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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> <h3>HIS FIRST CHANCE</h3> Joe Matson’s hope of a quick recognition from the man he had helped that day, and who had turned out to be Yale’s head coach, was doomed to disappointment, for Mr. Hasbrook—or, to give him the title lovingly bestowed on him by the players, “Horsehide”—had something else to do just then besides recognizing casual acquaintances. He wanted to watch the playing. After a brief conference between himself and the other two coaches, in which the ’varsity captain had a part, Horsehide motioned for the playing to be resumed. He said little at first, and then when Weston, who was pitching, made a partial motion to throw the ball to first base, to catch a man there, but did not complete his evident intention, Mr. Hasbrook called out: “Hold on there! Wait a minute, Weston. That was as near a balk as I’ve ever seen, and if this was a professional game you might lose it for us, just as one of the world series was, by a pitcher who did the same thing.” [127] “What do you mean?” asked Weston, slightly surprised. “I mean that pretending to throw a ball to first, and not completing the action, is a balk, and your opponents could claim it if they had been sharp enough. Where were your eyes?” he asked, of the scrub captain. “I—er—I didn’t think——” “That’s what your brains are for,” snapped the head coach. “You can’t play ball without brains, any more than you can without bases or a bat. Watch every move. It’s the best general who wins battles—baseball or war. Now go on, and don’t do that again, Weston, and, if he does, you call a balk on him and advance each man a base,” ordered Horsehide. The ’varsity pitcher and the scrub captain looked crestfallen, but it was a lesson they needed to learn. “He’s sharp, isn’t he?” said Joe. “That’s what makes him the coach he is,” spoke Spike. “What’s the use of soft-soap? That never made a ball nine.” “No, I suppose not.” Joe was wondering whether he ought to mention to his chum the chance meeting with Mr. Hasbrook, but he concluded that a wrong impression might get out and so he kept quiet, as he had done in the matter of the red paint on the porch. Nothing more had[128] been heard about that act of vandalism, though the professor who had fallen and spoiled the valuable manuscripts was reported to be doing some quiet investigating. “I believe Weston had a hand in it,” thought Joe, “but I’m not going to say anything. He had red paint on him, anyhow. I wonder what he has against me, and if he can do anything to keep me from getting a chance? If I thought so I’d—no, I can’t do anything. I’ve just got to take it as it comes. If I do get a chance, though, I think I can make good.” The practice game went on, developing weak spots in both nines, and several shifts were made. But the ’varsity pitcher remained the same, and Joe watched Weston narrowly, trying to find out his good points. For Weston had them. He was not a brilliant twirler, but he was a steady one, in the main, and he had considerable speed, but not much of a curve. Still he did manage to strike out a number of his opponents. The game was almost over, and the ’varsity had it safely in hand. They had not obtained it without hard work, however, and they had made many glaring errors, but in this they were not alone. “Though, for that matter,” declared Joe, “I think the scrub pitcher did better, and had better[129] support, than the ’varsity. I don’t see why the scrubs didn’t win.” “It’s just because they know they’re playing against the ’varsity,” declared Spike. “There’s a sort of nervousness that makes ’em forget to do the things they could do if it was some other nine. Sort of over-awed I guess.” “Maybe,” assented Joe. “Well, here’s the end,” and the game came to a close. “Now for the post-mortem,” remarked his room-mate. “The coaches and captain will get together and talk it over.” “Then we might as well vamoose,” said Joe. “They won’t need us.” “I guess not. Come on.” The boys strolled from the diamond. As they passed a group of the ’varsity players surrounding the coaches, Joe saw Mr. Hasbrook step forward. He had a bat and seemed to be illustrating some of the weak points of the plays just made, or to be about to demonstrate how properly to swing at a ball. As Joe came opposite him the head coach stepped out a little and saw our hero. For a moment he stared unrecognizingly at him, and then a smile came over his rugged face. His eyes lighted up, and, stepping forward, he held out his hand. “Why, how do you do!” he exclaimed. “I know you—I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before,[130] and under queer circumstances, too, but I can’t just recall—hold on, wait a moment!” he exclaimed, as he saw Joe about to speak. “I like to make my brain work. “Ah! I have it! You’re the young fellow who drove me to the station, in time to catch the New York train, the day my carriage wheel broke. Well, but I’m glad to see you again! That was a great service you did me, and I haven’t forgotten it. Are you attending here?” “Yes,” said Joe, glad that he had not been forgotten. “Good! Are you playing ball?” “Well—er—I—that is I haven’t——” “Oh, I see. You’re trying for your team. Good! I’m glad to hear it. It’s a great game—the greatest there is. And so you are at Yale—Matson—you see I haven’t forgotten your name. I never expected to meet you here. Do you know the other coaches?” “I’ve met them,” murmured Joe, and he half smiled in a grim fashion, for that was about as far as his acquaintanceship had progressed. He had met them but they did not know him apart from many others. “Good!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook. “Well, I’ll see you again. And so you’re at Yale? Look me up when you get time,” and he turned back to his instruction, murmuring to the other coaches:[131] “He did me quite a service some time ago. I’m glad to see him again. Seems like a nice lad.” The others murmured an assent, and then gave their whole attention to the man who had, more than anyone else, perhaps, mastered the science of baseball as it ought to be played. “Well, say, you’ve got a friend at court all right!” exclaimed Spike, as he and Joe strolled along. “If I had your chance I’d——” “Chance!” exclaimed Joe. “What better chance have I than I had before?” “Why, you know Horsehide! Why didn’t you say so?” “I didn’t know I did until a little while ago. I had no idea that the man I picked up and took to the station would turn out to be the Yale coach. But if you think he’s going to put me in ahead of the others just on that account you’re mistaken.” “Oh, I don’t say that.” “It wouldn’t be square,” went on Joe. “Of course not. But as long as he does know you he might at least prevail on the other coaches to give you a better chance than you’ve had so far.” “Well, maybe,” laughed Joe. “But I’m not expecting anything like that.” “Well, just remember me when your chance does come,” begged Spike. “And remember that I told you.” [132] “I will,” declared Joe, with a laugh, and then he added more earnestly: “If ever I do get on the mound, Spike, I’ll try to have you catch for me.” “I wish you would!” As they went off the field they saw the knot of players still gathered about the head, and other coaches, receiving instructions, and how Joe Matson wished he was there none but himself knew. In their rooms that afternoon and evening the ball players talked of little save the result of the first real clash between ’varsity and scrub, and the effect of the return of the head coach. It was agreed that the ’varsity, after all, had made a very creditable showing, while the upholders of the class team players gave them much praise. “But things will begin to hum now!” exclaimed Jimmie Lee, as he sat in Joe’s room, while the beds, sofa and table, to say nothing of the floor, were encumbered with many lads of the Red Shack, and some visitors from other places. “Yes, sir! Horsehide won’t stand for any nonsense. They’ll all have to toe the line now.” “Jove, weren’t the other coaches stiff enough?” asked Clerkinwell De Vere, who aspired to right field. “They certainly laced into me for further orders when I muffed a ball.” “And so they should,” declared Spike. “That’s what they’re for.” [133] “Oh, but wait until you do that when Horsehide sees you,” went on Jimmie. “That won’t be a marker, will it, Shorty?” “I should say not. He’ll make your hair curl all right. He’s a terror.” “Friend of Joe’s here,” put in Spike. “No! is he?” demanded Ricky Hanover, who had drifted in. “How’s that?” “Oh, I just met him by accident,” declared our hero. “It isn’t worth mentioning.” He told the incident after some urging. “I wish I stood in your shoes,” said De Vere. “I’d be sure of my place then.” “Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Jimmie Lee. “If Horsehide played favorites that way, he wouldn’t be the coach he is. That’s one thing about him—he makes his friends work harder than anyone else. I know he did it other seasons—everyone says so.” “Oh, he’s square,” chimed in another. “There’s not a better coach living, and none you can depend on more. All he wants is to see good, clean playing, and Yale to win.” Joe could not help thinking of the coincidence of meeting the head coach but, though he did have slight hopes that it might lead to something, he resolutely put them out of his mind. “I don’t want to get on even the ’varsity that way!” he said to himself that night, when the[134] visitors were gone, and he and Spike had turned in. “I want to win my way.” Nevertheless, he could not help a feeling of slight nervousness the next day, when he reported for practice. “Well, same old gag over again I suppose,” remarked Spike, as they went out to toss and catch. “I suppose so,” agreed Joe. He passed Mr. Hasbrook, who was giving some instructions to the fielders just before the ’varsity-class game, but the head coach did not even notice Joe. After some batting and catching, and some warming-up work on the part of the pitchers, Mr. Benson called for a cessation of practice. “Here is the batting order and positions of the nines for to-day,” he announced, producing a paper. He began to read off the names. For the ’varsity they were the same as the day before. Joe, who had permitted himself a faint hope, felt his heart sinking. “For the opposition, or scrub,” announced the assistant coach, and he ran down the line, until there was but one place unfilled—that of pitcher. “Joe Matson!” he called, sharply. <hr class="chap" />[135] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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