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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h3>JOE MAKES GOOD</h3> For a moment our hero could scarcely believe his good fortune. He had been called to pitch for the scrub! Once more as he stood there, scarcely comprehending, Mr. Benson called out sharply: “Didn’t you hear, Matson? You’re to pitch against the ’varsity, and I want you to beat ’em!” “Yes—yes, sir,” answered Joe, in a sort of daze. “And, ’varsity, if you don’t pound him all over the field you’re no good! Eat ’em up!” snapped the assistant coach. “Don’t let ’em win, scrub,” insisted Mr. Whitfield, and thus it went on—playing one against the other to get the ’varsity to do its best. “Play ball!” called the umpire. “Get to work. Come in, you fellows,” and he motioned to those who were out on the field warming up. “Congratulations, old man!” murmured Spike, as he shook Joe’s hand. “You deserve it.” “And so do you. I wish you were going to catch.” [136] “I wish so, too, but maybe my chance will come later. Fool ’em now.” “I’ll try.” Joe had a vision of Bert Avondale, the regular scrub pitcher, moving to the bench, and for an instant his heart smote him, as he noted Bert’s despondent attitude. “It’s tough to be displaced,” murmured Joe. “It’s a queer world where your success has to be made on someone else’s failure, and yet—well, it’s all in the game. I may not make good, but I’m going to try awfully hard!” He wondered how his advancement had come about, and naturally he reasoned that his preferment had resulted from the words spoken in private by Mr. Hasbrook. “I wonder if I’d better thank him?” mused Joe. “It would be the right thing to do, and yet it would look as if he gave me the place by favor instead of because I’ve got a right to have it, for the reason that I can pitch. And yet he doesn’t know that I can pitch worth a cent, unless some of the other coaches have told him. But they haven’t watched me enough to know. However, I think I’ll say nothing until I have made good.” Had Joe only known it, he had been more closely watched since his advent on the diamond than he had suspected. It is not the coach who appears to be taking notes of a man’s style of play who[137] seems to find out most. Mr. Hasbrook, once he found that the lad who had rendered him such a service was at Yale, and had aspirations to the nine, made inquiries of the coaches who had done the preliminary work. “Oh, Matson. Hum, yes. He does fairly well,” admitted Mr. Benson. “He has a nice, clean delivery. He isn’t much on batting, though.” “Few pitchers are,” remarked the head coach. “I wonder if it would do to give him a trial?” “I should say so—yes,” put in Mr. Whitfield. He was quick to see that his co-worker had a little prejudice in Joe’s favor, and, to do the assistant coaches justice, they both agreed that Joe had done very well. But there were so many ahead of him—men who had been at Yale longer—that in justice they must be tried out first. “Then we’ll try him on the scrub,” decided Mr. Hasbrook; and so it had come about that Joe’s name was called. In order to give the scrubs every opportunity to beat the ’varsity, and so that those players would work all the harder to clinch the victory, the scrubs were allowed to go to bat last, thus enhancing their chances. “Play ball!” yelled the umpire again. “It’s getting late. Play ball!” Joe, a little nervous, walked to the box, and caught the new white ball which was tossed to him.[138] As he was rubbing some dirt on it, to take off the smoothness of the horsehide, Mr. Hasbrook advanced toward him and motioned him to wait. “Matson,” said the head coach, smiling genially. “You wouldn’t let me reward you for the great favor you did me a while ago, though I wanted to. I hoped sometime to be able to reciprocate, but I never thought it would come in this way. I have decided to give you a chance to make good.” “And I can’t thank you enough!” burst out the young pitcher. “I feel that——” “Tut! Tut!” exclaimed Mr. Hasbrook, holding up his hand, “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think you had pitching stuff in you. In a way this isn’t a favor at all, but you’re right though, it might not have come so quickly. I appreciate your feelings, but there are a few things I want to say. “At Yale every man stands on his own feet. There is no favoritism. Wealth doesn’t count, as I guess you’ve found out. Membership in the Senior Societies—Skull and Bones, Scroll and Keys—Wolf’s Head—doesn’t count—though, as you will find, those exclusive organizations take their members because of what they have done—not of what they are. “And so I’m giving you a chance to see what is in you. I’d like to see you make good, and I believe[139] you will. But—if you don’t—that ends it. Every tub must stand on its own bottom—you’ve got to stand on your feet. I’ve given you a chance. Maybe it would have come anyhow, but, out of friendship to you, and because of the service you did me, I was instrumental in having it come earlier. That is not favoritism. You can’t know how much you did for me that day when you enabled me to get the train that, otherwise, I would have missed. “It was not exactly a matter of life and death, but it was of vital importance to me. I would be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not repay you in the only way I could—by giving you the chance to which you are entitled. “But—this is important—you’ve got to show that you can pitch or you’ll lose your place. I’ve done what I can for you, and, if you prove worthy I’ll do more. I’ll give you the best coaching I can—but you’ve got to have backbone, a strong arm, a level head, and grit, and pluck, and a lot of other things to make the Yale nine. If you do I’ll feel justified in what I have done. Now, play ball!” and without giving him a chance to utter the thanks that were on his lips, Mr. Hasbrook left Joe and took a position where he could watch the playing. It is no wonder that our hero felt nervous under the circumstances. Anyone would, I think, and[140] when he pitched a wild ball, that the catcher had to leap for, there were some jeers. “Oh, you’ve got a great find!” sneered Weston. “He’s a pitcher from Pitchville!” Joe flushed at the words, but he knew he would have to stand more than that in a match game, and he did not reply. Other derogatory remarks were hurled at him, and the coaches permitted it, for a pitcher who wilts under a cross-fire is of little service in a big game, where everything is done to “get his goat,” as the saying goes. “Ball two!” yelled the umpire, at Joe’s second delivery, and the lad was aware of a cold feeling down his spine. “I’ve got to make good! I’ve got to make good!” fiercely he told himself over again. There seemed to be a mist before his eyes, but by an effort he cleared it away. He stooped over pretending to tie his shoe lace—an old trick to gain time—and when he rose he was master of himself again. Swiftly, cleanly, and with the curve breaking at just the right moment, his next delivery went over the plate. The batsman struck at it and missed by a foot. “Good work, old man!” called the catcher to him. “Let’s have another.” But the next was a foul, and Joe began to worry. [141] “You’re finding him,” called the ’varsity captain to his man. “Line one out.” But Joe was determined that this should not be, and it was not, for though the batter did not make a move to strike at the second ball after the foul, the umpire called sharply: “Strike—batter’s out.” There was a moment of silence, and then a yell of delight from the scrubs and their friends. “What’s the matter with you?” angrily demanded Mr. Hasbrook of the batter. “Can’t you hit anything?” The batsman shook his head sadly. “That’s the boy!” “That’s the way to do it!” “You’re all right, Matson!” These were only a few cries that resounded. Joe felt a warm glow in his heart, but he knew the battle had only begun. If he had hoped to pitch a no-hit, no-run game he was vastly disappointed, for the batters began to find him after that for scattering pokes down the field. Not badly, but enough to show to Joe and the others that he had much yet to learn. I am not going to describe that practice game in detail, for there are more important contests to come. Sufficient to say that, to the utter surprise of the ’varsity, the scrub not only continued to hold them well down, but even forged ahead of[142] them. In vain the coaches argued, stormed and pleaded. At the beginning of the ninth inning the scrubs were one run ahead. “Now if we can shut them out we’ll win!” yelled Billy Wakefield, the scrub captain, clapping Joe on the back. “Can you do it?” “I’ll try, old man,” and the pitcher breathed a trifle faster. It was a time to try his soul. He was so nervous that he walked the first man, and the ’varsity began to jeer him. “We’ve got his goat! Play tag around the bases now! Everyone gets a poke at it!” they cried. Joe shut his lips firmly. He was holding himself well in, and Mr. Hasbrook, watching, murmured: “He’s got nerve. He may do, if he’s got the ability, the speed and the stick-to-it-iveness. I think I made no mistake.” Joe struck out the next man cleanly, though the man on first stole to second. Then, on a puzzling little fly, which the shortstop, with no excuse in the world, missed, another man got to first. There was a double steal when Joe sent in his next delivery, and the catcher, in a magnificent throw to second, nearly caught his man. It was a close decision, but the umpire called him safe. There were now two on bases, the first sack being unoccupied, and only one out. [143] “Careful,” warned the catcher, and Joe nodded. Perhaps it was lucky that a not very formidable hitter was up next, for, after two balls had been called, Joe struck him out, making two down. “Now for the final!” he murmured, as the next batter faced him. There were still two on bases, and a good hit would mean two runs in, possibly three if it was a homer. “I’m going to strike him out!” thought Joe fiercely. But when two foul strikes resulted from balls that he had hoped would be missed he was not so sure. He had given no balls, however, and there was still a reserve in his favor. “Ball one!” yelled the umpire, at the next delivery. Joe could hear his mates breathing hard. He rubbed a little soil on the horsehide, though it did not need it, but it gave him a moment’s respite. Then, swift and sure, he threw the bail. Right for the plate it went, and the batter lunged fiercely at it. But he did not hit it. “Striker out—side’s out!” came from the umpire. Joe had made good. <hr class="chap" />[144] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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