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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2> <h3>ANOTHER STEP</h3> “’Varsity beaten! What do you know about that?” gasped Ricky Hanover, as the crowd that had watched the game swarmed out on the diamond. “And Joe Matson did it!” added Spike. “Jove! but I’m glad for his sake! And him only a Freshman, playing on a scrub class team. I’m glad!” “So am I,” added Jimmie Lee, who joined them. “Will this get him a permanent place?” asked Ricky. “He’s entitled to it.” “Well, he’s got his foot on the first rung of the ladder anyhow,” was Jimmie’s opinion. “But it’ll be a good while before he pitches for the ’varsity. He’s got to show the coaches that it was no freak work. Besides he’s got a year to wait.” “And he can do it!” declared Spike. “I haven’t been catching him these last two weeks for nothing. Joe isn’t a freak pitcher. He’s got[145] control, and that’s better than speed or curves, though he has them, too.” On all sides there was talk about the result of the practice game. Of course the second nine had, in times past, often beaten the ’varsity, for the element of luck played into the hands of the scrub as well as into those of its opponents. But the times were few and far between when the first nine had to go down to defeat, especially in the matter of a scrub Freshman pitcher administering it to them, and Joe’s glory was all the greater. “Congratulations, old man!” exclaimed Avondale, the scrub twirler whom Joe had temporarily displaced. “You saw your duty and you done it nobly, as the poet says. You didn’t let ’em fuss you when you were in a tight corner, and that’s what tells in a ball game. Shake!” “Thanks!” exclaimed Joe. He knew just what it meant for his rival to do this, and he appreciated it. “You can have a whack at them next.” “I’m afraid not,” returned Avondale. “You did so well that they’ll want to keep you at scrub, and you’ll be on the ’varsity before you know it.” “I wish I could think so,” laughed Joe. As he spoke he saw Ford Weston passing behind him, and the ’varsity pitcher had heard what was said. A scowl passed over his face. He did not speak to Joe, but to Captain Hatfield, who was with him,[146] the pitcher murmured, loudly enough to be heard: “It was just a fluke, that was all. We could have won only for the errors the fielders made.” “Maybe—maybe not,” agreed the captain. “I think we were outpitched, and I’m not afraid to acknowledge it. We’ve got to do better!” “Do you mean me?” There was challenge in Weston’s tone. “I mean all of us,” was the quiet answer. “Matson, you did us up brown, but you won’t do it again,” and the captain laughed frankly. “I’ll try—if I get the chance,” was the grim retort. Meanwhile the coaches had singled out some of the ’varsity members whose playing had shown faults, and were giving instructions how to correct them. Merky Bardine, who played on third, had sprained his leg slightly, and the trainer, McLeary, had taken him in hand to treat him. Mr. Hasbrook walked up to Joe. “You did very well,” the chief coach was good enough to say, “and I’m glad you had your chance. You have a number of faults to correct, but I think you can master them. One is that you don’t get enough into the game yourself. A pitcher must do more than merely deliver the ball. Twice in this game you didn’t get after the bunts as you might have done.” Joe felt a little discouraged. He had hoped[147] for unqualified praise from the head coach, but he was sensible enough to realize that it was all said for his benefit, and he resolved to profit by it. In fact it was this quality and ability of Joe’s—enabling him to receive advice graciously—that made him the wonderful pitcher he afterward became. “You must play into the game more,” went on Mr. Hasbrook. “Outside of the catcher, you’re the only man on the team who can handle certain bunts—I mean the pitcher. For that reason you want to study a style of delivery that won’t leave you in a bad position to look after the ball if it is hit your way. You have the right idea now in throwing, but you can improve, I’m sure.” “I’ll try,” spoke Joe. “I know you will, and that’s why I’m taking the trouble to talk to you. Then you’ve got to be on the watch for base stealing. There are some catchers who can pretend to throw to second, and yet so suddenly change as to deliver the ball to the pitcher. This deceives the man on third, who starts for home, and if you have the ball you can nip him. So far we haven’t had a catcher who can work this trick, but we may develop one before we get through.” “Then Kendall isn’t sure of his place?” asked Joe eagerly, thinking of the desire of his chum Spike to fill the position behind the plate later on. [148] “Well, he’s reasonably sure of it,” went on the head coach cautiously. “But we never can tell what will develop after the season opens. Another point I’d like to impress on you is, that sometimes you’ve got to help out on first base. Particularly is this the case when a bunt comes that the first baseman can take care of. Then it’s your duty to hustle over to first.” “Yes, sir,” answered Joe. It was all he could think of to say at the time. In fact he was rather dazed. There was a deal more to this baseball game than he had imagined. He was beginning to get an inkling of the difference between the amateur sport and the professional way of playing. “I don’t want to burden you with too much advice at the start,” went on Mr. Hasbrook, “for I want you to remember what I tell you. From time to time, as I see your weak points, I’m going to mention them to you.” “I’ll be glad if you will,” spoke Joe earnestly. “On the whole you did very well to-day,” concluded the head coach, “and I’m glad we gave you the chance. Report for light practice to-morrow, and the next day we’ll try another game. Look after your arm. You used it a good bit this afternoon.” Joe felt in rather better spirits after Mr. Hasbrook had finished than when he began. “I’m going to get a fair chance to show what[149] I can do, anyhow,” declared our hero, as he went to his room. On the way he was joined by Spike, who had dropped back when the head coach started his instructions. “Well?” asked Joe’s room-mate. “Fairly well,” was the answer. “Say, I believe you’ve got a chance, Spike.” “Me? How?” “Why, it isn’t settled that Kendall will catch all of next season.” “Oh, I guess it is as much as anything is settled in this world. But I can wait. I’ve got four years here.” Joe was elated at his triumph, and little was talked of in baseball circles that night but how the scrubs had “put one over” on the ’varsity. There was some disposition to criticize the first team for loose and too confident playing, but those who knew gave Joe credit for what he had done. And so the baseball season went on until the ’varsity was fully perfected and established, the class teams improved and the schedule made up. Then came hard and grilling work. Joe was doing his best on his Freshman class team, and often played against the college nine, either in conjunction with his mates, or, when it was desired to give one of the other Freshmen pitchers a chance, taking part with a mixed “scrub” team, composed of[150] lads from various classes in order to give the ’varsity good opposition. And Yale swept on her way. Of course Joe bewailed the fact that he would have to lose a whole year before he could hope for a chance to be on the first team, but he bided his time. Weston was doing fairly well, and the feeling between him and our hero had not changed. The Spring term was drawing to a close. Yale and Princeton had met twice, and there was a game apiece. Yale had also played other colleges, losing occasionally, but winning often enough to entitle her to claim the championship if she took the odd game from the Tiger. But she did not, and though her players insisted, none the less, that Yale was at the top of the heap, and though the sporting writers conceded this, still Princeton won the third game. And Yale was bitter, though she stood it grimly,—as she always does. “Well, we’ll see what next year will bring forth,” said Spike to Joe, at the wind-up of the baseball season. “You’re coming back; aren’t you?” “I wouldn’t miss it for anything now. Though, as a matter of fact, I didn’t expect to. I thought I’d take one year here, and if I could get on the ’varsity nine long enough to say I had been on it, I’d quit, and go in for the professional end of it.[151] But, since I can’t, I’ll come back and make another stab at it.” “That’s the way to talk. Well, I hope to be here, too.” The Summer vacation came, and Joe had passed his examinations. Not brilliantly, but sufficiently well to enable him to enter the Sophomore class. “And if I don’t make the ’varsity next Spring, it will be my own fault!” he cried, as he said good-bye to his chums and packed up for home. The Summer passed pleasantly enough. Joe’s family took a cottage at a lake resort, and of course Joe organized a ball team among the temporary residents of the resort. A number of games were played, Joe pitching in fine style. One day a manager of one of the minor leagues attended a contest where Joe pitched, and when word of this was carried to our hero he had a nervous fit. But he pulled himself together, twirled magnificently, and was pleased to see the “magnate” nod approvingly. Though later, when someone offered to introduce Joe to him, the lad declined. “I’ll wait until I’ve made a better reputation,” he declared. “I want the Yale Y before I go looking for other honors;” and he stuck to that. “Joe seems to care more for college than you thought he would, father,” said Mrs. Matson, when it came time for her son to go back as a[152] Sophomore for the next Fall term. “I think he’ll finish yet, and make us all proud of him.” “Joe will never do anything that would not make us proud of him,” said his father. “But I rather fancy the reason he is so willing to go back to Yale is that he didn’t make the ’varsity baseball nine last season. There’s a rule against Freshmen, you know.” “Oh dear!” lamented Mrs. Matson. “I did hope he would like college for its own sake, and not for baseball.” “It’s hard to separate baseball and football from college likings, I guess,” conceded her husband. And so Joe went back. It was quite different from entering New Haven as a Freshman, and even in the old elms he seemed to have a proprietary interest. He took his old room, because he liked it, and a number of his other Sophomore friends did likewise, though some Freshmen held forth there as usual. Then came the football season, and, though Joe took an interest in this, and even consented to try for the scrub, he was not cut out for that sort of work, and soon gave it up. Yale made her usual success on the gridiron, though the far-famed game with Princeton resulted in a tie, which made the baseball nine all the more anxious to win the championship. [153] The Winter seemed endless, but soon there was the beginning of baseball talk, as before, and this was regarded as a sign of Spring. There was no question now but what Joe was eligible for the ’varsity, though that was far from saying that he would be picked for it. All his old friends had returned to the university, and there was little change in the baseball situation as regards new names. Most of the old ones kept their same places. Nothing definite had been learned about the red paint episode, and though it was mentioned occasionally, and often in a censorious manner as against the perpetrator of it, the latter was not discovered. Then there began to gather at Yale the oldtime players, who acted as coaches. Mr. Hasbrook, who from long familiarity with the game, and from his intense love of it, and for his alma mater, was again named as head coach. “Well, we’ve got a pretty good nine, I think,” said Weston one day, after hard practice against the Freshmen. How Joe did thank his stars that he was not in the latter team, though he was first pitcher on the Sophomore team. “Yes, we have,” admitted several. “It looks as if we could trim Princeton this time.” Joe had pitched for the ’varsity in some informal practice games, though Weston was regarded still as first[154] choice. And Joe was fearful that his cherished ambition was yet far from being realized. “We’re playing good ball,” said Weston. “I don’t say that because I’m pitching,” he added quickly, as he saw some looking at him curiously, “but because we have got a good team—mostly old players, too,” and he glanced meaningly at Joe, as though he resented his entrance as an aspirant for the mound. “One thing—we’ve got to tighten up considerably,” declared Captain Hatfield. “We’ll play our first match game with Amherst in two weeks, and we want to swamp ’em.” “Oh, we will,” said Weston easily. “Not unless you pitch better—and we all play better,” was the grim answer. “What do you mean?” “Just what I said. You’ve got to strike more men out, and play a livelier game.” “Well, I guess I can,” answered the pitcher, sullenly. There was only light practice the next day, and Joe was told to perfect himself in signals with the class captain. Then came another hard practice contest, and, somewhat to Joe’s surprise, he was not called on to pitch, as he fully expected. But he resigned himself cheerfully when Avondale went to the mound. Had our hero but known it, Mr. Hasbrook had deliberately omitted to start Joe,[155] wishing to discipline him, not, however, because of anything Joe had done. “I think there’s championship material for one of the big leagues in that lad,” mused the head coach, to justify himself, “and he’s got a hard row ahead of him unless he learns to take disappointment. I’ll start him on the right track, though I would like to pitch him steadily.” And so Joe sat on the bench, while his rival pitched. Whether it was on this account, or because the ’varsity had tightened, was not at once apparent, but the fact was that the first team began to pound out runs, and the scrub did not. “That’s the way!” exclaimed the enthusiastic assistant coaches. “Eat ’em up, ’varsity!” Mr. Hasbrook smiled, but said nothing. At the end of the seventh inning Joe was sent in to pitch, but it was too late for the scrubs to save the game for themselves, since the ’varsity had it by six runs. Nor did Joe escape hitless, though from the time he went in no runs were made by his opponents. “Joe, you’re a better pitcher than I am,” declared Avondale, frankly. “I can see where I’ve made mistakes.” “Well, it isn’t too late to fix ’em.” “Yes, I’m afraid it is,” and, as it developed, it was, for from then on Joe did most of the pitching for the scrub. Occasionally, when his arm was[156] a bit lame, Avondale was sent in, or one of the other pitching candidates, but the result was nearly always disastrous for the scrub. Not that Joe always made good. He had his off days, when his curves did not seem to break right, and when his control was poor. But he was trying to carry out Mr. Hasbrook’s instructions to get into more plays, and this handicapped him a bit at the start. The head coach saw this, and made allowances, keeping Joe on the mound when the assistants would have substituted someone else. “Wait,” advised the head coach. “I know what I’m doing.” The season was beginning to open. Schedules were being arranged, and soon Yale would begin to meet her opponents. The practice grew harder and more exacting. The voices of the coaches were more stern and sharp. No errors were excused, and the scrub was worked doubly hard to make the ’varsity that much better. Ford Weston had improved considerably and then one day he went to pieces in the box, when playing a particularly close and hard game with the scrub. There was surprise and consternation, and a hasty conference of the coaches. An attempt was made to stem the tide by putting in McAnish, the southpaw, and he did some excellent work, but the[157] scrub seemed to have struck a winning streak and took everything that came their way. Joe was pitching, and held the first team well down. There was gloom in Yale that night, for the game with Amherst was not far off, and the Amherst lads were reported to be a fast and snappy lot. There was a day of rest, and then came the final practice against the scrub. There was a consultation among the coaches in which the first and second captains participated before the contest. Then Mr. Hasbrook separated himself from the others. “Matson!” he called sharply. “You and Kendall warm up a bit, and get a line on each other’s signals. Matson, you’re going to pitch for the ’varsity to-day!” <hr class="chap" />[158] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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