JOE IN THE BOX
“Well, when are you fellows going to start?” asked Tony Johnson, captain of the Academy nine, as he ceased his catching practice with Ed. Wilson, the pitcher. “The game ought to have been called ten minutes ago.”
“Our pitcher isn’t here,” said Darrell anxiously. “We’re expecting him every minute. If you could wait a little longer——”
“Haven’t you any one else you can put in?” asked Ferd Backus, the manager. “I saw some one practicing a while ago.”
“He isn’t our regular pitcher,” said George Rankin, “but if Sam doesn’t come we’ll have to lead off with him.”
Joe had been aware that Sam was not on hand. He looked up as car after car passed the grounds, thinking to see Sam enter, for the electric vehicles from Riverside ran close to the Academy diamond.
“I suppose they’ll put Parnell in at the start,” Joe mused, naming the second baseman who sometimes acted as pitcher for the Stars. Joe did not dare hope that he himself would be chosen.
“Well, how much longer?” demanded Johnson, when two more cars had passed and Sam was on neither of them. “We want to finish this game before dark.”
“All right,” assented Darrell briskly. “Get your men ready, Rankin.”
“But who will pitch?”
“Joe Matson, of course. It’s the only thing we can do. Take the field, fellows. Joe, take your place in the box!”
“Who—me?” gasped our hero, unable to believe the words.
“Yes, you,” and Darrell smiled. “Do your prettiest now. You’re going in at the beginning instead of at the end. It’s different from what I planned, but I guess I can depend on you. Hold ’em down!”
“I will!” cried Joe fiercely and he forgot his injured arm.
“Play ball!” ordered the umpire and Joe took his place as pitcher for the Silver Stars for the first time. No wonder his heart beat faster than usual. The Stars were to bat last, Rankin having won the toss. It must be remembered that these boys were amateur players and did not always follow league rules of having the home team up last.
The usual number of practice balls were allowed between Joe and the catcher at the plate and Bart noted with satisfaction that Joe was cool and steady and that he did not try for speed.
Then the first man for the Academy—their best hitter—faced our hero. Bart gave the signal for a slow straight ball over the plate at an angle. It was the beginning of a cross-fire which he and Joe had quickly agreed upon, and, as is well known, the ability of a pitcher to deliver a good cross-fire wins many games. Cross-firing is merely sending the ball first over one side of the plate then the other and then right over centre. Joe had done it in practice. Could he do it in the game?
“Strike one!” called the umpire, when the first ball found lodgment in Bart’s big glove. There was a little gasp of protest from the Academy crowd, but they said nothing. Their man had not struck at the ball, but it had been in the right place and Joe knew he had a fair umpire with whom to deal.
His next delivery was a ball, but the third was a strike though the man had not moved his bat.
“Hit it—hit it!” pleaded his friends.
The batter swung fiercely at the next ball and knocked a little pop fly which Bart gathered in and one man was down.
“Do it again!” called Darrell to his pitcher, and Joe smiled. His arm pained him a little, but he gritted his teeth and delivered the next man a strike, for the batter missed it cleanly. He was not so lucky in his following trial, for the batter got to first mainly because of an error in the play of Fred Newton, at short, who fumbled the pick-up and delayed in getting the ball to Darrell.
Joe succeeded in striking out the third man up, though the one who had gone to first managed to steal second. There were now two out and a man on the middle bag when Joe faced his fourth opponent. He tried for a slow out but something went wrong and the man hit for two sacks, bringing in the run. But that was all, for the next batter fell for some slow, easy balls and fanned the air.
The Academys had one run and it looked a trifle disheartening to the Silver Stars until they came up and found that the pitcher opposed to them was very weak. They hammered him pretty badly in the last half of the first, and three runs were credited to them ere they had to take the field again.
“Not so bad; eh?” asked Rankin of Darrell.
“Fine, if Joe can only keep it up. How’s your arm?” he asked him.
“Fine!” exclaimed our hero, but in truth it pained him considerably in spite of the treatment Tom Davis gave it.
The Academy team didn’t get a run in the second inning though Joe was found for some short, scattering hits. A man got to second and one to third, mainly through errors in the outfield force, one bad one being furnished by Tom, who was at centre in Joe’s place.
“But we’ll forgive you for getting Joe’s arm in shape,” said the manager with a smile.
In their half of the second the Stars got two runs, and succeeded in forcing another goose egg on their opponents in the home team’s half of the third. Joe did not do so well this time, for he was beginning to tire and only a brace on the part of his supporting players saved him from having a number of runs come in on his errors.
One run for the Stars marked their efforts in the third and when the fourth inning began it looked as if it was a foregone conclusion that the visiting team would go home with the scalp of their enemy. But Joe could not keep up the pace he had set for himself. No young and inexperienced pitcher could, much less one with a sore arm.
The muscles ached very much in spite of all Tom could do with rubbing in the liniment, but Joe gritted his teeth and keep his place in the pitcher’s box. He knew he dared not give in. Only two runs were earned, however, though he was pretty badly pounded, and this only made the score three to six in favor of the Stars, when their half of the fourth came. But they were unable to better it for the Academy lads took a brace after an earnest appeal by their captain and manager.
“Make ’em take a goose egg!” yelled the student lads to their friends, and the Stars were forced to be content with this.
In the fifth inning neither side scored, Joe holding his own well, and only allowing one hit, which amounted to nothing. And in the sixth when, with only three scattered hits, not a run was chalked up for the home team, Darrell ran over to Joe and cried:
“Fine, old man! Can you keep it up?”
“I—I’m going to!” burst out Joe, though he had to grit his teeth to keep back an expression of pain when he moved his pitching arm.