“You had something better than luck to help you,” rejoined Phil. “You had ability and brains.”
“Luck and energy were all I had to start with,” returned Dick, modestly. “The ability came gradually from experience, and I don’t think I used my brains until I took up kicking.”
Both were silent for a time, each intent on his own thoughts. Then the older boy began again.
“Look here, Phil, I’ll tell you something that I’m beginning to get hold of which isn’t to be got from any book, and yet is a fundamental principle of athletics. In every exercise that requires a skilled motion or great speed, you’ll find that there’s a peculiar kind of final snap or twist that gives the motion or the speed; and you’ve got to master this if you want the highest results. Without it a strong man is powerless, and with it a weak man often slips to the front. In punting it’s the final jerk of the knee which I had so much trouble in learning—don’t worry, I’m not going to begin on that again. In golf it’s a snap of the wrist; in shot-putting, of the arm and shoulder; in pole vaulting of the waist and arms,—and so on through the list. In gymnasium feats the same principle works. Just watch Guy Morgan when he does the ‘giant swing’ on the horizontal bar, and you’ll see that he gives a sudden jerk with his shoulders when he’s about three-quarters round, that carries him up to the top of the swing like a hawk rising at the end of a swoop. Now in baseball, I believe, that snap is hidden somewhere in every good throw and in every straight swing of the bat. Discover it and master it, and you won’t need to worry about making the school nine.”
“I suppose that explains how some of these fine hitters seem to strike easily and yet make the ball fly,” remarked Phil.
“Can’t you get a lot of batting practice this vacation, and so start in a little ahead when the others get back? I’ll pitch for you, if you want me to; it will be good exercise.”
Phil smiled: “I’m afraid you wouldn’t be of much use. I ought to have some one who really knows how to pitch.”
“That’s a fact,” rejoined Melvin, “and I can’t pitch at all. Couldn’t we scare up some one?”
“Did you ever hear of a man named Rowley, who used to play professional ball? He works in one of the factories now. I believe he was something of a pitcher before he broke down. Why shouldn’t I be able to get him to pitch for me?”
“Just the man!” cried Dick, briskly. “Let’s hunt him up right off.”