Baseball Joe at Yale Part 23

Joe, a little nervous, walked to the box, and caught the new white ball which was tossed to him. 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 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 ent.i.tled.

"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 circ.u.mstances.

Anyone would, I think, and 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.

"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 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.

"Careful," warned the catcher, and Joe nodded.

Perhaps it was lucky that a not very formidable hitter was up next, for, after two b.a.l.l.s 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 b.a.l.l.s that he had hoped would be missed he was not so sure. He had given no b.a.l.l.s, 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.