Making the Nine

by Albertus T. Dudley

“Give that ball to the pitcher,” shouted the coach, as the ball finally came back from the distant out-field, “and don’t do any more of this reckless tossing round the diamond. Until you can throw the ball straight, don’t throw it; and never throw unless you know what you’re trying to do.”

The scrub steadied down and put three men out,—two, including Taylor the left-fielder, being struck out by Smith, and the other sending an easy fly to the centre-field. Rhines then made a hit for the scrub, stole second, and was pushed on to third by an out. Newcomb sent an easy fly to Taylor, and Phil came up to bat with two men out and Rhines on third. This time Tompkins had no question as to the youngster. Phil struck once, had two balls and a strike called on him, and then, just holding the bat to meet the ball, and drawing it a little back rather than striking, dropped a pretty bunt near the side-lines, between third and home, and easily beat the ball to first. With Rhines on third, the boy stole second without fear; and then as Smith sent a bounder to right-field, he was off with the sharp start, rounded third at full speed, and came racing over the plate just before the ball reached the catcher’s hands. An easy strike out sent the scrub for the last time into the field.

Phil ran out to his place with a heart throbbing with joyful exhilaration. He had reached first every time he had come to bat,—once on balls, once on a genuine hit, once on a successful bunt. His fielding chances had been at least decently good. He had caught two flies, made one assist, and there was but one error against him. There was certainly nothing here to be ashamed of.

The first of the school batters went out on an easy in-field fly; the second reached first safely through an error by the fumbling short; the third got his base on balls; and the fourth hit to centre-field, filling the bases. Phil pulled his cap down tight over his head, blew on his fingers to keep them warm, and pondered what he should do with the ball if a fly came into his hands.

Tompkins came up to the plate. “Line it out, Tommy!” cried Sands. “A hit means two runs, a two bagger, three!”

One ball! One strike! Tompkins set his teeth and smashed at what he thought to be his chance. He hit hard, but he hit a trifle under, and the ball went up, up, up, going, it seemed to Phil, as if it never would stop. The short-stop staggered back with his eyes on the ball, but it was out of reach behind him.

“I’ll take it!” shouted Phil. He ran hard forward; then looked up and waited. How it wabbled! How it swung! How it changed its size in the air! He cleared his eyes with a wink; the next instant the ball was in his hands.

A moment only he staggered for better footing; then as he saw the runner cut loose from third and dash for the home, he set himself for a throw. The catcher stood on the plate and waited dutifully but hopelessly, ready to leap to either side for the wild throw from the field. To his surprise he did not need to stir from his tracks. The ball came directly toward him,—a long straight line throw,—made an easy bound, and landed in his hands just as the runner came within reach.

“Out!” cried the umpire. “By a mile,” added Tompkins under his breath. “Bully for the kid! That’s a throw a professional wouldn’t be ashamed of.”

During the last half of the ninth, Phil sat on the bench enjoying the compliments of his associates, and cared not a whit whether the scrub batters reached first or not. As a matter of fact, they went out as quickly and easily as three timid batters could go; and Phil, his ears tingling with a commendation from Sands, and a warning from the coach as to taking care of himself after the game, that was more delightfully significant than the captain’s good word, trotted gayly down to the gymnasium for his bath and rub-down and a change of clothes.