Baseball Joe at Yale Part 19

went on Hatfield in a quiet voice; "but, just because we are, don't let that fool you into getting careless. We've all got to work hard--to train hard--and we've got to practice. I expect every man to report regularly whether he thinks he has a chance to make the 'varsity or not.

It's part of the game, and we've all got to play it--scrub and 'varsity alike.

"I guess that's all I've got to say, though I may have more later, after we get started. The coaches will take charge now and you'll have to do as they say. We won't do much to-day, just some catching and a bit of running to see how each fellow's wind is." He nodded to the coaches and trainer, and as he stepped back once more came the cry:

"Three cheers for Hatfield. Good old Yale cheers!"

The gymnasium rang with them, and then came the Boola song, after which the crowd formed in close line and did the serpentine dance.

"Now then, get busy!" commanded Mr. Benson. "Old players over that side, and the new ones here. Give in your names, and say where you've played.

Lively now!"

He and Mr. Whitfield began circulating among the candidates, and, as they approached him, Joe felt his heart beginning to beat faster. Would he have a chance? And, if he got it, could he make good?

These were the questions he asked him.

"Name?"

"Matson--Joe."

"Hum. Yes. Ever played before?"

"Yes, on a school nine."

"Where?"

"Excelsior Hall."

"Hum! Yes. Never heard of it. Where did you play?"

"I pitched."

"Pitched. Hum! Yes. I never saw so many pitchers as we have this season.

Well, I'll put you down for your Freshman cla.s.s team, though I can't give you much encouragement," and Mr. Benson turned to the next lad. "Go over there and do some throwing, I'll watch you later," he concluded, and Joe's heart began to sink as he saw Spike motioning to him to come to one side and indulge in some practice b.a.l.l.s.

"How'd you make out?" asked his room-mate.

"Oh, I'm engaged right off the bat," laughed Joe, but he could not conceal the anxiety in the voice that he strove to make indifferent.

"So? Then you had better luck than I. Whitfield told me he didn't think I had the right build for a catcher."

"Well, maybe we can both make our scrub cla.s.s team," spoke Joe.

"Say, it hasn't half begun yet," declared Jimmie Lee, who had a hankering to play first base. "Wait until the main coach gets here, and we'll have a shake-up that'll set some people on their ears."

"What do you mean?" asked Joe wonderingly.

"I mean that the main gazaboo isn't here yet: Mr. Forsythe Hasbrook--old Horsehide they call him. He's the main coach. These are only his a.s.sistants."

"Is that so?" inquired Spike.

"It sure is. He's the real thing in baseball--Horsehide is. An old Yale man, but up-to-date. Played ever since he was a baby, and knows the game from A to Z. He never gets here until the preliminary practice has begun on the field, and then it doesn't take him long to size a fellow up. Of course I only know what I've been told," he added, "but that goes all right."

"Well, if we didn't get picked for the team now, I don't believe we'll have any chance after the main coach gets here," said Joe.

"Guess not," a.s.sented Spike. "Here we go." And they started to practice.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SURPRISE

"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.

"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 b.a.l.l.s 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 cla.s.s.

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 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 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 Soph.o.m.ore or Junior nines to the 'varsity, and back again. Some who had been called to the "scrub," as I shall call the cla.s.s nines when they practiced against the 'varsity, were sent back to the waiting list--at best to bunt b.a.l.l.s to their fellows, to pitch or catch as suited the positions they hoped to fill.