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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> <h3>EARLY PRACTICE</h3> “What are you going to try for?” “Have you played much before you came here?” “Oh, rats! I don’t believe I’ll have any show with all this bunch!” “Hey, quit shoving; will you?” “Oh, Rinky-Dink! Over here!” “Hi, Weston, we’re looking for you.” “There goes Shorty Kendall. He’ll sure catch this year.” “Hello, Mac! Think you’ll beat Weston to it this year?” “I might,” was the cool reply. The above were only a few of the many challenges, shouts, calls and greetings that were bandied from side to side as the students, who had been waiting long for this opportunity, crowded into the gymnasium. It was the preliminary sifting and weeding out of the mass of material offered on the altar of[108] baseball. At best but a small proportion of the candidates could hope to make the ’varsity, or even a class team, but this did not lessen the throng that crowded about the captain, manager and coaches, eagerly waiting for favorable comment. “Well, we’re here!” exulted Jimmie Lee, who had, the night before, brought to Joe the good news that the ball season had at least started to open. “Yes, we’re here,” agreed Joe. “And what will happen to us?” asked Spike Poole. “It doesn’t look to me as if much would.” “Oh, don’t fool yourself,” declared Jimmie, who, being very lively, had learned many of the ropes, and who, by reason of ferreting about, had secured much information. “The coaches aren’t going to let anything good get by ’em. Did you see Benson looking at me! Ahem! And I think I have Whitfield’s eye! Nothing like having nerve, is there? Joe, hold up your hand and wriggle it—they’re trying to see where you’re located,” and, with a laugh at his conceit, Jimmie shoved into the crowd trying to get nearer the centre of interest—to wit, where the old players who served as coaches were conferring with the captain. The latter was Tom Hatfield, a Junior whose remarkable playing at short had won him much[109] fame. Mr. William Benson and Mr. James Whitfield were two of the coaches. George Farley was the manager, and a short stocky man, with a genial Irish face, who answered to the name of Dick McLeary, was the well-liked trainer. “Well, if I can make the outfield I suppose I ought to be satisfied,” spoke Jimmie Lee. “But I did want to get on a bag, or somewhere inside the diamond.” “I’ll take to the daisies and be thankful,” remarked Spike; “though I would like to be behind the bat.” “Carrying bats would do me for a starter,” spoke a tall lad near Joe. “But I suppose I’ll be lucky if they let me play on the Freshman team. Anyhow as long as I don’t get left out of it altogether I don’t mind. What are you going to try for?” he asked of our hero. “I would like to pitch. I twirled at Excelsior Hall, and I think I can play on the mound better than anywhere else, though that’s not saying I’m such a muchness as a pitcher,” added Joe, modestly. “I did hope to get on the ’varsity, but——” “Pitch!” exclaimed the other frankly. “Say, you’ve got as much chance to pitch on the ’varsity as I have of taking the Dean’s place to-morrow. Pitch on the ’varsity! Say, I’m not saying anything against you, Matson, for maybe you can[110] pitch, but Weston has the place cinched, and if he falls down there’s Harry McAnish, a southpaw. He stands about second choice.” “Oh, I’ve been disillusioned,” said Joe frankly. “I know I can’t get on the ’varsity this year. But don’t they have more than one pitcher in reserve?” “Oh, yes, sure. But Bert Avondale comes next, and I have heard that he’s even better than Weston, but Weston is steadier—in most games. I don’t want to discourage you, but you’d better try for some other place than pitcher.” “No, I’m going to try for there,” said Joe in a low voice. “I may not make it, but if I get a chance to show what I can do, and then fall down, I won’t kick. I mean next year, of course,” he added. “Oh, you may get a chance all right. Every fellow does at Yale. But you’re up against some of the best college baseball material that ever came over the pike. Sometimes I think I’ve got nerve even to dream of a class team. But listen—they’re going to start the fun now.” The manager was speaking, announcing more or less formally, that which everyone knew already—that they had reported to allow a sort of preliminary looking over of the candidates. There were several of the former ball team who would play, it was said, but there was always need[111] and a chance, for new material. All save Freshmen would be given an opportunity, the manager said, and then he emphasized the need of hard work and training for those who were given the responsibility of carrying the blue of Yale to victory on the diamond. “And, no less does this responsibility rest on the scrub, or second team,” went on Farley. “For on the efficiency of the scrub depends the efficiency of the ’varsity, since good opposition is needed in bringing out the best points of the first team.” Farley, who was one of the old players, acting as a coach, went on to add: “I have used the word ‘scrub’ and ‘second team,’ though, as you well know, there is nothing like that here at Yale, that is as compared to football. When I say ‘scrub’ I mean one of the class teams, the Freshman, Sophomore or Junior, for, in a measure, while separate and distinct teams themselves, they will serve us the same purpose as a scrub or substitute team would in football. They will give us something to practice with—some opposition—for you’ve got to have two nines to make a ball game,” and he smiled at the anxious ones looking at him. “So,” he went on, “when I use the word ‘scrub’ after this, or when any of the other coaches do, I want you to understand that it will mean one of the class teams which, for the purpose[112] of strengthening the ’varsity, and enabling it to practice, acts as opposition. “Sometimes the ’varsity will play one team, and sometimes another, for the class teams will have their own contests to look after, to win, we hope; to lose, we hope not. I wish I could give you Freshmen encouragement that you could make the ’varsity, but, under the rules, none of you can. Now we’ll get down to business.” He gave encouragement to many, and consoled those who might fail, or, at best, make only a class team. Then he introduced the captain—Tom Hatfield—who was received with a rousing cheer. “Well, fellows,” said Hatfield, “I haven’t much to say. This is my first experience at the head of a big college nine, though you know I’ve played with you in many games.” “That’s right—and played well, too!” yelled someone. “Three cheers for Hatfield!” They were given with a will, and the captain resumed. “Of course we’re going to win this year, even if we didn’t last.” This was received in silence, for the losing of the championship to Princeton the previous season had been a sore blow to Yale. “We’re going to win,” went on Hatfield in a quiet voice; “but, just because we are, don’t let that fool you into getting careless. We’ve all got to[113] work hard—to train hard—and we’ve got to practice. I expect every man to report regularly whether he thinks he has a chance to make the ’varsity or not. It’s part of the game, and we’ve all got to play it—scrub and ’varsity alike. “I guess that’s all I’ve got to say, though I may have more later, after we get started. The coaches will take charge now and you’ll have to do as they say. We won’t do much to-day, just some catching and a bit of running to see how each fellow’s wind is.” He nodded to the coaches and trainer, and as he stepped back once more came the cry: “Three cheers for Hatfield. Good old Yale cheers!” The gymnasium rang with them, and then came the Boola song, after which the crowd formed in close line and did the serpentine dance. “Now then, get busy!” commanded Mr. Benson. “Old players over that side, and the new ones here. Give in your names, and say where you’ve played. Lively now!” He and Mr. Whitfield began circulating among the candidates, and, as they approached him, Joe felt his heart beginning to beat faster. Would he have a chance? And, if he got it, could he make good? These were the questions he asked him. “Name?” [114] “Matson—Joe.” “Hum. Yes. Ever played before?” “Yes, on a school nine.” “Where?” “Excelsior Hall.” “Hum! Yes. Never heard of it. Where did you play?” “I pitched.” “Pitched. Hum! Yes. I never saw so many pitchers as we have this season. Well, I’ll put you down for your Freshman class team, though I can’t give you much encouragement,” and Mr. Benson turned to the next lad. “Go over there and do some throwing, I’ll watch you later,” he concluded, and Joe’s heart began to sink as he saw Spike motioning to him to come to one side and indulge in some practice balls. “How’d you make out?” asked his room-mate. “Oh, I’m engaged right off the bat,” laughed Joe, but he could not conceal the anxiety in the voice that he strove to make indifferent. “So? Then you had better luck than I. Whitfield told me he didn’t think I had the right build for a catcher.” “Well, maybe we can both make our scrub class team,” spoke Joe. “Say, it hasn’t half begun yet,” declared Jimmie Lee, who had a hankering to play first base. “Wait until the main coach gets here, and we’ll[115] have a shake-up that’ll set some people on their ears.” “What do you mean?” asked Joe wonderingly. “I mean that the main gazaboo isn’t here yet: Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook—old Horsehide they call him. He’s the main coach. These are only his assistants.” “Is that so?” inquired Spike. “It sure is. He’s the real thing in baseball—Horsehide is. An old Yale man, but up-to-date. Played ever since he was a baby, and knows the game from A to Z. He never gets here until the preliminary practice has begun on the field, and then it doesn’t take him long to size a fellow up. Of course I only know what I’ve been told,” he added, “but that goes all right.” “Well, if we didn’t get picked for the team now, I don’t believe we’ll have any chance after the main coach gets here,” said Joe. “Guess not,” assented Spike. “Here we go.” And they started to practice. <hr class="chap" />[116] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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