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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> <h3>THE SHAMPOO</h3> Football was in the air. On every side was the talk of it, and around the college, on the streets leading to the gridiron, and in the cars that took the students out there to watch the practice, could be heard little else but snatches of conversation about “punts” and “forward passes,” the chances for this end or that fullback—how the Bulldog sized up against Princeton and Harvard. Of course Joe was interested in this, and he was among the most loyal supporters of the team, going out to the practice, and cheering when the ’varsity made a touchdown against the luckless scrub. “We’re going to have a great team!” declared Ricky, as he walked back from practice with Joe one day. “I’m sure I hope so,” spoke our hero. “Have you had a chance?” “Well, I’m one of the subs, and I’ve reported every day. They kept us tackling the dummy for[74] quite a while, and I think I got the eye of one of the coaches. But there are so many fellows trying, and such competition, that I don’t know—it’s a fierce fight,” and Ricky sighed. “Never mind,” consoled Joe. “You’ll make good, I’m sure. I’ll have my troubles when the baseball season opens. I guess it won’t be easy to get on the nine.” “Well, maybe not, if you insist on being pitcher,” said Ricky. “I hear that Weston, who twirled last season, is in line for it again.” “Weston—does he pitch?” gasped Joe. It was the first time he had heard—or thought to ask—what position the lad held who had sneered at him. “That’s his specialty,” declared Ricky. “They’re depending on him for the Yale-Princeton game. Princeton took the odd game last year, and we want it this.” “I hope we get it,” murmured Joe. “And so Ford Weston pitches; eh? If it comes to a contest between us I’m afraid it will be a bitter one. He hates me already. I guess he thinks I’ve got a swelled head.” “Say, look here, Joe!” exclaimed Ricky, with a curious look on his face, “you don’t seem to know the ropes here. You’re a Freshman, you know.” “Sure I know that. What of it?” [75] “Lots. You know that you haven’t got the ghost of a show to be pitcher on the ’varsity; don’t you?” “Know it? Do you mean that Weston can so work things as to keep me off?” “Not Weston; no. But the rules themselves are against you. It’s utterly impossible that you should pitch this year.” “Why? What rules? I didn’t know I was ineligible.” “Well, you are. Listen, Joe. Under the intercollegiate rules no Freshman can play on the ’varsity baseball nine, let alone being the pitcher.” “He can’t?” and Joe stood aghast. “No. It’s out of the question. I supposed you knew that or I’d have mentioned it before.” Joe was silent a moment. His heart seemed almost to stop beating. He felt as though the floor of the room was sinking from under his feet. “I—I never thought to ask about rules,” said Joe, slowly. “I took it for granted that Yale was like other smaller universities—that any fellow could play on the ’varsity if he could make it.” “Not at Yale, or any of the big universities,” went on Ricky in softened tones, for he saw that Joe was much affected. “You see the rule was adopted to prevent the ringing in of a semi-professional, who might come here for a few months, qualify as a Freshman, and play on the ’varsity.[76] You’ve got to be a Sophomore, at least, before you can hope to make the big team, and then of course, it’s up to you to make a fight for the pitcher’s box.” Once more Joe was silent. His hopes had been suddenly crushed, and, in a measure, it was his own fault, for he had taken too much for granted. He felt a sense of bitterness—bitterness that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to come to Yale against his own wishes. And yet he knew that it would never have done to have gone against his parents. They had their hearts set on a college course for him. “Hang it all!” exclaimed Joe, as he paced up and down, “why didn’t I think to make some inquiries?” “It would have been better,” agreed Ricky. “But there’s no great harm done. You can play on the Freshman team this coming season, and then, when you’re a Soph., you can go on that team, and you’ll be in line for the ’varsity. You can play on the Junior team, if you like, and they have some smashing good games once in a while.” “But it isn’t the ’varsity,” lamented Joe. “No. But look here, old man; you’ve got to take things as they come. I don’t want to preach, but——” “That’s all right—slam it into me!” exclaimed Joe. “I need it—I deserve it. It’ll do me good.[77] I won’t be so cock-sure next time. But I hoped to make the ’varsity this season.” “It’ll be better for you in the end not to have done so,” went on his friend. “You need more practice, than you have had, to take your place on the big team. A season with the Freshmen will give it to you. You’ll learn the ropes better—get imbued with some of the Yale spirit, and you’ll be more of a man. It’s no joke, I tell you, to pitch on the ’varsity.” “No, I imagine not,” agreed Joe, slowly. “Then, I suppose there’s no use of me trying to even get my name down on a sort of waiting list.” “Not until you see how you make out on the Freshman team,” agreed Ricky. “You’ll be watched there, so look out for yourself. The old players, who act as coaches, are always on the lookout for promising material. You’ll be sized up when you aren’t expecting it. And, not only will they watch to see how you play ball, but how you act under all sorts of cross-fire, and in emergencies. It isn’t going to be any cinch.” “No, I can realize that,” replied Joe. “And so Weston has been through the mill, and made good?” “He’s been through the mill, that’s sure enough,” agreed Ricky, “but just how good he’s made will have to be judged later. He wasn’t such a wonder last season.” [78] “There’s something queer about him,” said Joe. “How’s that?” “Why, if he’s only a Soph. this year he must have been a Freshman last. And yet he pitched on the ’varsity I understand.” “Weston’s is a peculiar case,” said Ricky. “I heard some of the fellows discussing it. He’s classed as a Soph., but he ought really to be a Junior. This is his third year here. He’s a smart chap in some things, but he got conditioned in others, and in some studies he is still taking the Soph. lectures, while in others he is with the Juniors. He was partly educated abroad, it seems, and that put him ahead of lots of us in some things. So, while he was rated with the Freshmen in some studies last year, he was enough of a Sophomore to comply with the intercollegiate rules, and pitch on the ’varsity. He did well, so they said.” “I wish fate handed me out something like that,” mused Joe. “If I had known that I’d have boned away on certain things so as to get a Sophomore rating—at least enough to get on the big nine.” “Why, don’t you intend to stay at Yale?” asked Ricky. “A year soon passes. You’ll be a Sophomore before you know it.” [79] “I wish I was in Weston’s shoes,” said Joe softly. Since that meeting on the campus, when the Sophomore had not recognized Joe, the two had not encountered each other, and Joe was glad enough of it. “I’m glad I didn’t meet him in Riverside,” thought Joe. “It won’t make it so hard here—when it comes to a showdown. For I’m going to make the nine! The ’varsity nine; if not this year, then next!” and he shut his teeth in determination. Meanwhile matters were gradually adjusting themselves to the new conditions of affairs at Yale—at least as regards Joe and the other Freshmen. The congenial spirits in the Red Shack, increased by some newcomers, had, in a measure, “found” themselves. Recitations and lectures began their regular routine, and though some of the latter were “cut,” and though often in the interests of football the report of “not prepared” was made, still on the whole Joe and his chums did fairly well. Joe, perhaps because of his lack of active interest in football, as was the case with his room-mate, Spike, did better than the others as regards lessons. Yet it did not come easy to Joe to buckle down to the hard and exacting work of a college[80] course, as compared to the rather easy methods in vogue at Excelsior Hall. Joe was not a natural student, and to get a certain amount of comparatively dry knowledge into his head required hours of faithful work. “I’m willing to make a try of it—for the sake of the folks,” he confided to Spike; “but I know I’m never going to set the river on fire with classics or math. I’m next door to hating them. I want to play baseball.” “Well, I can’t blame you—in a way,” admitted his chum. “Of course baseball isn’t all there is to life, though I do like it myself.” “It’s going to be my business in life,” said Joe simply, and Spike realized then, if never before, the all-absorbing hold the great game had on his friend. To Joe baseball was as much of a business—or a profession if you like—as the pulpit was to a divinity student, or the courts to a member of the law school. The Yale football team began its triumphant career, and the expectations of the friends of the eleven were fully realized. To his delight Ricky played part of a game, and there was no holding him afterward. “I’ve got a chance to buck the Princeton tiger!” he declared. “The head coach said I did well!” “Good!” cried Joe, wondering if he would[81] have such fine luck when the baseball season started. Affairs at the Red Shack went on smoothly, and at the Mush and Milk Club, which the Freshmen had dubbed their eating joint, there were many assemblings of congenial spirits. Occasionally there was a session at Glory’s—a session that lasted far into the night—though Joe and his room-mate did not hold forth at many such. “It’s bad for the head the next day,” declared Spike, and he was strictly abstemious in his habits, as was Joe. But not all the crowd at the Red Shack were in this class, and often there were disturbances at early hours of the morning—college songs howled under the windows with more or less “harmony,” and appeals to Joe and the others to “stick out their heads.” “I think we’ll get ours soon,” spoke Spike one night, as he and Joe sat at the centre table of the room, studying. “Our what?” “Drill. I heard that a lot of the Freshmen were caught down the street this evening and made to walk Spanish. They’re beginning the shampoo, too.” “The shampoo—what’s that?” “An ancient and honorable Yale institution, in which the candidate is head-massaged with a bucket of paste or something else.” [82] “Paste or what?” “You’re allowed your choice, I believe. Paste for mine, it’s easier to get out of your hair if you take it in time.” “That’s right. I’m with you—but—er—how about a fight?” “It’s up to you. Lots of the Freshmen stand ’em off. It’s allowed if you like.” “Then I say—fight!” exclaimed Joe. “I’m not going to be shampooed in that silly fashion if I can help it.” “Then we’ll stand ’em off?” questioned Spike. “Sure—as long as we can,” declared Joe. “Though if they bring too big a bunch against us we’ll probably get the worst of it.” “Very likely, but we can have the satisfaction of punching some of the Sophs. I’m with you.” “Where’ll they do it?” “No telling. They may catch us on the street, or they may come here. For choice——” Spike paused and held up his hand for silence. There was a noise in the hall, in the direction of the front door. Then came the voice of Ricky Hanover saying: “No, you don’t! I’ve got the bulge on you! No monkey business here!” “Get away from that door, Fresh.!” shouted someone, half-angrily; “or we’ll bust it in!” [83] “Give him the shampoo—both of ’em!” yelled another. “You don’t get in here!” cried Ricky. “I say——” His voice was drowned out in a crash, and a moment later there was the sound of a struggle. “Here they come,” said Spike in a low voice. “Let’s take off our coats,” proposed Joe, in the same tone. “If we’re going to fight I want to be ready.” <hr class="chap" />[84] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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