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Baseball Joe in the Central League

<h2>CHAPTER XXX THE PENNANT</h2> The pennant was not yet won. So far the teams had broken even, and unless Pittston could take the next two games there would be a fifth one necessary. “If there is,” decided Gregory, “we’ll make it an exhibition, on some neutral diamond, and get a big crowd. It will mean a lot more money for us.” “Will it?” asked Joe. “Then let’s do it!” “We can’t make sure of it,” went on the manager. “We’ll not think of that, for it would mean throwing a game away if we won the next one, and I’ve never thrown a game yet, and never will. No, Joe, we’ll try to win both games straight, even if it doesn’t mean so much cash. Now take care of yourself.” “I’ll try,” promised Joe. The next contest would take place at Pittston, and thither the two teams journeyed that evening. Before they left Joe spent a pleasant time at the hotel where Reggie and his sister had rooms. [238] “Are you coming back to Pittston, or stay here for the fourth game?” the young pitcher asked. “We’re going to see you play—of course!” exclaimed Mabel. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” “Thank you!” laughed Joe, and blushed. “Did you get your auto all right?” he asked Reggie. “Yes. The man brought her in. Not damaged a bit. Sis and I are going to motor in to-morrow. But I won’t take a chance in giving you a ride again—not so close to the game.” “I guess not,” agreed Joe, laughing. “Did you find out anything?” Reggie went on. “About who meddled with your watch?” “I didn’t ask any questions. It was too unpleasant a thing to have come out. But my first guess was right. And I don’t think that player will stay around here.” I may say, in passing, that Collin did not. He left town that night and was not seen in that part of the country for some years. He broke his contract, but Gregory did not much care for that, as he was about ready to release him anyhow. Joe told the story to the manager only, and they kept it a secret between them. It was a mystery to Collin’s team-mates why he disappeared so strangely, but few ever heard the real story. The third game with Clevefield came off before[239] a record-breaking crowd. It was a great contest, and was only won for Pittston in the tenth inning, when Jimmie Mack, the doughty first-baseman, scored the winning run. The crowd went wild at that, for it had looked as though Clevefield would take the game home with them. But they could not stand against Joe’s terrific pitching. This made the pennant series stand two to one in favor of the Pittston team. Another victory would clinch the banner for them, but the following game must take place in Clevefield, and this fact was rather a disadvantage to Joe’s team. “Now, boys, do your best,” pleaded Gregory, as he sat with his men on the bench, making up the batting order. “We want to win!” Tom Tooley was to pitch in Joe’s place, for our hero’s arm really needed a rest. “I may have to use you anyhow, toward the end, if we get in a hole, Joe,” said the manager. “So hold yourself in readiness.” Much as Joe liked to pitch he was really glad that he did not have to go in, for he was very tired. The strain of the season, added to the responsibility of the final big games, was telling on him. The battle opened, and at first it seemed to favor Pittston. Then her best hitters began to “slump,” and the game slipped away from them.[240] Clevefield came up strong and though, as a desperate resort, Joe was sent in, it was too late. Clevefield won the fourth game by a score of nine to seven. “That means a fifth game!” announced Gregory. “Well, we’ll have a better chance in that! Oh, for a rain!” “Why?” asked Jimmie Mack, as they walked off the field. “To give Joe a chance to rest up. He needs it.” And the rain came. It lasted for two days, and a third one had to pass to let the grounds at Washburg dry up. It had been decided to play off the tie there, for the diamond was a fine one, and Washburg was centrally located, insuring a big attendance. “We should have arranged this series to be the best three out of five in the beginning,” said Gregory. “We’ll know better next time. There’s too much uncertainty in a three out of four—it practically means five games anyhow.” Reggie and Mabel saw every contest, and announced their intention of going to Washburg for the last. At least Mabel did, and Reggie could do no less than take her. The rest had done Joe good, though of course it had also allowed his opponents to recuperate. Joe felt fit to play the game of his life. [241] The grandstands were filled—the bleachers overflowed—the band played—the crowds yelled and cheered. There was a riot of color—represented by ladies’ hats and dresses; there was a forest of darkness—represented by the more sober clothes of the men. It was the day of the final game. “Play ball!” called the umpire, and Joe went to the mound, for Pittston had been lucky in the toss-up and could bat last. Joe hardly knew whether he was more elated over his own chance of shining in this deciding game or over the fact that Pop Dutton was playing. The old pitcher had improved wonderfully, and Gregory said, was almost “big league stuff” again. So he had been put in centre field. His batting, too, was a bulwark for Pittston. Just before the game Joe had received a letter from home, telling him news that disconcerted him a little. It was to the effect that an operation would be necessary to restore his father’s sight. It was almost certain to be successful, however, for a noted surgeon, who had saved many by his skill, would perform it. But the cost would be heavy. “So I’ve just got to win this game; to make my share of the money bigger,” Joe murmured. “I’ll need every cent of it for dad—and Pop.” The winner of the pennant, naturally, would receive[242] the larger share of the gate money, and each man on the winning team, the manager had promised, was to have his proportion. “We’ve just got to win!” repeated Joe. It was a desperately fought battle from the very start. Joe found himself a trifle nervous at first, but he pulled himself together and then began such a pitching battle as is seldom seen. For five innings the game went on without a hit, a run or an error on either side. It was almost machine-perfect baseball, and it was a question of which pitcher would break first. Joe faced batter after batter with the coolness of a veteran. Little “no count” flies were all he was hit for, not a man getting to first. There came a break in the sixth. How it happened Joe never knew, but he hit the batter, who went to first, and a runner had to be substituted for him. Naturally this made Joe nervous and he was not himself. Then one of the Clevefield players knocked a home run, bringing in the man from first, and there were two runs against none for Pittston, and only one man out. Then, if ever, was a crucial moment for Joe. Many young pitchers would have gone to pieces under the strain, but by a supreme effort, Joe got back his nerve. The crowd, always ready to be unfriendly when it sees a pitcher wavering, hooted and howled. Joe only smiled—and struck out[243] the next man—and the next. He had stopped a winning streak in the nick of time. “Get some runs, boys! Get some runs!” pleaded Gregory, and his men got them. They got three, enough to put them one ahead, and then Joe knew he must work hard to hold the narrow margin so hardly won. “I’ve got to do it! I’ve just got to do it!” he told himself. “I want to win this game so I’ll have money enough for dad—and Pop! I’m going to do it!” And do it he did. How he did it is history now, but it is history that will never be forgotten in the towns of that league. For Joe did not allow another hit that game. He worked himself to the limit, facing veteran batters with a smile of confidence, sending in a deadly cross-fire with his famous fade-away until the last tally was told, and the score stood: <table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="Score9th2"> <tr> <td>PITTSTON</td> <td class="score">3</td> </tr> <tr> <td>CLEVEFIELD</td> <td class="score">2</td> </tr> </table> When the last batter had gone down to defeat in the first half of the ninth Joe drew off his glove, and, oblivious to the plaudits of the crowd and his own mates, hurried to the dressing rooms. “Where are you going?” cried Charlie Hall. “They’re howling for you. They want to see you—hear you talk.” [244] Joe could hear the voices screaming: “Speech! Speech! Speech, Matson! Baseball Joe!” “I just can’t! I’m all in, Charlie. Tell them,” pleaded Joe. “I want to send a telegram home, telling the folks that I’ll be with them when dad’s operated on. I can’t make a speech!” Charlie told the crowd, and Joe was cheered louder than before. And so ended the race for the pennant of the Central League, with Pittston the winner. As Joe walked off the field, on his way to the telegraph office, being cheered again and again, while he made his way through the crowd, a keen-faced man looked critically at him. “I guess you’re going to be mine,” he said. “I think we’ll have to draft you.” “What’s that?” asked Pop Dutton, who recognized the man as a well-known scout, on the lookout for promising players. “Oh, nothing,” answered the keen-faced one, with a laugh. Pop laughed also, but it was a laugh of understanding. And what it meant—and what the man’s remark meant to Joe, may be learned by reading the next volume of this series, to be called: “Baseball Joe in the Big League; Or, a Young Pitcher’s Hardest Struggles.” Joe hurried home that night, stopping only to[245] say good-bye to Mabel, and promising to come and see her as soon as he could. The operation on Mr. Matson was highly successful. It cost a large sum, and as his father had no money to pay for it, Joe used much of the extra cash that came to him as his share in the pennant series. Had his team not won he would hardly have had enough. But there was enough to spare for the simple operation on Pop Dutton’s arm. “Joe, I hate to have you spend your money this way—on me,” objected the grizzled veteran of many diamonds. “It doesn’t seem right.” “Oh, play ball!” cried Joe, gaily. “You can pay me back, if you want to, you old duffer, when you get into a bigger league than the Central, and are earning a good salary.” “I will!” cried Pop, enthusiastically. “For I know I’m good for some years yet. I have ‘come back,’ thanks to you, Joe.” They clasped hands silently—the young pitcher at the start of his brilliant career, and the old one, whose day was almost done. Pop’s operation was successful, and he went South for the Winter, there, in company with an old friend, to gradually work up into his old form. Hogan seemed to have vanished, but Reggie got all the pawned jewelry back. The Pittston players, in common with the others in the league teams, went their several ways to their Winter occupations,[246] there to remain until Spring should again make green the grass of the diamond. “Oh, Joe!” exclaimed Mrs. Matson, with trembling voice, when it was certain her husband would see again, “how much we owe to you, my son.” “You owe more to baseball,” laughed Joe. Clara came in with a letter. “This is for you, Joe,” she said, adding mischievously: “It seems to be from a girl, and it’s postmarked Goldsboro, North Carolina. Who do you know down there?” “Give me that letter, Sis!” cried Joe, blushing. And while he is perusing the missive, the writer of which you can possibly name, we will, for a time, take leave of Baseball Joe. 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