Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball

CHAPTER VII

Taking His Medicine

The team had been tested almost to its limit this season, and the strain was beginning to show. Each player was worked up to the highest possible nervous tension, and no man can last long under such conditions. Even with professional players this condition becomes very apparent in a hard-fought series, and so was even more plainly seen among these comparatively inexperienced contestants for the honor of their alma mater.

Another thing that tended strongly to demoralize them was the fact of Bert’s being unable to play. His burned hands, while rapidly mending, were still unable to grip the ball. Of course, they knew that this was merely a temporary calamity, but even to have the pitcher on whom they had based their strongest hopes out of commission for almost two weeks meant much to them. Winters and Benson, while undoubtedly good pitchers, fell considerably short of the standard set by Bert, and all the players realized this.

Of course, it may be argued that they should not allow themselves to be affected by anything of this kind, but no one who has not actually been a ball player can fully realize what it means to a team, when they are nearing the end of a neck and neck struggle, to be deprived of their star pitcher. It must also be remembered that Bert, while not by any means as good a batter as he was a pitcher, was nevertheless a strong batsman, and had the happy faculty of “swatting them out” at the time when they would do the most good. On this account, his loss was felt more keenly than would have ordinarily been the case.

Another thing, but one that was never openly alluded to, was the knowledge that each boy had, that Winters was not the pitcher he had been once upon a time. His breaks from training were becoming more and more frequent, and all that the coach could say in the way of threat or entreaty seemed to have no effect. Winters had gotten in with a fast set, and no argument or persuasion could induce him to see the error of his way.

Reddy did not dare to remove him from the team, however, as that would have left him only one pitcher of any value, namely, Benson, and nobody knew better than the wily trainer that Benson could seldom be depended on to pitch good ball during an entire game.

Again and again Reddy had cursed the fate that deprived him of his star pitcher at such a crucial time, but of course, as is usually the case, that did little good. It was too late now to try to develop another pitcher, even had he known of anyone capable of training for that important post, which he did not.

So he just set his jaw, and resolved to make the best of what he had. Up to to-day, which was destined to see one of the season’s most important battles, he had managed, by dint of skillful coaching and substituting at critical moments, to maintain the lead that the team had gained largely through Bert’s remarkable work in the box.

He felt that if the team won to-day’s game, they would have a comfortable lead until Bert was able to resume his pitching. If, on the other hand, they lost, he realized that they would have small chance of winning the championship. No one would have suspected from his outward appearance what thoughts were going on in his mind, but if they had, they would have been astonished. To the players, and to everybody else, he presented such a calm and composed exterior that the boys felt more confident the minute they saw him. As the time for the game drew near, he gathered the boys together in the clubhouse, and proceeded to make a little speech and give them some valuable advice.

They listened attentively, and went out on the diamond with a do-or-die expression written on their faces. Needless to say, Bert was there, and nobody felt worse than he over his misfortune.

“Gee!” he exclaimed to Tom, ruefully, “this is certainly what you might call tough luck. Here I am, with my arm feeling better than it ever did before, and just on account of a few pesky burns I can’t pitch.”

“It’s tough, all right, and no mistake,” sympathized Dick, “but never mind. If Winters can only do half way decent pitching, we’ll come through all right.”

Bert said nothing, not wishing to discourage his friend, but to himself he admitted that things had a rather bad aspect. The team they were to play to-day was noted for its heavy batters, and he knew that it would take a pitcher in the most perfect condition to stand the strain of nine long innings against such sluggers. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest, therefore, as he sat on the bench, nibbling a blade of grass, and watched the practice of the two teams with critical eyes.

Murray, reputed to be the heaviest hitter on the Maroon team, was knocking out flies to his teammates, and Bert was forced to admire the confident way in which he lined the ball out, without ever missing a swing.

His own team was playing with snap and ginger, though, and this fact comforted Bert somewhat.

“Well,” he thought to himself, “the teams seem to be about equally matched, and if nothing out of the ordinary happens, we ought to have a good show to win. I only hope that all the rumors I’ve been hearing about Winters lately are not true.”

As Bert had seen, both teams showed up well in the preliminary practice, and each made several plays that evoked applause from the grandstands and bleachers.

Soon the umpire walked out on the field, adjusting his mask and protecting pads, and the crowds settled down for a couple of hours of what they realized would be intense excitement.

“Battery for the Maroons, Moore and Hupfel!” shouted the umpire. “For the Blues, Winters and Hinsdale!”

As they were the visitors to-day, the Blues of course went to the bat first. They were quickly retired by snappy work and took the field. Winters seemed in fine form, and struck out the opposing batters in good shape, only one getting a hit, and he was caught stealing.

This ended the first inning, with no runs scored for either side, and Reddy began to feel more confident. However, little could be prophesied regarding the outcome at this early stage of the game, and Reddy walked over to the bench and sat down beside Bert.

“Well, my boy,” he said, “if they don’t get any more hits off us than they did in that inning, we won’t be so bad off, after all. Winters seems to be in fine shape, don’t you think?”

“He certainly does,” replied Bert, “he’s holding them down in fine style. You couldn’t ask for better pitching than he’s putting up.”

“Ye couldn’t, fer a fact,” said the trainer, and both settled back to see what the Blues would accomplish in their turn at bat.

Dick was next on the batting list, and he strode to the plate with his usual jaunty step. He waited two balls before he got one to suit him, but then landed out a hot grounder, and just managed to beat it to first base.

“That’s good! that’s good!” yelled Reddy, dancing about on one leg. “The boys are beginning to get their batting caps on now, and it won’t be long before we have a string of runs longer than a Dachshund. Go to it, Blues, go to it!”

Poor Reddy! His high hopes were doomed to fall quickly. Hodge struck out, and with lightning-like rapidity the catcher snapped the ball down to second. For once, Dick was the fraction of a second too slow, and the ball beat him to the base by a hair’s breadth.

“Two out!” yelled the umpire, and Reddy dropped into his seat with a dismal groan. White, the strong hitting shortstop, was the next batsman, but after knocking two high flies, he was struck out by a fast inshoot.

However, Winters appeared to be pitching airtight ball, and while a few feeble flies were garnered from his delivery, the fielders had no difficulty in catching them.

When the home team came to bat, their first man up, who happened to be the catcher, cracked out a swift, low fly between Winters and Tom, and tore around to second base before the ball came in from the field.

To Reddy’s keen eyes, studying carefully every phase and mood of game and man, it was apparent that Winters’ confidence was shaken a little by this occurrence. His pitching to the next batter was wild, and he finally gave the man a base on balls. Bert leaned forward intently, and his eyes were fairly glued on the players. Oh, if he could only go out there and pitch for the rest of the game! But he knew this was impossible with his hands in the condition they were, and he uttered an impatient exclamation.

With two men on bases and none out, matters began to look doubtful for the devoted Blues. The very first ball Winters pitched to the next batter was hit for a long two-bagger, and the runner on second cantered leisurely home.

Now even the fans in the bleachers realized that something was amiss with the pitcher of the Blues, and those opposed to them set up an uproarious clapping and hooting in the hope of rattling him still further. This was not wholly without effect, and Bert noted with ever-growing anxiety that Winters appeared to be unable to stand quietly in the box during the pauses in the game, but fidgeted around nervously, at one time biting his nails, and at another, shifting constantly from one foot to the other. A meaner nature than our hero might have been glad to note the discomfiture of one whom he had every reason to dislike, but Bert was not built after such a pattern. His one thought was that the college would suffer heavily if this game were lost, and he hardly gave a thought to his private grievances. The college was the thing that counted.

Winters, by a great effort, tightened up a little after this, and with the help of snappy support retired the Maroons, but not before the latter had garnered another precious run.

The visiting team did nothing, however, for although they got a runner to third at one time, he was put out by a quick throw from pitcher to first.

Thus ended the second inning, and to the casual observer it seemed as though the teams were pretty evenly matched. To Reddy’s practised eye, however, it was apparent that the Blues had a little the edge on their opponents, except in the matter of pitching. Here, indeed, it was hard to tell who was the better pitcher, the Maroon boxman or Winters. Both were pitching good ball, and Reddy realized that it would probably narrow down to a question of which one had the greater staying power.

“If only we had young Wilson pitching,” he thought to himself, “I would breathe a whole lot easier. However, there’s no use crossing a bridge till you come to it, and I may be having all my worriment for nothin’. Somethin’ tells me, though, that we’re goin’ to have trouble before this game is over. May all the Saints grant that I’m wrong.”

For the next three innings, however, it appeared as though the trainer’s forebodings were without foundation. Both teams played with snap and dash, and as yet only two runs had been scored.

At the beginning of the sixth inning, Tom was slated as the first man up, and he walked to the plate filled with a new idea Bert had given him. “Wait until about the fourth ball that that fellow pitches,” Bert had told him, “and then bounce on it good and plenty. The first two or three balls he pitches are full of steam, but then, if nobody has even struck at them, he gets careless, and puts one over that you ought to be able to land on without any trouble. You just try that and see what happens.”

This Tom proceeded to do, and found that it was indeed as Bert had said. The first ball pitched seemed good, but Tom let it go by, and had a strike called on him. The next one was a ball, but the third one was a hot curve that looked good, and ordinarily Tom would have taken a chance and swung at it. Now, however, he was resolved to follow Bert’s advice to the letter, and so allowed the ball to pass him. “Gee, that guy’s scared stiff,” someone yelled from the bleachers, and the crowd laughed. It certainly did seem as though Tom had lost his nerve, and his teammates, who were not in on the secret yet, looked puzzled. Tom paid no attention to the shouts from the grandstand, and his well-known ability as a “waiter” stood him in good stead. True to Bert’s prediction, the pitcher eased up a little when winding up for the next ball, and Tom saw that he shared the general impression that he had lost his nerve. The ball proved to be a straight, fast one, and Tom slugged it squarely with all the strength in his body. Amid a hoarse roar from the watching thousands, he tore around the bases and slid into third before he was stopped by White, who was waiting for him.

“Gee, Tom!” ejaculated the excited and delighted shortstop. “How in time did you ever think of such a clever trick. You sure fooled that pitcher at his own game.”

“It wasn’t my idea, it was Bert’s,” said Tom, truthfully.

“Whoever’s it was, it was a crackerjack one, at any rate,” said White, jubilantly. “If Flynn can only get a hit now we’ll have a run, and it looks as though we would need all that we can get.”

Flynn, in accordance with instructions from Reddy, laid an easy bunt down toward first base, and, although he was put out, Tom scurried over the plate about two jumps in front of the ball, and the first run for the Blues had been scored.

The small band of loyal rooters for the Blues struck up one of the familiar college songs, and things looked bright for their team. The opposing pitcher was not to be fooled again, however, and while Drake was waiting for a ball to suit him he was struck out, much to the delight of the hostile fans.

Thus at the end of the seventh inning the score stood two to one in favor of the Maroons, and their pitcher was “as good as new,” as he himself put it.

Now Dick went to bat, and waited, with no sign of the nervousness that was beginning to be manifested by his teammates, for a ball that was to his liking. He let the first one go past, but swung hard at the second, and cracked out a hot liner right at the pitcher. Most pitchers would have let a smoking fly like that pass them, for fear of injuring their hands, but evidently this boxman was not lacking in nerve. The ball cracked into his outstretched mitt with a report like a pistol shot, and he held on to it.

“Out!” shouted the umpire, and Dick, who had started to sprint to first, walked to the bench with a disgusted air.

“Hang it all, anyway,” he exclaimed disgustedly, “who’d have thought he would stop that one? I could just see myself resting peacefully at second base, and then he has to go and do a thing like that. A mean trick, I call it.”

Dick made a pretence of taking the matter in this light manner in order to keep up the spirits of his teammates, but not by any means because he felt happy about it. Quite the contrary.

Hodge, the right fielder, came up next, but only succeeded in popping up a feeble fly that the third baseman caught easily after a short run in. White waited patiently for one to suit him, but while he was waiting, three strikes were called on him, and he retired in a crestfallen manner.

In the meantime, Reddy had been talking to Winters. “How do you feel, Winters?” he had inquired anxiously, “do you feel strong enough to hold them down for the rest of this game?”

“Aw, don’t worry yourself about me,” Winters had replied in a surly voice. “I’m all right. I never felt better in my life,” but something in his voice belied his words.

“All right,” returned the trainer, “but remember this, my lad: if we put Benson in now, we might be able to hold them down. I’m going to take your say so, though, and let you pitch the next inning. If they get to you, however, you’ll have to take your medicine. It will be too late then to put Benson in, and of course Wilson is in no shape to pitch. Now, it’s up to you.”

“That’s all right,” growled Winters. Then he suddenly flared up: “I suppose if that blamed Freshie were in condition you’d have put him in to pitch long ago, wouldn’t you?”

“That I would, my lad,” returned Reddy, in an ominously quiet voice. “Now, go in there and pitch, and don’t give me any more back talk that you’ll be sorry for afterward.”

Winters seemed about to make some hot reply to this, but after a moment’s hesitation, thought better of it, and turned sullenly away, putting on his glove as he walked slowly to his position.

He vented his anger on the first few balls he pitched, and they went over the plate with speed and to spare. This did not last long, however, and after he had struck out one man his speed began to slacken. The second man up landed a high fly into right field that Hodge, although he made a brave try for it, was unable to get to in time. The runner raced around to third before he was stopped by the warning cries of his teammates.

“We’ve got ’em going! We’ve got ’em going!” chanted the home rooters in one mighty chorus, and Winters scowled at them viciously.

The next five balls he pitched were “wild as they make ’em,” and only one strike was registered. In consequence the batter walked leisurely to first, and as he neared Winters said, “Much obliged, old chap.” If looks could have killed, Winters would surely have been a murderer, but fortunately it takes more than that to kill a ball player, and so the game went on without interruption.

The following batter made a clever sacrifice bunt, and the man on third brought home a run, while the one on first reached second.