Baseball Joe In The Central League Part 7

The practice came to an end, and the players were advised by their trainer, Mike McGuire, to take walks in the country round-about.

"It'll be good for your legs and wind," was the comment.

Joe enjoyed this almost as much as the work on the field, for the country was new to him and a source of constant delight. He went out with some of the men, and again would stroll off by himself.

Sat.u.r.day, the day when the first practice game was to be played, found Joe a bit nervous. He wondered whether he would get a chance to pitch.

So too, for that matter, did Tom Tooley, the south-paw moundman, who was nearer Joe's age than was Collin.

"Who's going to be the battery?" was heard on all sides as the Pittston players went to the grounds.

"The old man hasn't given it out yet," was the reply of Jimmie Mack. The "old man" was always the manager, and the term conveyed no hint of disrespect.

The Montville team, a semi-professional one, was a good bit like the Silver Stars, Joe thought, when he saw the members run out on the diamond for practice. Still they looked to be a "husky lot," as he admitted, and he was glad of it, for he wanted to see what he and his team-mates could do against a good aggregation.

"Play ball! Play ball!" called the umpire, as he dusted off the home plate. There was quite a crowd present, and when Gregory handed over his batting list the umpire made the announcement:

"Batteries--for Pittston, Collin and Gregory. For Montville, Smith and Jennings."

"Um. He's going to pitch Collin," murmured Tooley in Joe's ear. "That means we warm the bench."

Joe was a little disappointed, but he tried not to show it.

This first game was neither better nor worse than many others. Naturally the playing was ragged under the circ.u.mstances.

The Pittstons had everything to lose by being beaten and not much to gain if they won the game. On the other hand the home nine had much to gain in case they should win. So they took rather desperate chances.

Pittston was first at bat, and succeeded in getting two runs over. Then came a slump, and in quick succession three men went down, two being struck out. The Montville pitcher was a professional who had been in a big league, but who had drifted to a minor, and finally landed in the semi-pro ranks. But he had some good "heaves" left.

Collin walked to the mound with a rather bored air of superiority. There was a little whispered conference between him and the catcher-manager, and the second half of the first inning began.

Collin did well, and though hit twice for singles, not a run came in, and the home team was credited with a zero on the score-board.

"Oh, I guess we can play some!" cried one of the professionals.

"What are you crowing over?" demanded Jimmie Mack. "If we win this I suppose you fellows will want medals! Why this is nothing but a kid bunch we're up against."

"Don't let 'em fool you, though," advised the manager, who overheard the talk.

And then, to the surprise and dismay of all, the home team proceeded to "do things" to the professionals. They began making runs, and succeeded in stopping the winning streak of the Pittstons.

The detailed play would not interest you, and, for that matter it was a thing the Pittstons did not like to recall afterward. There was a bad slump, and when the seventh inning arrived Gregory called:

"Matson, you bat for Collin."

Joe felt the blood rush to his face.

"Does that mean I'm going to be taken out of the box?" asked the chief pitcher, stalking angrily over to the manager.

"It means just that, son. I can't afford to lose this game, and we sure will the way you're feedin' 'em in to 'em. I guess you drew it a little too fine the last few days. You need a rest."

"But--I--er--I----" protested Collin.

"That'll do," said Gregory, sharply. "Joe Matson will pitch. It's a chance, but I've got to take it."

"What's the matter with Tooley?" demanded Collin. "What do you want to go shove this raw college jake in ahead of us for? Say!"

"Go to the bench!" ordered the manager. "I know what I'm doing, Collin!"

The pitcher seemed about to say something, and the look he gave Joe was far from friendly. Then, realizing that he was under the manager's orders, he stalked to the bench.

"You won't do this again, if I can prevent it!" snapped Collin at Joe, as he pa.s.sed him. "I'll run you out of the league, if you try to come it over me!"

Only a few players heard him, and one or two whispered to him to quiet down, but he glared at Joe, who felt far from comfortable.

But he was to have his chance to pitch at last.

CHAPTER VI

A STRAIGHT THROW

Joe had hopes of making a safe hit when he came up, but pitchers are proverbially bad batsmen and our hero was no exception. I wish I could say that he "slammed one out for a home run, and came in amid wild applause," but truth compels me to state that Joe only knocked a little pop fly which dropped neatly into the hands of the second baseman, and Joe went back to the bench.

"Never mind," consoled Jimmie Mack, "you're not here to bat--we count on you to pitch, though of course if you can hit the ball do it--every time. But don't get nervous."

"I'm not," answered Joe.

And, to do him justice, his nerves were in excellent shape. He had not played on the school and Yale nines for nothing, and he had faced many a crisis fully as acute as the present one.

Then, too, the action of Collin must have had its effect. It was not pleasant for Joe to feel that he had won the enmity of the chief pitcher of the nine. But our hero resolved to do his best and let other matters take care of themselves.

Whether it was the advent of Joe into the game, or because matters would have turned out that way anyhow, was not disclosed, but Pittston seemed to brace up, and that inning added three runs to their score, which put them on even terms with the home team--the members of which were playing phenomenal ball.

"And now we've got to go in and beat them!" exclaimed Manager Gregory, as his men took the field. "Joe, I want to see what you can do."

Enough to make any young pitcher nervous; was it not? Yet Joe kept his nerves in check--no easy matter--and walked to the box with all the ease he could muster.

He fingered the ball for a moment, rubbed a little dirt on it--not that the spheroid needed it, but it gave him a chance to look at Gregory and catch his signal for a fast out. He nodded comprehendingly, having mastered the signals, and wound up for his first delivery.

"Ball one!" howled the umpire.

Joe was a little nettled. He was sure it had gone cleanly over the plate, curving out just as he intended it should, and yet it was called a ball. But he concealed his chagrin, and caught the horsehide which Gregory threw back to him--the catcher hesitating just the least bit, and with a look at the umpire which said much.

Again came the signal for a fast out.