Now base-running to a pitcher already tired is no great aid and Tom went into the box a minute later feeling rather the worse for wear. The first batsman obligingly sent up a short fly which Captain Warner got by a run back into the outfield, but the next man was a canny batsman and before Tom knew it the score was two balls and no strikes. An out-shoot, Tom’s best ball, barely cut the corner for a strike. Sam Craig signalled for a low one and a third ball resulted. There was nothing to do then but try the groove, and this Tom did. But there was little speed in what was meant for a fast ball and the batsman cracked out a long two-bagger into left field. Then Tom’s troubles began in earnest.
His curves refused to break for him where they should, his drop bit the plate, and his fast ball no longer had any “ginger.” And he was conscious that his arm was hot and tired and that his head was aching. With two strikes on the next batsman, a straight ball was offered and was slammed into right field for a base, bringing in Petersburg’s first tally. Having tasted blood, the enemy became unmanageable. Before he knew it, almost, the bases were filled and there was but one out! Then, Sam Craig doing his best to settle him down, Tom finally struck out the Petersburg catcher. Hearty cheers rewarded this performance and it seemed that Tom had found himself again. But four balls was the best he could do against the opposing pitcher and another run was forced across.
Tom was doing his best to follow Sam’s signals, but his command over the ball was weak. Once he tried a “knuckle-ball,” in the hope of disposing of a batsman who had two strikes and three balls on him. But the “knuckle” started all wrong and swooped down before it crossed the plate, and Tom had given another pass and forced over the third run. By this time Coach Talbot was watching anxiously and Toby Williams was warming up. Captain Warner strode in from his position at second, scolding angrily.
“For the love of Mike, Pollock, let ’em hit it if you have to, but don’t pass ’em! What’s the matter with you, anyway? I thought you could pitch! Gee, you’re a lemon and no mistake! Now settle down and do something. Get us out of this.”
Tom wanted very much to reply, “Get me out of this!” but he didn’t. He still hoped that he could pull himself together again. If he could get through this inning with no further damage, he told himself, he could rest awhile and come back feeling better. But he was doomed to disappointment. The succeeding hitter settled Tom’s hopes then and there. Leaning against the first ball pitched, he cracked it far out into left field, cleared the bases, and put himself on third!
Petersburg went delirious. Tom, dazed, watched Sam Craig, ball in hand, hurry toward him and heard Frank Warner’s shrill and angry voice behind him. What Sam said he didn’t know. Warner was facing him scowlingly.
“That’ll do for you, Pollock,” he said disgustedly. “You to the bench.”
Tom turned with hanging head and walked across the diamond. It seemed a long way to where the three or four substitutes were sitting and he was horribly conscious of the gaze of hundreds of eyes. When Toby Williams, hurrying by him, said, “Hard luck, Tom!” he made no answer. A half-hearted ripple of applause was given him as he went off, a ripple which quickly broadened to a wave as Toby Williams took the ball from Sam Craig. Coach Talbot held out Tom’s coat to him.
“Not your day, Pollock,” he said kindly. “Too bad.”
Tom smiled with an effort as he sank into his seat. Johnson offered him a dipperful of water, and Tom accepted it and pretended to drink. But, although his mouth was parched, he was not thirsty. At the end of the bench Pete Farrar observed him with ill-concealed satisfaction. Steve Arbuckle, the manager, brought his score-book from farther along the bench and seated himself beside Tom.