Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball Part 6

"By the great horn spoon," he muttered, under his breath, "somebody must have come along and stolen that ball just as I was going to hit it. I'll swear that if it was in the air when I swung at it that I would have landed it."

As he walked to the bench the captain said, "What's the matter with you, Al? Has the freshie got you buffaloed?"

"Aw, nix on that, cap," replied the disgruntled batter. "Wait until you get up there. Either that kid's having a streak of luck or else he's got that ball hypnotized. That last one he pitched just saw my bat coming and dodged under it. I think he's got 'em trained."

"Why, you poor simp," laughed the captain; "just wait till I get up there. Why, we all saw that last ball you bit on so nicely. It was a cinch, wasn't it, boys?"

It sure was, they all agreed, but the unfortunate object of these pleasantries shook his head in a puzzled way, and stared at Bert.

As it happened, the next batter was the same who had scored the home run in the first part of the game, and he swaggered confidently to the plate.

Bert had overheard what the coach had told Winters in regard to this batter, so he delivered a low ball, which the batter let pa.s.s. "One ball," called the umpire, and the captain of the visitors' team remarked, "I thought he couldn't last. That was just a streak of 'beginner's luck,' that's all."

The next ball looked good to the batsman, and he lunged hard at the white sphere. It was a tantalizing upshoot, however, and he raised an easy fly to d.i.c.k at first. The man on second had become so absorbed in watching Bert, that when d.i.c.k wheeled like lightning and snapped the ball to second, he was almost caught napping, and barely got back in time.

The home rooters, who up to now had been rather listless in their cheering, now started in with a rush, and a veritable storm of cheering and singing shook the grandstand. The coach drew a deep breath, and began to allow himself the luxury of a little hope.

The third man up was the captain, who had boasted so of what he was going to do to the "green" pitcher. As he rose to go to the plate he remarked, "Watch me, now, Al, and I'll show you what it is like to swat a ball over the fence."

He selected a very heavy bat, and stepped jauntily to the plate. Bert had been warned to do his best against this man, as he was popularly known as the "pitcher's hoodoo." He resolved to use his "fadeaway" ball for all it was worth, and shook his head at all the catcher's signals until the latter signaled for the fadeaway. He then nodded his head, and wound up very deliberately. Then he pitched what looked like a straight, fast ball to the expectant batsman. The latter gripped his bat and put all his strength into what he fondly hoped would be a "homer." His bat whistled as it cut the air, but in some mysterious way failed to even touch the ball, which landed with a loud "plunk!" in the catcher's mitt.

A roar of derisive laughter went up from the rooters, and the captain looked rather foolish. "That's mighty queer," he thought, "there must be something the matter with the balance of this bat. I guess I'll try another." Accordingly, he took a fresh bat, and waited with renewed confidence for the next ball. This time he swung more carefully, but with no better result. "Two strikes!" barked the umpire, and the frenzied rooters stood up on their seats and yelled themselves hoa.r.s.e.

"Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!" they roared in unison, and Bert felt a great surge of joy go through him. His arm felt in perfect condition, and he knew that if called upon he could have pitched the whole game and not have been overtired. He handled the ball carefully, and fitted it in just the right position in his hand. He resolved to try the same ball once more, as he thought the batter would probably think that he would try something else. This he did, and although the batter felt sure that he had this ball measured to the fraction of an inch, his vicious swing encountered nothing more substantial than air.

"Three strikes!" called the umpire, and amid a storm of cheering and ridicule from the grandstand the discomfited batter slammed his bat down and walked over to his teammates.

It was now Al's turn to crow, and he did so unmercifully. "What's the matter, cap?" he inquired, grinning wickedly. "That kid hasn't got your goat, has he? Where's that homer over the fence that you were alluding to a few minutes ago?"

"Aw, shut up!" returned the captain, angrily. "That Freshie's got a delivery that would fool Ty Cobb. There's no luck about that. It's just dandy pitching."

"I could have told you that," said the other, "but I thought I'd let you find it out for yourself. That boy's a wonder."

The home team trotted in from the field eagerly, and there was a look in their eyes that Reddy was glad to see. "They've got some spirit and confidence in them now," he thought. "I certainly think I've got a kingpin pitcher at last. But I'd better not count my chickens before they're hatched. He may go all to pieces in the next inning."

As they came in, d.i.c.k and Tom slapped Bert on the back. "We knew you could do it, old scout!" they exulted. "What will old Winters' pals have to say after this?"

Reddy said little, but scanned Bert's face carefully, and seemed satisfied. "I guess you'll do, Wilson," he said. "We'll let you pitch this game out, and see what you can do."

Sterling was the first man up, and he walked to the plate with a resolve to do or die written on his face. He planted his feet wide apart, and connected with the first pitched ball for a hot grounder that got him safely to first base. The rooters cheered frantically, and the cheering grew when it was seen that Bert was the next batter. This was more in recognition, however, of his good work in the box. Heavy hitting is not expected of a pitcher, and n.o.body looked to see Bert do much in this line. While he had been watching the game from the bench, he had studied the opposing pitcher's delivery carefully, and had learned one or two facts regarding it. He felt sure that if the pitcher delivered a certain ball, he would be able to connect with it, but was disappointed at first. Bert bit at a wide out curve, and fouled the next ball, which was a fast, straight one. But as the pitcher wound up for the third one Bert's heart leaped, for he saw that this was going to be the ball that he had been hoping for. He grasped his bat near the end, for Bert was what is known as a "free swinger," and crouched expectantly. The ball came to him like a shot, but he swung his bat savagely and clipped the ball with terrific force toward third base. Almost before the spectators realized that the ball had been hit, Bert was racing toward first base, and the man already on base was tearing up the sod toward second.

The ball scorched right through the hands of the third baseman, and crashed against the left field fence. The fielders scurried wildly after it, but before they could return it to the infield, the man on first base had scored, and Bert was on third.

"We'll win yet! We'll win yet! We'll win yet!" croaked a rooter, too hoa.r.s.e to yell any longer. "What's the matter with Wilson?" and in one vast roar came the answer, "HE'S ALL RIGHT!"

The home team players were all dancing around excitedly, and they pounded Hinsdale unmercifully on the back, for he was up next. "Bust a hole through the fence, Hinsdale," they roared; "they're on the run now.

Go in and break a bat over the next ball!"

"Hin" fairly ran to the plate in his eagerness, and, as he afterward said, he felt as though he "couldn't miss if he tried." The first ball over the plate he slammed viciously at the pitcher, who stopped the ball, but fumbled it a few seconds, thus giving him a chance to get to first. The pitcher then hurled the ball to the home plate, in the hope of cutting off Bert from scoring, but was a fraction of a second too late, and Bert raced in with one more run.

The pitcher now tightened up, however, and put his whole soul into stopping this winning streak, and it looked as though he had succeeded.

The next two batters struck out on six pitched b.a.l.l.s, and the visiting rooters had a chance to exercise their voices, which had had a rest for some time. Drake was up next, and he knocked out a long fly that looked good, but was pulled down by a fielder after a pretty run. This ended the sixth inning, and the visitors were still one run ahead.

As Bert was about to go onto the field, Reddy said, "Don't take it too hard, Wilson. Don't mind if they do hit a ball sometimes. If you try to strike each man out without fail, it makes too great a tax on your arm.

Let the fielders work once in a while."

With these instructions in mind, Bert eased up a little in the next inning, but the visitors had no chance to do any effective slugging.

Twice they got a man on first base, but each time Bert struck out the following batter or only allowed him to hit the ball for an easy fly that was smothered without any trouble.

Consequently the visitors failed to score that inning, but they were still one run ahead, and knew that if they could hold Bert's team down they would win the game.

The home team failed to "get to" the ball for anything that looked like a run, and the seventh inning ended with no change in the score.

"Well, Wilson, it's up to you to hold them down," said Reddy, as the players started for their positions in the beginning of the eighth inning. "Do you feel as though you could do it?"

"Why, I'll do my best," replied Bert, modestly. "My arm feels stronger than it did when I started, so I guess I'm good for some time yet, at any rate."

"All right, go in and win," replied Reddy, with a smile, and Bert needed no urging.

The first man to bat for the visitors was the one called Al, who had first had a taste of Bert's "fadeaway." He swung viciously on the first ball that Bert offered him, which happened to be a fast in-curve. By a combination of luck and skill he managed to land the sphere for a safe trip to first. The cover of the ball was found to be torn when it was thrown back. Consequently, Bert had to pitch with a new ball, and failed to get his customary control. Much to his disgust he pitched four b.a.l.l.s and two strikes, and the batter walked to first, forcing the man already on first to second base.

"Yah, yah!" yelled a visiting rooter. "It's all over. He's blowing up!

Pitcher's got a gla.s.s arm! Yah! Yah!"

Others joined him in this cry, and Reddy looked worried. "That's enough to rattle any green pitcher," he thought. "I only hope they don't know what they're talking about, and I don't think they do. Wilson's a game boy, or I'm very much mistaken."

"Don't let 'em scare you, Bert," called d.i.c.k, from first base. "Let 'em yell their heads off if they want to. Don't mind 'em."

"No danger of that," returned Bert, confidently. "Just watch my smoke for a few minutes, that's all."

Bert struck out the next batter in three pitched b.a.l.l.s, and the clamor from the hostile rooters died down. The next batter was the captain, and he was burning for revenge, but popped a high foul to Hinsdale, the catcher, and retired, saying things not to be approved. The third man was struck out after Bert had had two b.a.l.l.s called on him, and this ended the visitors' half of the eighth inning.

The home team could make no better headway against the visitors'

pitching and team work, however, and the inning ended without a tally.

The score stood three to two in the visitors' favor, and things looked rather dark for the home boys.

At the beginning of the ninth the visitors sent a pinch hitter, named Burroughs, to the plate to bat in place of Al, who by now had an almost superst.i.tious fear of Bert's delivery, and declared that "he couldn't hit anything smaller than a football if that Freshie pitched it."

Burroughs was hampered by no such feelings, however, and, after two strikes had been called on him, he managed to connect with a fast, straight ball and sent it soaring into the outfield. It looked like an easy out, but at the last moment the fielder shifted his position a little too much, and the ball dropped through his fingers. Before he could get it in, the runner had reached third base, where he danced excitedly and emitted whoops of joy.

Bert felt a sinking sensation at his heart, as he realized how much depended on him. The next man up made a clever bunt, and although he was put out, Burroughs reached home ahead of the ball, bringing in another run.

He was rewarded with a storm of applause from the visiting rooters, and it seemed as though all hope had departed for the home team.

With the next batter Bert made unsparing use of his fadeaway, and struck him out with little trouble. The third man shared the same fate, but it seemed as though the game were irretrievably lost. A two-run lead in the ninth inning seemed insurmountable, and Reddy muttered things under his breath. When the boys came trooping over to the bench, he said, "What's the matter with you fellows, anyway? What good does it do for Wilson to hold the other team down, if you don't do any stick work to back him up?

Get in there now, and see if you can't knock out a few runs. A game is never finished until the last half of the ninth inning, and you've got a good chance yet. Go to it."

Every chap on the team resolved to make a run or die in the attempt, and Reddy could see that his speech had had some effect.

d.i.c.k was the first batter up, and he selected a heavy "wagon tongue" and stepped to the plate. The pitcher may have been a little careless, but at any rate d.i.c.k got a ball just where he wanted it, and swung with all his strength. The ball fairly whistled as it left the bat and dashed along the ground just inside the right foul line. d.i.c.k sprinted frantically around the bases, and got to third before he was stopped by Tom, who had been waiting for him. "No further, old sock," said Tom, excitedly. "That was a crackerjack hit, but you could never have got home on it. Gee! if Hodge will only follow this up we've got a chance."