Back Aa

Baseball Joe at Yale

Close

<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> <h3>THE SURPRISE</h3> “Oh, get a little more speed on! Don’t run so much like an ice wagon. Remember that the object is to get to the base before the ball does!” “Lively now! Throw that in as if you meant it! We’re not playing bean bag, remember!” “Oh, swing to it! Swing to it! Make your body do some of the work as well as your arms!” “Don’t be afraid of the ball! It’s hard, of course, that’s the way it’s made. But if you’re going to flinch every time it comes your way you might as well play ping-pong!” “Stand up to the plate! What if you do get hit?” Thus the coaches were trying to instill into the new candidates for the ’varsity nine some rudiments of how they thought the game should be played. Sharp and bitter the words were sometimes, bitten off with a snap and exploded with cutting sarcasm, but it was their notion of how to get the best out of a man, and perhaps it was. [117] “Remember we want to win games,” declared Mr. Benson. “We’re not on the diamond to give a ladies’ exhibition. You’ve got to play, and play hard if you want to represent Yale.” “That’s right,” chimed in Mr. Whitfield. “We’ve got to have the college championship this year. We’ve GOT to have it. Now try that over,” he commanded of Ford Weston, who had struck one man out in practice. “Do it again. That’s the kind of playing we want.” Joe, who had been catching with Spike, looked enviously at his rival, who was on the coveted mound, taking in succession many batters as they came up. Shorty Kendall was catching for the ’varsity pitcher, and the balls came into his big mitt with a resounding whack that told of speed. “I wonder if I’ll ever get there,” mused Joe, and, somehow he regretted, for the first time since coming to Yale, that he had consented to the college arrangement. It seemed so impossible for him to make way against the handicap of other players ahead of him. “If I’d finished at Excelsior,” he told himself, “I think I’d have gotten into some minor league where good playing tells, and not class. Hang it all!” The practice went on. It was the first of the outdoor playing, and while the gymnasium work had seemed to develop some new and unexpectedly[118] good material, the real test of the diamond sent some of the more hopeful candidates back on the waiting list. As yet Joe had been given scant notice. He had been told to bat, pitch, catch and run, but that was all. He had done it, but it had all seemed useless. The day was a perfect Spring one, and the diamond was in excellent condition. It had been rather wet, but the wind had dried it, and, though there were still evidences of frost in the ground, they would soon disappear under the influence of the warm sun. In various sorts of uniforms, scattered over the big field, the candidates went at their practice with devotion and zeal. Winning a baseball game may not be much in the eyes of the world, getting the college championship may seem a small matter to the man of affairs—to the student or the politician, intent on bigger matters. But to the college lads themselves it meant much—it was a large part of their life. And, after all, isn’t life just one big game; and if we play it fairly and squarely and win—isn’t that all there is to it? And, in a measure, doesn’t playing at an athletic game fit one to play in life? It isn’t always the winning that counts, but the spirit of fair play, the love for the square deal, the respect for a worthy foe, and the determination not to give up until you are fairly beaten—all[119] these things count for much. So, after all, one can not blame the college lads for the intense interest they take in their games. It is the best kind of training for life, for it is clean and healthful. For a week or more this preliminary practice was kept up. The weather remained fine, and every afternoon the diamond was the scene of much excitement. The candidates reported faithfully, and worked hard. There were many shifts from some of the Sophomore or Junior nines to the ’varsity, and back again. Some who had been called to the “scrub,” as I shall call the class nines when they practiced against the ’varsity, were sent back to the waiting list—at best to bunt balls to their fellows, to pitch or catch as suited the positions they hoped to fill. Nor was it all easy work, it was really hard toil. It is one thing to play ball without much care as to the outcome, to toss the horsehide back and forth, and, if it is missed, only to laugh. It is one thing to try to bat, to watch the ball coming toward you, wondering what sort of a curve will break, and whether you will hit it or miss it—or whether it will hit you—it is one thing to do that in a friendly little game, and laugh if you strike out. But when making a nine depends on whether your stick connects with the sphere—when getting[120] the college letter for your sweater can be made, or unmade, by this same catching of the ball, then there is a different story back of it. There is a nervous tension that tires one almost as much as severe physical labor. And there is hard physical work, too. Of course it is a welcome change from the class-room work, or the lectures, to get out on the diamond, but it is work, none the less. Then there are the coaches to put up with. I never was a coach, though I have played under them, and I suppose there is some virtue in the method they use—that of driving the men. And when a lad has done his best, has stood up to the ball, and clouted at it for all he is worth, only to fan the yielding air, it is rather discouraging to hear the coach remark sarcastically: “You’re not playing ping-pong, you know, Jones.” Or to hear him say with vinegary sweetness: “Did you hurt yourself that time, Smith? It was a beautiful wind blow, but—er—pardon me if I mention, just for your benefit you know, that the object in this game is to hit the ball. You hit it, and then you run—run, understand, not walk. And another thing, don’t be so afraid of it. “Of course this isn’t a rubber ball, of the sort you probably used to play baby in the hole with—it’s[121] hard, and when it hits you it’s going to hurt. But—don’t let it hit you, and for cats’ sake stand up to the plate!” It’s a way coaches have, I suppose, and always will. Joe felt so, at any rate, and he had rather one would fairly howl at him, in all sorts of strenuous language, than use that sarcastic tone. And I think I agree with him. There is something you get at when a coach yells at you: “Come on there you snail! Are you going to hold that base all day? Someone else wants to get past you know. “Come on in! We need that run! Move as if you meant it! Don’t fall asleep! Oh, for cats’ sake, fanning the air again? Run now! That’s it. Slide! Don’t be afraid of soiling your clothes, we’ll buy you another suit!” I hold this is preferable to the soft and sarcastic method, but they used both varieties at Yale, and Joe sometimes got so discouraged at times that he felt like resigning. It was harder than he had dreamed of, and he had not pictured a rosy time for himself. “I don’t believe I’m ever going to make even the class scrub, Spike,” said Joe to his room-mate one day, following some long practice, when he had not even been called on to bat. “Oh, yes you will,” declared his friend. “You[122] can pitch—you know it, and I know it. I haven’t caught off you these two weeks for nothing. You can pitch, and they’ll find it out sooner or later. Don’t give up!” “I’m not going to. And say, come to think of it, you’re no better off than I am. They haven’t noticed you either, and yet I’ve never seen anyone who held the balls any better than you do. And, as for throwing to second—say, you’ve got Kendall beaten.” “I’m glad you think so,” murmured Spike. “I know it!” insisted Joe. “I’ve played in a few games. But what’s the use of kicking? Maybe our chance will come.” “I hope so,” replied Spike. The practice went on, the elimination and weeding out process being carried on with firm hands, regardless of the heart-breaks caused. “First game to-morrow,” announced Jimmie Lee, bursting into Joe’s room one evening. “It’s just been decided.” “Who do we play?” asked Spike. Joe felt his heart sink down lower than ever, for he realized that if he had a chance he would have heard of it by this time. “Oh, it isn’t a regular game,” went on Jimmie, who was jubilant from having heard that he would at least start at first base for the class team. “The scrub, as they call it, and ’varsity will play[123] the first regular contest. Horsehide is to be there for the first time. Then there’ll be something doing. I only hope he sees me.” “The first regular practice game to-morrow,” mused Joe. “Well, it will be a good one—to watch.” “Yes—to watch,” joined in Spike, grimly. “But the season is early yet, Joe.” As they were talking the door opened and Ricky Hanover came in. He was grinning broadly. “Let’s go out and have some sport,” he proposed. “It’s as dull as ditch water around here. Come on out and raise a riot. I’ll take you fellows down to Glory’s, and you can have a rabbit.” “Get out!” cried Spike. “We’re in training, you heathen, and you’re not.” “A precious lot of good it will do you,” commented the newcomer. “Why don’t you chuck it all? You’ll never make the team—I mean you and Joe, Spike. Jimmie here has had luck. Chuck it and come on out.” “No,” spoke Joe slowly. “I’m going to stick.” “So am I,” added his room-mate. “You never can tell when your chance will come. Besides, we owe it to Yale to stick.” “All right—I suppose you’re right,” agreed Ricky, with a sigh. “I did the same thing at football. But I sure do want to start something.” “Begin on that,” laughed Joe passing him over[124] the alarm clock. “It’s run down. Wind it and start it going!” Ricky joined in the laugh against him, and soon took his departure. Joe heard him come in at an early morning hour, and wondered what “sport” Ricky had been up to. A large gathering turned out to see the first real baseball contest of the season. By it a line could be had on the sort of game the ’varsity would put up, and all the students were eager to see what sort of championship material they had. There was a conference between coaches and captains, and the ’varsity list was announced Weston was to pitch, and Kendall to catch. Neither Joe’s name, nor those of any of his intimate chums were called off for a class team. Joe did have some hope of the scrub, but when the name of the last man there had been called off, Joe’s was not mentioned. He moved off to the side, with bitterness in his heart. The game started off rather tamely, though the class pitcher—Bert Avondale—managed to strike out two of the ’varsity men, to the disgust of the coaches, who raced about, imploring their charges to hit the ball. At the same time they called on the scrub to do their best to prevent the ’varsity men from getting to the bases. It was playing one against the other, just as[125] diamond dust is used to cut the precious stones of which it once formed a part. “Well, I haven’t seen anything wonderful,” remarked Joe to Spike, after the first inning. “No, they’re a little slow warming up. But wait. Oh, I say, here he comes!” “Who?” “The head coach—Horsehide himself. I heard he was to be here to-day. It’s his first appearance. Now they’ll walk Spanish.” Across the back-field a man was approaching—a man who was eagerly surrounded by many of the candidates, and he was cheered to the echo, while murmurs of his name reached Joe. “Let’s go up and have a look at him,” proposed Spike. “Go ahead,” agreed Joe, for the game had momentarily stopped at the advent of the head coach. He was shaking hands all around, and, as Joe approached, Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook turned to greet someone behind him. Joe had a good look at his face, and to his great surprise he recognized it as that of the man whom he had driven to the depot in such a rush to catch a train. “And he’s Yale’s head coach!” murmured Joe. “I—I wonder if he’ll remember me?” <hr class="chap" />[126] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2