“It is a shame!” growled Walter. “Already we’ve been beaten by some of the smaller teams. What will happen to us when we go up against some of the better ones? It makes me sick to think what Harvard is sure to do to us.”
“What’s the matter with Welch for a pitcher?”
“The trouble is right here,” answered Billings, tapping his forehead. “Welch has speed and kinks and all that, but he doesn’t use his head.”
“Well, there’s Swett. Every one seemed to think him a wizard.”
“He’s a spit-ball pitcher, and that’s all you can say about him. He hasn’t another thing but the spit ball, and some days he’s liable to throw that straight up into the air.”
“How about Dud Towne?”
“All he knows anything about is a drop. Give him a hard game, put him up against good batters, and he insists on pitching that drop all the time. Result, a lame arm constantly. He’s been told that he’ll ruin his wing.”
“Well, there’s Wilbur Keene.”
“In my opinion he’s the most promising man we have. He’s the youngest and the least experienced, but he’s in earnest and he has a splendid inshoot which is frightfully hard to hit; but he lacks confidence, and there’s always a chance that he’ll blow up in a tight place.”
“With proper coaching some of these fellows ought to make good men.”