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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> <h3>HARD LUCK</h3> Shouts and yells greeted the announcement of the umpire—cheers from the admirers of the respective batteries. “Yah!” voiced the wearers of the crimson. “That’s our one best bower! Oh you Elkert! Tear ’em apart, Snyder!” Back came the challenge from the sons of Yale. “You’re our meat, Harvard! Keep your eye on the ball—that’s all you’ll be able to do. Fool ’em, Matson. ’Rah for Baseball Joe!” Our hero was becoming quite a favorite with his classmates, many of whom now knew of his one ambition. But Kendall had his admirers too. “He eats ’em alive—Shorty Kendall does!” came the cry. “Look out for our bear-cats, Harvard!” Once more came a riot of cheers and songs, each college group striving its best to outdo the other, giving its favorite cries or songs. “Come, get together, you two, and make sure[201] you don’t have any mix-up on signals,” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook to Joe and the catcher. “We want to win this game. And, Joe, don’t forget what I told you about getting in on all the plays you can. We’ll need every man if we take this game. Harvard has several good twirlers, and she’s been playing like a house afire. Watch yourselves.” “Then I’m really going to pitch?” asked Joe. It was almost the only thing he had said since hearing the announcement, after Spike had clapped him on the back with such force. “Pitch! Of course you’re going to pitch,” declared the head coach. “And I want you to pitch your head off. But save your arm, for there are going to be more games than this. But, mind!” and he spoke with earnestness. “You’ve got to make good!” “I will!” exclaimed Joe, and he meant it. “Come over here,” suggested Shorty. “Plug in a few and we’ll see if you’re as good as you were yesterday,” for Joe and he had had considerable practice, as, in fact, had all the pitchers, including Weston. As for that lad, when he heard the announcement a scowl shot across his face, and he uttered an exclamation. “What’s the matter?” asked De Vere, who had become rather intimate with Ford of late. “Matter! Isn’t there enough when that—when he pitches?” and he nodded his head toward Joe. [202] “Why; do you think they’ll get his goat, or that he’ll blow, and throw the game?” “He might,” sneered Weston, “but I have a right to be on the mound to-day. I was half promised that I could pitch, and now, at the last minute, they put him in. I’m not going to stand for it!” “It’s a sort of a raw deal,” declared his friend. “I don’t see why they let such fellows as he come to college. First we know there’ll be a lot of hod-carriers’ sons here instead of gentlemen,” and De Vere turned up, as far as possible, the point of his rather stubby nose. He himself was the son of a man who had gotten his start as a contractor, employing those same “hod-carriers” at whom the son now sneered. “That’s right,” agreed Weston. “I should think they could keep Yale a little more exclusive.” “I agree with you,” came from the other. “Why I even understand that they are talking of forming a club where even those who eat at commons, and are working their way through, can join. It’s going to be fierce. But none of them will get in the Blue Ribbon Association,” he added, referring to an exclusive college organization. “Nor the Anvil Club either,” added Weston. “This is all Hasbrook’s fault. He’s taken some silly notion to Matson, and he thinks he’s a wonderful pitcher. It seems they met somewhere, and[203] Matson did him a favor. Now he’s taking advantage of it.” “But he can pitch,” said De Vere, who, for all his snobbishness, was inclined to be fair. “Yes, after a fashion, but he hasn’t anything on me. I won against Harvard last year.” “So you did.” “And I could do it again.” “I believe you. Anyhow I think only the fellows in our own class—socially—should play. It makes it rather awkward, don’t you know, if you meet one of the team out anywhere, and he isn’t in your set. You’ve got to notice him, or there’d be a howl, I s’pose; but really some of the fellows are regular clod-hoppers, and this Matson doesn’t train in with us.” “You’re right. But if things go the way I think he may not last very long.” “How do you mean? Will he put up such a rotten game that they won’t stand for him?” “That’s all I can say now,” rejoined Weston, somewhat mysteriously. “But something may happen.” “And you’ll pitch?” “I hope so. I may get in this game, for I did beat Harvard one year.” But Weston forgot to add that he pitched so wretchedly the remainder of the season that Yale finished a poor third, losing the championship. [204] “Play ball!” called the umpire. Those who had been practicing straggled to the bench, or walked out to take their fielding positions. “I guess you’ll do,” declared Kendall to Joe, with a nod of encouragement. “Don’t let ’em get your Angora.” “I’ll try not to,” came the smiling answer. “Are they hard hitters?” “They are if they get the ball right, but it’s up to you not to let ’em. Give ’em twisters and teasers.” “Play ball,” called the umpire again, and the first of the Yale batsmen took his place. Once more came the yells and cheers, and when the lad struck out, which he did with an ease that chagrined his mates, there was derisive yelling from the Harvard stands. “Two more and we’ve got ’em going!” was shouted. But Jimmie Lee, the diminutive first baseman, was up next, and perhaps the Harvard pitcher did not think him a worthy foeman. At any rate Jimmie caught a ball just where he wanted it, and rapped out a pretty two-bagger. “That’s the way! Come on in!” was shouted at him, but Jimmie caught the signal to hug the half-way station, and stayed there. He stole third while they were throwing his successor out at first, and this made two down, with Jimmie ready to[205] come in on half a chance. But the Harvard pitcher tightened up, and the fourth man succumbed to a slow twister on his final strike, making the third out, so that poor Jimmie expired on the last sack. “Now, Joe, show ’em that we can do better than that,” begged Shorty, as he donned mask and protector. “Throw me a few and warm up. Then sting ’em in!” Joe was a bit nervous as he went to the box, but he managed to control himself. He seemed to guess just what kind of a ball would fool the batter, and, after two balls had been called on him, sent over two in succession that were named strikes. “That’s the way we do it!” yelled a Yale admirer, in a high-pitched voice. “One more and he’s done.” But the one more did not come. Instead, apparently getting the ball just where he wanted it, the Harvard man swung on it to the tune of three sacks, amid a wild riot of cheers. “Now we’ve got ’em going!” came Harvard’s triumphant yells, and Joe felt the hot blood rush to his face. Kendall saw it, and, guessing the pitcher’s state of mind, walked out to the box and whispered: “Don’t mind. That was a fluke. It won’t happen again. Hold on to yourself—tighten up and we’ll get ’em.” Joe felt better after that bit of advice, and was[206] calmer when he wound up for the next batter. Though he had been told that Harvard would play a foxy game, he was hardly prepared for what followed. The next player up hit lightly, for a sacrifice, thinking to bring in the run. As it happened, Joe stumbled as he raced to pick up the twisting ball, and though he managed to recover himself, and throw home, while on his knees, the man racing from third beat the throw and the first run for Harvard was in. Then such cheering as there was! Yale was nonplussed for the moment, and her rooters in the stands sat glum and silent. But the spirit of the blue could not long be kept down, and soon the Boola song came booming over the field. It cheered Joe mightily, even though he saw the sneering look on the face of Weston, who sat on the bench, hoping for a chance to supplant him. “Here’s where we walk away!” crowed a Harvard man, but the wearers of the crimson did not, for that run was the only one they got that inning. But it was a start, and it looked big below the goose egg that adorned Yale’s score. The game went on, varyingly. Yale managed to get two runs in the fifth inning, putting her one ahead, for Joe had done such good work, aided by the rest of the team, when a hit was made, that Harvard had not scored again. “Matson’s pitching a great game!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, as he watched eagerly. “I told[207] you we wouldn’t make any mistake if we let him go in first,” and he looked at his colleagues. “But that was a costly fumble,” declared Mr. Benson. “Yes, but no one is perfect. Besides we’re ahead.” “Only one run.” “That’s enough to win the game.” “But hardly with four more innings to go,” rejoined Mr. Whitfield, dubiously. “Look at that!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, in excitement, as Joe grabbed a hot liner and whipped it over to first in time to catch the man napping there. “Matson’s more than just a pitcher.” “You seem interested in him,” spoke Mr. Benson. “I am. I think Joe is going to make one of the finest ball players we’ve ever had at Yale. He hasn’t found himself yet, of course, and he needs more judgment. But he’s got a future. I think we’ll hear of him somewhere else besides on a college team, too.” “I understand he has professional ambitions,” admitted Mr. Benson. “But he’s got a hard life ahead of him.” “Oh, he’ll make good!” declared Mr. Hasbrook. And it seemed that Joe was going to in this game. He was pitching wonderfully well, and[208] Harvard only found him for scattering hits. On her part Yale was doing very well. Harvard had tried another pitcher when she found that her first one was being pounded, but it availed little, and when the ninth inning closed, as far as the wearers of the blue were concerned, they were two runs ahead. “We’ve got ’em! We’ve got ’em!” yelled Shorty with delight, capering about Joe. “All you’ve got to do is to hold ’em down!” “Yes—all—but that’s a lot,” declared the pitcher. “They’re going to play fierce now.” “But they need three runs to win. You can hold ’em down!” “I’ll try,” promised Joe, as he went to the mound. It looked as if he was going to make good, but luck, that element that is always present in games, especially in baseball, deserted the blue for the red. The first man up knocked a long, high fly to deep centre. So sure was he, as well as everyone else, that it would be caught, that the player hardly ran, but the ball slipped through the fingers of Ed. Hutchinson as if it had been greased, and the man was safe on second. “Now we’ve got ’em going,” came the cry. “A couple more hits and we’ve got the game.” Joe was wary, but he was playing against experienced youths, and when he found the man on[209] second trying to steal third he threw down, hoping to catch him. His throw was wild, the baseman jumped for it in vain, and the runner went on to third. “Never mind—play for the batter,” advised Shorty. Joe did, but somehow he could not get the right twist on the ball. He was hit for a single, and the man on third scored. “Two more and we’ve got ’em!” yelled the delighted wearers of the crimson. “None down yet.” Then, whether it was the effect of luck, or because the Yale team was hypnotized by the wearers of the crimson, was not manifest; but certain it was that the blue players went to pieces. It was not Joe’s fault—at least not all his, though he made one error. But this seemed to affect all the Yale team, and the result was a wild finish on the part of Harvard that put them two runs to the good, winning the game. “Hard luck!” exclaimed Shorty, in a dejected voice, as he took off his glove and mask. “Hard luck!” <hr class="chap" />[210] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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