man, Richman, and again the Erskine contingent sighed with relief and cheered gleefully.

Jack, who during the inning had had nothing to do, trotted in and examined the score-book over Patterson’s shoulder. He found that he would be the third man at bat, and wondered a bit nervously whether he would have any better success with the mighty Vose’s curves than had his predecessor, who was now sitting weary and dispirited on the bench. King, who during the first half of the previous inning had been limbering up his arm, was put in for Tracy, and Lowe took his place in left-field. Tracy sprawled himself down on the grass beside Jack with a sigh.

“I wish to thunder I’d been able to hit that dub Vose just one!” he growled.

“What’s he like?” Jack asked.

“Like a Chinese puzzle,” Tracy replied grimly. “When you try him, Weatherby, look out for his drops; they’re the worst; they come straight to about four feet from the plate, then they go down so fast that you can’t see ’em. His inshoots are simple compared with those drops. Watch for fast balls, and when you see one coming, slug it! Make him think you can’t bat, Weatherby; it’s your first time up, and maybe you can fool him.”

“I’ll try,” Jack answered dubiously. “Good work, King!”

King was speeding to first, having made a clean hit to the outfield just over shortstop’s head. The Erskine stand burst into wild and confused cheering. Northup selected his bat and went to the plate, and Joe Perkins, after whispering directions into his ear, ran to the white line back of first base and began coaching King at the top of his lungs. Vose settled the ball in his hands, tapped the earth with his brass-toed shoe, and glanced sharply toward the runner.

“Play off, Greg!” shouted Joe. “He won’t throw! He’s too tired! Now, now, now! This time! Look out!”

King scuttled around back of the bag and reached it before the baseman swung at him with the ball.

“Hold it, he’s got the ball!” cautioned Joe. “All right, now; on your toes. Down with his arm! He won’t throw again!”

Vose looked as though he intended to, then turned quickly and pitched. The ball went wide, and had it not struck Northup on the hip would have given King two bases, since the Robinson catcher would never have stopped it. As it was, King, who was almost to second, trotted back and tagged base. The umpire waved his hand to Northup, and the latter went limping to first. King jogged to second, and the Erskine cheers drowned every sound for several minutes. Two on bases and none out! It looked like a tally.

Joe yielded his place to Motter, sent Bissell to coach King from third, and caught Jack on his way to the plate. He had to put his mouth to Jack’s ear in order to make himself heard above the shouting.

“We’ve got to advance King, Jack,” he said. “Wait for a good one, and make a slow bunt toward third; you know the way, old man. Swipe at the first ball as though you were going to knock it over the fence! Then wait for what you want. Keep steady, Jack!” He clapped him on the shoulder encouragingly and sped back to first.

Jack’s hope of rapping out a two-bagger was gone. Joe’s directions were not to be disregarded, and it was a case of substituting team-play for ambition. He settled his cap, wiped his perspiring hands on his trousers, and gripped his bat. When he faced Vose he found that person eying him intently, appraising his ability as a batsman. Jack smiled easily – despite that he felt terribly nervous, and that the muscles at the back of his legs were twitching – and waved his bat forward and back a couple of times as though to say: “Right there, please, and I’ll show you how it’s done!”

Vose looked about the bases very deliberately, and then offered Jack an outshoot. Jack was glad that he had been told to hit at the first delivery, for the mere act of swinging his stick fiercely through the air eased his nerves. He struck at least a foot too late, and the Robinsonians laughed and jeered. Vose thought he knew his man then, and tried the same ball again, and the umpire shook his head and waved his left hand. Jack waited; two balls; strike two; then he saw what he wanted, turned a trifle to the left, brought his bat around quickly and easily, and, as he ran to first, knew that he had succeeded.

The sphere, a new and very white one it was, went rolling toward third base just inside the line. King was making for that base, too, and the baseman indulged in just that instant of hesitation that is fatal. The ball was his to field, yet he feared that if he left his bag none would cover it. When he finally got the ball, reaching it a second before Vose, King was safe on third, Northup was sliding for second, and Jack had crossed first. He tossed the sphere to the pitcher, and the latter went back to the box scowling wrathfully. The Erskine stand was a bank of purple. The senior class president, bareheaded, wilted of collar and crimson of face, was standing on a seat leading the singing:

“Robinson is wavering, her pride’s about to fall;Robinson is wavering, she can not hit the ball;Erskine is the winner, for her team’s the best of all;Oh, poor old Robinson!”

Billings went to bat. Motter was whispering instructions to Jack on first. Vose, calm of face, looked about the bases, while his support called encouragingly to him. Then, before his arm was well back, Jack had started like an express-train toward second. At the same instant King made as though to dash home, and Northup played off half-way to third. The delivery was a poor one, but Condit stopped it, threw off his mask, and, bewildered, threw to second.

It was a costly mistake, for King was sliding across the plate before second-baseman had received the ball, and the Erskine fellows were hugging each other uproariously. Jack had flown back toward first, but half-way there he paused. Northup was caught on his way to third, and now was dancing back and forth with the ball crossing and recrossing above his head, and shortstop and third-baseman closing in on him every second. Then he stumbled and shortstop was on him like a flash, and he crawled to his feet to dust the loam from his shirt and trot off the field. Meanwhile Jack had made a good slide for second, and had beaten the ball.

The score was tied, there was but one out, and a man on second! Is it any wonder that Erskine’s supporters went mad with delight and danced and shouted and threw flags and caps into the air?

When things had settled down once more Billings stepped back into the box. From behind him came imperative demands for a home run. Billings tried his best to accommodate his friends the next instant, for there was a loud crack, and the ball went arching high and far toward right-field. But when it descended the Robinson fielder was under it, and Billings stopped his journey around the bases and came back. The left-fielder sped the ball home quickly, but not soon enough to keep Jack from reaching third.

The Robinson band had started bravely to work once more, but across the diamond the Erskine leaders had brought order out of chaos, and four hundred purple-flaunting enthusiasts were again cheering slowly and in unison:

“Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!”

And the cheers took on new force when it was seen that the Purple’s captain was the next batsman. Joe had given a message to King, and now King was imparting it to Jack down at third base, and Jack was nodding back to Joe. Robinson’s catcher, Condit, was badly rattled, and Joe knew it and was planning accordingly. The stands settled down into comparative quietude, and Vose, still calm and confident-looking, pitching the game of his life, faced his new opponent. The outfield came in a bit.

Vose’s first delivery was easily a ball, and his second was undeniably a strike. Then followed an outshoot and a drop, neither of which did Joe take to. Back went the ball to Vose, and, with King shouting weirdly at third, he shot his arms overhead and sped it again toward the plate. Then an odd thing happened.

The ball was a drop. Joe struck at it hard, dropped his bat, and flew toward base. The catcher, who had stopped the ball on the ground, stood up, glared bewilderedly, and then, concluding that it had been the third strike, threw to first-baseman, Vose shouting warnings which he did not hear. Jack, the moment Joe had struck, had started warily toward home, and although first-baseman caught the ball and hurled it back to the plate in the next instant, he was lying above the base in a cloud of dust ere the catcher tagged him. Again pandemonium broke lose on the Erskine stand. The Purple was one run ahead.

Joe trotted back to the plate and picked up his bat, and Jack went to the bench, dusty, panting, and happy, to be hugged and slapped by the delighted occupants. There followed a pause in the game’s progress during which Robinson’s captain sought to find a rule that would put Jack back on third. But Joe’s strategy was within the law, and presently the Robinson catcher picked up his mask miserably and the captain, disgruntled, went slowly back to his position in center-field.

The incident appeared to have discouraged both the battery and the support. Vose took up his work listlessly, and in a moment Joe was walking to first on four balls. A minute later he had stolen second. Motter bunted toward first, and beat the ball to base. Joe took third. Vose was now plainly rattled, and a wild pitch became a passed ball, and Motter went to second, Joe, however, fearing to attempt to score. Then Lowe took up the stick.

Lowe bided his time, and had two strikes called on him before he swung his bat. When he did he found the ball fairly, and drove a terrific grounder into outfield between first and second bases. Joe jogged home from third, and Motter, his legs making a purple streak, sped like the wind to third. Lowe sat down on first and tied his shoe. Bissell went to bat, and was deceived by a drop that absolutely hit the plate. And right there the half ended, for Lowe tried to steal second, and was put out four feet from the bag.

There was joy in the Erskine camp. The score stood now 3 to 1. If her players could hold Robinson from further scoring the day was won. And, with King in the pitcher’s box, it seemed that it might be done. Regan went to bat for Robinson, and stood there idly swinging his stick while the umpire sang: “Strike one!.. Strike two!.. Striker’s out!” And then, to fill Erskine’s cup overflowing with delight, King struck out Vose and Cox in just the same way; and the cheering broke forth anew, loudly, triumphantly. And the ninth and last inning began with little Knox at the bat.

It would be pleasant to relate how Knox knocked a home run and how Erskine continued the performance inaugurated in the preceding inning. Unfortunately, that is impossible. Knox was struck out, King was thrown out at first, Northup made a base hit, but was left there a minute later when Jack flied out miserably to Vose. The stands were emptying themselves of their throngs and supporters of the rival colleges crowded along the base-lines cheering doggedly or ecstatically, as the case might be. King picked up the ball, Joe donned his mask, Motter thumped his mit, and Jack, at second, danced about from one foot to the other out of sheer joy. Near at hand Knox was grinning like a schoolboy, and calling shrilly to King to “Eat ’em up, Greg!”

“First man, fellows!” cried Joe cheerfully.

Condit stepped to the plate. He was pale, and looked an easy victim. But luck turned its back upon the Purple, for at his second delivery King struck the Robinson catcher on the elbow, and the latter took his base. Robinson’s friends took courage, and their cheers thundered over the field. Then came Hopkins, the “hard-hitter,” and swung his bat knowingly. King realized that here was foeman worthy of steel, and was accordingly careful.

But Hopkins was desperate. He found the second ball, and it went flying toward center-field. Bissell failed to reach it in time to get his hands on it before it struck the ground, and Hopkins gained second, Condit going to third. Morgan followed with a slow grounder toward King. King fielded it to first too late, after making sure that Condit was not trying to score, and the bases were full. A home run would win for Robinson! A two-base hit would tie the score!

The brown banners flaunted and gyrated in the air, throwing strange dancing silhouettes upon the turf. The shadow of the western stand had lengthened across the infield. Back of the stand the sky was aglow with orange, while toward the village a golden haze filled the air.

The throng at large was silent, intense, expectant. Yet here and there sections of the throng still shouted, and back of the dense wall of spectators on the Robinson side of the field the band was playing. A cheer, undismayed yet faint, ran along the ranks of the Erskine supporters. It is hard to shout when your heart is throbbing away up in your throat. Devlin went to bat, his determined chin thrust forth and his sharp eyes sparkling from between half-closed lids as he watched the pitcher. Joe Perkins half knelt behind him and held a big mitten invitingly open on his left knee.

“Steady, fellows!” he called cheerfully. “Play for the plate!”

His voice rang true, with never a quiver in it. Yet now and then his heart raced and thumped for an instant in a way that turned him half faint. Despite the tiny beads of perspiration that trickled down his face, he was livid, and the fingers in the hot leathern mit trembled and twitched. If he could keep those brown-legged players from crossing the plate the game was won for Erskine and his labors and hopes were crowned with success. If! He groaned as he thought of all that might happen ere the third man was put out. For the first time during the contest he was nervous; for the first time almost in memory he was frightened through and through. Then his gaze swept over the field and he saw Motter at first carelessly flipping a pebble across the grass, Weatherby alert and impatient at second, Northup shading his eyes with his hand as he stood motionless in right-field, Knox calling blithely to King as he slapped his hands together, and beyond, Bissell and Lowe, their figures throwing long, slanting shadows across the turf. Then King’s left hand wandered carelessly across his forehead, his arms shot up, and Joe, reaching out, drew in the first delivery.