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Baseball Joe in the Central League

<h2>CHAPTER XXIX A DIAMOND BATTLE</h2> Confusion reigned supreme for a moment. Several autos that were passing stopped, and men and women came running up to be of assistance if necessary. But neither Joe nor Reggie was hurt. Slowly the young pitcher picked himself up, and gazed about in some bewilderment. For a moment he could not understand what had happened. Then he saw Reggie disentangling himself from the steering wheel. “Hurt?” asked Joe, anxiously. “No. Are you?” “Not a scratch.” “Rotten luck!” commented Reggie. “Now you’ll never get to the game on time.” “Lucky you weren’t both killed,” commented an elderly autoist. “And your car isn’t damaged to speak of. Only a tire to the bad. That grassy bank saved you.” “Yes,” assented Reggie. “All she needs is[229] righting, but by the time that’s done it will be too late.” “Where were you going?” asked another man. “To the game,” answered Reggie. “I’m on the Pittston team,” said Joe. “I’m supposed to be there to pitch if I’m needed. Only—I won’t be there,” he finished grimly. “Yes you will!” cried a man who had a big machine. “I’ll take you both—that is, if you want to leave your car,” he added to Reggie. “Oh, I guess that will be safe enough. I’ll notify some garage man to come and get it,” was the reply. “Then get into my car,” urged the gentleman. “I’ve got plenty of room—only my two daughters with me. They’ll be glad to meet a player—they’re crazy about baseball—we’re going to the game, in fact. Get in!” Escorted by the man who had so kindly come to their assistance, Joe and Reggie got into the big touring car. The other autoists who had stopped went on, one offering to notify a certain garage to come and get Reggie’s car. Then the young pitcher was again speeded on his way. The big car was driven at almost reckless speed, and when Joe reached the ball park, and fairly sprang in through the gate, he was an hour late—the game was about half over. [230] Without looking at Gregory and the other players who were on the bench, Joe gave a quick glance at the score board. It told the story in mute figures. <table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="BoxScore"> <tr> <th></th> <th>1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9</th> </tr> <tr> <td>PITTSTON</td> <td>0 0 0 0</td> </tr> <tr> <td>CLEVEFIELD</td> <td>1 0 2 3</td> </tr> </table> It was the start of the fifth inning, and Pittston was at bat. Unless she had made some runs so far the tally was six to nothing in favor of Clevefield. Joe groaned in spirit. “Any runs?” gasped Joe, as he veered over to the bench where his mates sat. He was short of breath, for he had fairly leaped across the field. “Not a one,” said Gregory, and Joe thought he spoke sharply. “What’s the matter? Where have you been?” Joe gaspingly explained. When he spoke of the slow watch he looked at Collin sharply. For a moment the old pitcher tried to look Joe in the face. Then his eyes fell. It was enough for Joe. “He did it!” he decided to himself. “How many out?” was Joe’s next question. “Only one. We have a chance,” replied Gregory. “Get into a uniform as fast as you can and warm up.” “Are you going to pitch me?” “I guess I’ll have to. They’ve been knocking[231] Collin out of the box.” Gregory said the last in a low voice, but he might as well have shouted it for it was only too well known. Collin himself realized it. He fairly glared at Joe. As Joe hurried to the dressing room—his uniform fortunately having been left there early that morning—he looked at the bases. Bob Newton was on second, having completed a successful steal as Joe rushed in. Charlie Hall was at bat, and Joe heard the umpire drone as he went under the grandstand: “Strike two!” “Our chances are narrowing,” thought Joe, and a chill seemed to strike him. “If we lose this game it practically means the loss of the pennant, and——” But he did not like to think further. He realized that the money he had counted on would not be forthcoming. “I’m not going to admit that we’ll lose,” and Joe gritted his teeth. “We’re going to win.” Quickly he changed into his uniform, and while he was doing it the stand above him fairly shook with a mighty yell. “Somebody’s done something!” cried Joe aloud. “Oh, if I was only there to see!” The yelling continued, and there was a sound like thunder as thousands of feet stamped on the stand above Joe’s head. [232] “What is it? What is it?” he asked himself, feverishly, and his hands trembled so that he could hardly tie the laces of his shoes. He rushed out to find the applause still continuing and was just in time to see Charlie Hall cross the rubber plate. “He must have made a home run! That means two, for he brought in Bob!” thought Joe. He knew this was so, for, a moment later he caught the frantic shouts: “Home-run Hall! Home-run Hall!” “Did you do it, old man?” cried Joe, rushing up to him. “Well, I just had to,” was the modest reply. “I’m not going to let you do all the work on this team.” Gregory was clapping the shortstop on the back. “Good work!” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Now, boys, we’ll do ’em! Get busy, Joe. Peters, you take him off there and warm up with him.” Charlie had caught a ball just where he wanted it and had “slammed” it out into the left field bleachers for a home run. It was a great effort, and just what was needed at a most needful time. Then the game went on. Clevefield was not so confident now. Her pitcher, really a talented chap, was beginning to be “found.” Whether it was the advent of Joe, after his[233] sensational race, or whether the Pittston players “got onto the Clevefield man’s curves,” as Charlie Hall expressed it, was not quite clear. Certainly they began playing better from that moment and when their half of the fifth closed they had three runs to their credit. The score was <table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="Score5th"> <tr> <td>PITTSTON</td> <td class="score">3</td> </tr> <tr> <td>CLEVEFIELD</td> <td class="score">6</td> </tr> </table> “We only need four more to win—if we can shut them out,” said Gregory, as his men took the field again. He sat on the bench directing the game. “Go to it, Joe!” “I’m going!” declared our hero, grimly. He realized that he had a hard struggle ahead of him. Not only must he allow as few hits as possible, but, with his team-mates, he must help to gather in four more tallies. And then the battle of the diamond began in earnest. Joe pitched magnificently. The first man up was a notoriously heavy hitter, and Joe felt tempted to give him his base on balls. Instead he nerved himself to strike him out if it could be done. Working a cross-fire, varying it with his now famous fade-away ball, Joe managed to get to two balls and two strikes, both the latter being foul ones. He had two more deliveries left, and the next[234] one he sent in with all the force at his command. The bat met it, and for an instant Joe’s heart almost stopped a beat. Then he saw the ball sailing directly into the hands of Charlie Hall. The man was out. Joe did not allow a hit that inning. Not a man got to first, and the last man up was struck out cleanly, never even fouling the ball. “That’s the boy!” cried the crowd as Joe came in. “That’s the boy!” His face flushed with pleasure. He looked for Collin, but that player had disappeared. The rest of that game is history in the Central League. How Pittston rallied, getting one run in the sixth, and another in the lucky seventh, has been told over and over again. Joe kept up his good work, not allowing a hit in the sixth. In the seventh he was pounded for a two-bagger, and then he “tightened up,” and there were no runs for the Clevefields. They were fighting desperately, for they saw the battle slipping away from them. Pittston tied the score in the eighth and there was pandemonium in the stands. The crowd went wild with delight. “Hold yourself in, old man,” Gregory warned his pitcher. “Don’t let ’em get your goat. They’ll try to.” [235] “All right,” laughed Joe. He was supremely happy. There was almost a calamity in the beginning of the ninth. Pittston’s first batter—Gus Harrison—struck out, and there was a groan of anguish. Only one run was needed to win the game, for it was now evident that the Clevefield batters could not find Joe. George Lee came up, and popped a little fly. The shortstop fumbled it, but stung it over to first. It seemed that George was safe there, but the umpire called him out. “Boys, we’ve got a bare chance left,” said Gregory. “Go to it.” And they did. It was not remarkable playing, for the Clevefields had put in a new pitcher who lost his nerve. With two out he gave Joe, the next man, his base. Joe daringly stole to second, and then Terry Hanson made up for previous bad work by knocking a three-bagger. Joe came in with the winning run amid a riot of yells. The score, at the beginning of the last half of the ninth: <table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="Score9th1"> <tr> <td>PITTSTON</td> <td class="score">7</td> </tr> <tr> <td>CLEVEFIELD</td> <td class="score">6</td> </tr> </table> “Hold ’em down, Joe! Hold ’em down!” pleaded Gregory. And Joe did. It was not easy work, for he was[236] tired and excited from the auto run, and the close call he had had. But he pitched magnificently, and Clevefield’s last record at bat was but a single hit. No runs came in. Pittston had won the second game of the pennant series by one run. Narrow margin, but sufficient. And what rejoicing there was! Joe was the hero of the hour, but his ovation was shared by Charlie Hall and the others who had done such splendid work. Pop Dutton did not play, much to his regret. “Congratulations, old man,” said the Clevefield manager to Gregory. “That’s some little pitcher you’ve got there.” “That’s what we think.” “Is he for sale?” “Not on your life.” “Still, I think you’re going to lose him,” went on Clevefield’s manager. “How’s that?” asked Gregory in alarm. The other whispered something. “Is that so! Scouting here, eh? Well, if they get Joe in a big league I suppose I ought to be glad, for his sake. Still, I sure will hate to lose him. He was handicapped to-day, too,” and he told of the delay. “He sure has nerve!” was the well-deserved compliment. <hr class="chap" /> [237] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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