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Baseball Joe at Yale

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<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> <h3>THE CORNELL HOST</h3> “That’s the way to do it!” “Yale always can do it!” “Bull dog grit!” “The blue always wins!” “They came—they saw—but—we conquered!” It was the close of the Yale-Amherst baseball game, and the sons of Eli had gloriously triumphed. They had trailed the banners of their opponents in the dust, they had raced around the bases, they had batted the ball into the far corners of the field, and they had raced home with the runs. “I told you so!” chirped Jimmie Lee. “Hold on!” cried Slim Jones. “Didn’t you start to be a calamity howler, and say Yale wouldn’t win?” “Never!” asserted Jimmie. “Yes, you did!” “Well, I was only bluffing. I knew we could put it all over them.” [171] “And we did,” said Spike in a low voice to Joe. “Only——” “Only I didn’t have much share in it,” interrupted the aspirant for pitching honors. There had indeed been a “shake-up” on the nine the day of the game. Until the last moment it was not definitely settled who would pitch, and there were many rumors current. It lay between Joe, Weston, and McAnish, the left-handed one, and on the morning of the game—the first important one of the season for Yale—the newspapers had various guesses as to who would be the twirler. Joe had hoped to go in at the start, but when the game was called, and Captain Hatfield submitted his list, it was seen that Weston had the coveted place. “Well, old man, you’re back where you belong,” said Avondale to him, as the name was called. “I suppose now, that little matter, which you were speaking to me about, can drop?” “It can—if I remain pitcher,” answered Weston. “But I’ve got it all cocked and primed to explode if I have to. I’m not going to sit tight and let some country whipper-snapper put it all over me.” “I don’t know as I blame you—and yet he seems a pretty decent sort.” “Oh, he’s not in our class!” [172] “Well, maybe not. Do your best!” And Weston did. Never had he pitched a better game—even his enemies, and he had not a few, admitted that. It was a “walkover” soon after the first few innings had demonstrated the superiority of Yale. Amherst was game, and fought to the last ditch, but neither in batting, fielding nor pitching was she the equal of the wearers of the blue. Joe, sitting on the bench, with the other substitutes, fretted his heart out, hoping for a chance to play, but he was not called on until the eighth inning. Then, after a conference of the coaches, during which the head one could be seen to gesticulate vigorously, Joe was called on to bat in place of another, which gave him the call to pitch the next inning. “What’s the matter?” was asked on all sides. “Is Weston going stale?” “Glass arm,” suggested some of his enemies. “No, they’re saving him for the Harvard game,” was the opinion of many. “They don’t want to work him too hard.” “And we have this game anyhow.” “But what’s the matter with McAnish?” “Oh, he’s out of form.” And so Joe had gone in at the eleventh hour, before that sitting on the bench, eating his heart out. [173] “Show what you can do!” exclaimed the head coach to him as he took the mound. “And don’t worry.” “Don’t worry?” repeated Joe. “That’s what I said. Remember what I told you, and don’t try to win the game by merely pitching.” Joe recalled his instructions about backing up first base in an emergency, of taking care of the bunts, of watching the catcher, who might try to deceive the man on third. And it was well for Joe that he did. For, though he did well from the pitching end, there came several opportunities to distinguish himself in making infield plays. Once he made a fine stop of a bunt that, had it been a safety, would have done much to lower Yale’s lead. Again he managed, by a quick play, on getting the ball from the catcher, to throw out the man at second, who was trying to steal third. There was applause for Joe Matson that day, though he did not pitch the team to victory. “Well?” asked Mr. Hasbrook of his colleagues, after the contest. “What did I tell you? Isn’t he an all-around good player?” “He seems so,” admitted Mr. Benson. “But I think Weston did most excellently.” “Yes, he did,” said the head coach, “but mark my words, he’s overtrained or he hasn’t the grit to[174] stick it out. Here we are at the beginning of the season, and he has failed us several times. I don’t want to force my judgment on you gentlemen, but I think we ought to give Matson a better trial.” “All right, we’ll send him in earlier in the Cornell game next week,” suggested Mr. Whitfield, and to that the head coach agreed. There were all sorts of baseball politics discussed in the dormitories, on the campus, and at Glory’s and other resorts that night. “It begins to look as if the coaches didn’t quite know where they were at,” declared Ricky Hanover. “They make a shift at the last minute.” “A good shift—according to the way the game went,” declared Hen Johnson, who held down second base. “That’s yet to be seen,” asserted Jimmie Lee. “Amherst was fruit for us to-day.” The opinions went back and forth—pro and con—and it was, after all, a matter of judgment. Yet back of it all was the indomitable Yale spirit that has often turned defeat into victory. This was to hearten up those who picked flaws in the playing of the blue, and who predicted a slump in the following week, when the strong Cornell team would be met. “Oh, Cornell may row us but she can’t play ball[175] us,” declared Jimmie Lee. “We’ll dump ’em.” “We may—if Joe Matson pitches,” spoke Spike, in a low voice. “Here! Cut that out,” advised Joe, in a sharp whisper. Meanwhile no more had been heard about the red paint matter, and it looked to be but a flash in the pan—what the News had printed. The Senior committee of investigation was not in evidence—at least as far as could be learned. Baseball practice went on, sometimes Joe pitching for the ’varsity, and again one of his rivals being called on. There was a tightening up on the part of the coaches—they were less tolerant—the errors were less excused. Bitter words were the portion of those who made mistakes, and Joe did not escape. “You must do a little better,” the head coach urged him. “We’re not playing school teams, remember, but teams that are but little removed from the professional class, as regards ability. Play harder—sharper—more accurately—don’t get rattled.” And Joe tried to tell himself that he would do or not do these things, but it was hard work. He had begun to realize what a career he had marked out for himself. “Well, are you going to spring it?” asked[176] Avondale of Weston, a day or so before the Cornell game. “What about the red paint?” “Oh, I guess it will keep—if I pitch the game,” was the answer. “Did you send the anonymous letter?” “Don’t ask me,” snapped Weston. The day of the next game came—one of the great battles of the diamond, on the winning or losing of which depended, in a measure, the gaining of the championship. The Cornell host, many strong, descended on New Haven, and made the air vibrant with their yells. They cheered Yale, and were cheered in turn. Out on the diamond they trotted—a likely looking lot of lads. “Husky bunch,” commented Jimmie Lee. “They sure are,” agreed Shorty Kendall. “Who’ll pitch for you?” “Don’t know. They’re just going to announce it.” The umpire, the captains, managers, and coaches were holding a conference. Joe, in spite of his seeming indifference, watched them narrowly. Over in their section the Cornell hosts were singing their songs and giving their cheers. The wearers of the blue had given their great cry—they had sung the Boola song—some had[177] even done the serpentine dance. All was in readiness for the game. “If he doesn’t pitch me,” murmured Weston, “I’ll be——” Mr. Hasbrook motioned to the umpire, who raised his megaphone to make the announcement. <hr class="chap" />[178] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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