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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XXX</h2> <h3>THE CHAMPIONSHIP</h3> Such a crowd as filled the big Polo Grounds! The grandstands seemed full, and the bleachers too, but the elevated and surface roads brought more constantly, and the honking autos added to the clamor. It was a perfect day, and the ball field—one of the best in the world—where professionals meet professionals—was laid out with mathematical precision. From their lairs near the press boxes the tigers trotted to be welcomed with shouts and yells from their supporters and the songs of their fellows. “They beat us once—as we did them,” said Joe in a low voice. “They may beat us again.” “Not much!” cried Spike. “A Yale victory is in the air. I can feel it! Look at that blue,” and he pointed to the sky, “and then at that,” and he waved toward the azure-hued Yale stand, “and say we’re going to lose! I guess not!” “A cheer for every man!” yelled the leader of the Princeton cheer masters, who were armed with big megaphones as were their New Haven rivals,[240] except that the ribbons were of the tiger’s stripes. “A cheer for every man!” And then, as the Jersey cheer was howled there followed each time the name of some player—sweet music to their ears, no doubt. “They’re signalling to us,” said Spike a little later. “I guess they want us inside to come out all in a bunch, as Princeton did.” This was the import of the message delivered to them a little later as they filed into the dressing rooms, where the team and substitutes now were. “Remember, boys,” said the captain solemnly, “we’ve got to win. It’s Yale’s luck against Princeton’s maybe, but even with that it’s got to be bulldog pluck against the tiger’s fierceness. They can play ball.” “And so can we!” declared several, in low voices. “Prove it—by beating ’em!” was the quick retort. “Pile out now, and have some snap to you!” If Yale had gone wild, so now did the students from her rival college. The orange and black, which had been in evidence on the opposite stand to that which showed the blue, now burst forth in a frenzy of color. Hats were tossed in the air, canes too, and one excited man dashed his tall silk head covering about with such energy that he[241] split it on the walking stick of a gentleman seated near him. “I beg your pardon,” said the one with the stick. “Don’t mention it! My fault entirely—I’m too excited, I guess, but I used to play on the Princeton team years ago, and I came to-day to see her win. I don’t care for a hat—I can buy lots more. But Princeton is going to win! Wow!” “I’m sorry for you,” said the other with a smile. “But Yale has the bulge to-day.” “Never!” “I tell you she has!” And then the argument began, good-natured enough, but only one of many like it going on all about the grounds. “Hark!” said Joe to Spike, as they were walking back toward the diamond. “Isn’t that great?” There had come a momentary hush, and the sweet strains of the Princeton song—“Orange and Black,” floated over the big diamond. Many of the spectators—former college men—joined in, Yale ceased her cheering while this was rendered, and then came a burst of applause, for the melody was exceptionally well rendered. “Well, they may sing, but they can’t play ball,” said Spike. Out came the bulldogs, and at once it seemed as if a bit of blue sky had suddenly descended on[242] the stands, so solid was the mass of ultramarine color displayed, in contrast to the orange and black. “Joe, old man, isn’t it great!” cried Spike, capering about. “To think that I’m really going to play in this big championship game!” “It’s fine!” exclaimed Joe, yet he himself was thinking how glorious it would be if he was only a professional, and could occupy the mound of the Polo Grounds regularly instead of on this rare occasion. “And I will, too, some day!” he murmured. “Play ball!” The practice was over, the last conference between coaches, pitchers, catchers and captains had been held. The championship was now to be contested for. Yale had won the toss and taken last chance at bat. “Play ball!” Joe walked to the mound, a trifle nervous, as anyone would have been under the circumstances, but, with it all, holding himself well in hand. As he got ready to deliver the customary five balls before attending to the batter a quiet-appearing man, sitting in one of the press boxes, moved so as to get a better view of the young pitcher. “What’s the matter, Mack?” asked one of the reporters. “Think you see some bushleaguers in this bunch of college boys?” [243] “You never can tell,” was the quiet answer. “I’m always on the lookout for recruits, and I’m particularly in need of a good pitcher.” “Well, both teams have some good ones I hear,” went on the newspaper man, and then he devoted himself to sending out an account of the game to his paper. With the first ball that he delivered Joe knew that he was in shape to pitch the game of his career. He was sure of his control, and he realized that with a little care he could place the horsehide just where he wanted it to go. “If we can only bat a few we’ve got this cinched,” decided Joe, always aware, though, of the fatal element of luck. The early results seemed to justify his confidence. For four innings not a Princeton man got farther than first base, and the crowd was wildly cheering him. “If it will only last,” he thought, and the memory of his sore arm came to him as a shock. But he had not suffered from it since, and he hoped he would not. On her part Yale had managed to get one run across, and thus the game stood at the beginning of the fifth inning. In that, for one fearful moment, Joe had fears. He had been signalled to walk the heaviest batter, but something went wrong, and the man plugged a three bagger that[244] got past Spike. The next man up was a good hitter, and Kendall, in fear and trembling, signalled for another pass. But Joe shook his head. He was going to try to strike him out. And he did. Amid wild roars the man was retired, and when two more had gone down, and Princeton was still without a run, pandemonium broke loose. Though Yale tried with all her might to sweeten the score, she could not—at least in the next two innings. She batted well, but Princeton seemed to be right on the ball every time. And with only one run as a margin, the game was far from won. “But we’ll do it!” cried Hatfield, fiercely. “That’s what!” echoed Joe. Yale’s chance came in the eighth inning, when, owing to an error by the Princeton shortstop, a man got to first. None were out, and Joe rapped out a pretty two-bagger that, followed by a wild throw home, enabled a man to score. Then Joe was brought in on a sacrifice hit, and when the inning ended Yale had three more runs, making the score four to nothing in her favor. Once more the riot of blue shot over the stands, while the orange and black fluttered listlessly. But the tiger was growling in his lair, while the bulldog was thus barking, and every Yale player knew that fortune might yet turn against them. But when Princeton had her last chance to bat,[245] and only managed to get one run, it was all over but the shouting. Joe had pitched magnificently, and when the last chance of the Princeton tiger had vanished there was a rush for the young pitcher, and he was fairly carried away on the shoulders of his fellows. And such cheering as there was! “Yale wins!” “Yale is champion!” “Three cheers for Baseball Joe!” The field swarmed with the spectators, who hardly stayed to hear the victors and vanquished cheer each other. The quiet man who had sat in the press box managed to get a word to Joe, though he had to shout to be heard above the din. The young pitcher looked startled, then pleased, and his voice faltered as he answered; after a little more talk: “But supposing I don’t make good, Mr.—er—?” “Mack is my name, I represent the manager; in fact I’m his assistant.” “But supposing I don’t make good?” repeated Joe. “I know I can do pretty well here, but, as you say, I don’t seem to take to the college life. Still, I wouldn’t want to make a public try as I’d have to, and then give up. It would bar me from the amateur ranks forever.” “Yes, I know that,” was the answer, “but you[246] needn’t be afraid. Look here, Matson. This isn’t the first time I’ve done such a thing as this. It’s part of my business, and part of my business to know what I’m doing. I can size a player up as quick as a horse buyer can a spavined nag. I’ve sized you up, and I know you’re all wool and a yard wide.” “But this is the first time you’ve seen me play.” “It was enough, I tell you.” “And, as I said,” went on Joe, “I don’t want to be in the position of putting myself out of the game. If I go in with you, and fail, I probably never could get another chance.” “Oh, yes you could. But look here, Matson, you mustn’t think of failure. You’re not built that way. Now aren’t you sport enough to take a chance?” Joe was silent for a moment. He thought of many things—of his overpowering ambition, and then answered falteringly: “I—I’m willing to try.” “All right, then I’ll sign you,” was the answer. Another rush of the delirious students almost carried Joe off his feet. He was cheered and cheered again. Through the mob came pushing and shoving the president of the exclusive Anvil Club. “I say, Matson,” he began, “this is great! Yale has come into her own again. We’d like the[247] honor of electing you to our society, and would be pleased to have you make application.” “I’m much obliged to you,” spoke Joe slowly, “but I’m afraid I can’t.” “You can’t! Why not?” “Because I’m going to leave Yale!” “Leave Yale!” came the indignant protest. “What for?” “Because I have just accepted, tentatively, an offer from one of the managers of a professional league to pitch for him the rest of this season, and all of next,” replied Joe quietly. “That’s right,” confirmed the man who had whispered in our hero’s ear. “I know a good pitcher when I see one, and there is no use of Matson wearing himself out on a college nine. He is cut out for a professional!” And to all the protests of his classmates Joe would not give in. He knew that college was no place for him, and as the chance had come to get into the professional ranks, at good pay, he was going to take it; provided, of course, that his folks were willing. How he did, and what happened, will be told in the next volume of this series, to be called, “Baseball Joe in the Central League; Or, Making Good as a Professional Pitcher.” “Oh, Joe, can’t you reconsider, and stay at Yale?” begged Spike, when he and his chum, after[248] the exciting events of the championship game, were in their room once more. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.” “Spike, old man,” said Joe, and his voice broke a little. “I would like to stay, for your sake, and for some of the other fine fellows I’ve met here. I’d like to stay in spite of the unpleasant experience I’ve had. I know it’s going to break mother all up to hear I’ve left college, but I’m not cut out for it. I’m a square peg in a round hole. I want to get into professional baseball, and I’ve just got to. I shouldn’t be happy here.” “Well, if that’s the case,” said Spike, with a sigh, “I’m not going to say anything more. Only it sure is tough luck. Yale will miss you.” “And I’ll miss her, too, in a way. But my place isn’t here.” There was silence between them for a space, and then Spike said softly: “Come on down to Glory’s—for the last time. Joe.” And they went out together. THE END <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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