Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball Part 17

Just in front of the grandstand, Bert and Winters tried out their pitching arms. Commencing slowly, they gradually increased their pace, until they were shooting them over with railroad speed. The trainer and manager, reinforced by Mr. Ainslee, carefully watched every ball thrown, so as to get a line on the comparative speed and control. While they intended to use Bert, other things being equal, n.o.body knew better than they that a baseball pitcher is as variable as a finely strung race horse. One day he is invincible and has "everything" on the ball; the next, a village nine might knock him all over the lot.

But to-day seemed certainly Bert's day. He had "speed to burn." His curves were breaking sharply enough to suit even Ainslee's critical eye, and while Winters also was in fine fettle, his control was none too good. Hinsdale was called into the conference.

"How about it, Hin?" asked Ainslee. "How do they feel when they come into the glove?"

"Simply great," replied the catcher, "they almost knock me over, and his change of pace is perfect."

"That settles it," said Ainslee, and the others acquiesced.

So that when at last the starting gong rang and a breathless silence fell over the field, as Tom strode to the plate, Bert thrilled with the knowledge that he had been selected to carry the "pitching burden," and that upon him, more than any other member of the team, rested that day's defeat or victory.

The lanky, left-handed pitcher wound up deliberately and shot one over the plate. Tom didn't move an eyelash.

"Strike one!" called the umpire, and the home crowd cheered.

The next one was a ball.

"Good eye, old man!" yelled d.i.c.k from the bench. "You've got him guessing."

The next was a strike, and then two b.a.l.l.s followed in rapid succession.

The pitcher measured the distance carefully, and sent one right over the center of the rubber. Tom fouled it and grinned at the pitcher. A little off his balance, he sent the next one in high, and Tom trotted down to first, amid the wild yells of his college mates.

Flynn came next with a pretty sacrifice that put Tom on second. Drake sent a long fly that the center fielder managed to get under. But before he could get set for the throw in, Tom, who had left second the instant the catch was made, slid into third in a cloud of dust just before the ball reached there.

"He's got his speed with him to-day," muttered Ainslee, "now if Trent can only bring him home."

But Tom had other views. He had noticed that the pitcher took an unusually long wind-up. Then too, being left-handed, he naturally faced toward first instead of third, as he started to deliver the ball. Foot by foot, Tom increased his lead off third, watching the pitcher meanwhile, with the eye of a hawk. Two b.a.l.l.s and one strike had been called on d.i.c.k, when, just as the pitcher began his wind-up, Tom made a dash for the plate and came down the line like a panic-stricken jack-rabbit.

Warned by the roar that went up from the excited crowd, the pitcher stopped his wind-up, and hurriedly threw the ball to the catcher. But the unexpectedness of the move rattled him and he threw low. There was a mixup of legs and arms, as Tom threw himself to the ground twenty feet from the plate and slid over the rubber, beating the ball by a hair. The visiting crowd went wild, and generous applause came even from the home rooters over the scintillating play, while his mates fairly smothered him as he rose and trotted over to the bench.

"He stole home," cried Reddy, whose face was as red as his hair with excitement. "The nerve of him! He stole home!"

It was one of the almost impossible plays that one may go all through the baseball season without seeing. Not only did it make sure of one precious run--and that run was destined to look as big as a mountain as the game progressed--but it had a tendency to throw the opposing team off its balance, while it correspondingly inspired and encouraged the visitors.

However, the pitcher pulled himself together, and although he pa.s.sed d.i.c.k to first by the four-ball route, he made Hodge send up a high foul to the catcher and the side was out.

The home crowd settled back with a sigh of relief. After all, only one run had been scored, and the game was young. Wait till their heavy artillery got into action and there would be a different story to tell.

They had expected that Winters, the veteran, would probably be the one on whom the visitors would pin their hopes for the crucial game, and there was a little rustle of surprise when they saw a newcomer move toward the box. They took renewed hope when they learned that he was a Freshman, and that this was his first season as a pitcher. No matter how good he was, it stood to reason that when their sluggers got after him they would quickly "have his number."

"Well, Wilson," said Ainslee, as Bert drew on his glove, "the fellows have given you a run to start with. You can't ask any more of them than that. Take it easy, don't let them rattle you, and don't use your fadeaway as long as your curves and fast straight ones are working right. Save that for the pinches."

"All right," answered Bert, "if the other fellows play the way Tom is doing, I'll have nothing left to ask for in the matter of support, and it's up to me to do the rest."

For a moment as he faced the head of the enemy's batting order, and realized all that depended on him, his head grew dizzy. The immense throng of faces swam before his eyes and d.i.c.k's "Now, Bert, eat them up," seemed to come from a mile away. The next instant his brain cleared. He took a grip on himself. The crowd no longer wavered before his eyes. He was as cold and hard as steel.

"Come, Fres.h.i.+e," taunted Ellis, the big first baseman, as he shook his bat, "don't cheat me out of my little three bagger. I'll make it a homer if you don't hurry up."

He jumped back as a swift, high one cut the plate right under his neck.

"Strike," called the umpire.

"Naughty, naughty," said Ellis, but his tone had lost some of its jauntiness.

The next was a wide outcurve away from the plate, but Ellis did not "bite," and it went as a ball.

Another teaser tempted him and he lifted a feeble foul to Hinsdale, who smothered it easily.

Hart, who followed, was an easy victim, raising a pop fly to Sterling at second. Gunther, the clean-up hitter of the team, sent a grounder to short that ordinarily would have been a sure out, but, just before reaching White, it took an ugly bound and went out into right. Sterling, who was backing up White, retrieved it quickly, but Gunther reached first in safety. The crowd roared their delight.

"Here's where we score," said one to his neighbor. "I knew it was only a matter--Thunder! Look at that."

"That" was a lightning snap throw from Bert to d.i.c.k that caught Gunther five feet off first. The move had been so sudden and unexpected that d.i.c.k had put the ball on him before the crowd fairly realized that it had left the pitcher's hand. It was a capital bit of "inside stuff" that brought the Blues to their feet in tempestuous cheering, as Bert walked in to the bench.

"O, I guess our Fres.h.i.+e is bad, all right," shouted one to Ellis, as he walked to his position.

"We'll get him yet," retorted the burly fielder. "He'll blow up when his time comes."

But the time was long in coming. In the next three innings, only nine men faced him, and four of these "fanned." His "whip" was getting better and better as the game progressed. His heart leaped with the sense of mastery. There was something uncanny in the way the ball obeyed him. It twisted, curved, rose and fell like a thing alive. A hush fell on the crowd. All of them, friend and foe, felt that they were looking at a game that would make baseball history. Ainslee's heart was beating as though it would break through his ribs. Could he keep up that demon pitching? Would the end come with a rush? Was it in human nature for a mere boy before that tremendous crowd to stand the awful strain? He looked the unspoken questions to Reddy, who stared back at him.

"He'll do it, Mr. Ainslee, he'll do it. He's got them under his thumb.

They can't get to him. That ball fairly talks. He whispers to it and tells it what to do."

The other pitcher, too, was on his mettle. Since the first inning, no one of his opponents had crossed the rubber. Only two hits had been garnered off his curves and his drop ball was working beautifully. He was determined to pitch his arm off before he would lower his colors to this young cub, who threatened to dethrone him as the premier twirler of the league. It looked like a pitchers' duel, with only one or two runs deciding the final score.

In the fifth, the "stonewall infield" cracked. Sterling, the "old reliable," ran in for a bunt and got it easily, but threw the ball "a mile" over d.i.c.k's head. By the time the ball was back in the diamond, the batter was on third, and the crowd, scenting a chance to score, was shouting like mad. The cheer leaders started a song that went booming over the field and drowned the defiant cheer hurled at them in return.

The coachers danced up and down on the first and third base lines, and tried to rattle Bert by jeers and taunts.

"He's going up now," they yelled, "all aboard for the air s.h.i.+p. Get after him, boys. It's all over but the shouting."

But Bert had no idea of going up in the air. The sphere whistled as he struck out Allen on three pitched b.a.l.l.s. Halley sent up a sky sc.r.a.per that Sterling redeemed himself by getting under in fine style. Ellis shot a hot liner straight to the box, that Bert knocked down with his left hand, picked up with his right, and got his man at first. It was a narrow escape from the tightest of tight places, and Ainslee and Reddy breathed again, while the disgusted home rooters sat back and groaned.

To get a man on third with n.o.body out, and yet not be able to get him home. Couldn't they melt that icicle in the pitcher's box? What license did he have anyway to make such a show of them?

The sixth inning pa.s.sed without any sign of the icicle thawing, but Ainslee detected with satisfaction that the strain was beginning to tell on the big southpaw. He was getting noticeably wild and finding it harder and harder to locate the plate. When he did get them over, the batters stung them hard, and only superb support on the part of his fielders had saved him from being scored upon.

At the beginning of the seventh, the crowd, as it always does at that stage, rose to its feet and stretched.

"The lucky seventh," it shouted. "Here's where we win."

They had scarcely settled down in their seats however, when Tom cracked out a sharp single that went like a rifle shot between second and short.

Flynn sent him to second with an easy roller along the first base line.

The pitcher settled down and "whiffed" Drake, but d.i.c.k caught one right on the end of the bat and sent it screaming out over the left fielder's head. It was a clean home run, and d.i.c.k had followed Tom over the plate before the ball had been returned to the infield.

Now it was the Blues' turn to howl, and they did so until they were hoa.r.s.e, while the home rooters sat back and glowered and the majority gave up the game as lost. With such pitching to contend against, three runs seemed a sure winning lead.

In the latter half of the inning, however, things changed as though by magic. The uncertainty that makes the chief charm of the game a.s.serted itself. With everything going on merrily with the visitors, the G.o.ddess of chance gave a twist to the kaleidoscope, and the whole scene took on a different aspect.

Gunther, who was still sore at the way Bert had showed him up at first, sent up a "Texas leaguer" just back of short. White turned and ran for it, while big Flynn came rus.h.i.+ng in from center. They came together with terrific force and rolled over and over, while the ball fell between them.