Pitcher Pollock

by Christy Mathewson

Another straight ball in the groove, breast-high this time. The batter found it, there was a sharp crack, and the ball was sailing into the outfield over second baseman’s head. By the time Tommy Hughes had run in and thrown it to Frank Warner the runner was safe on second base, and Petersburg was howling her triumph. For a minute it seemed that Tom was going to put himself in the hole again, for his first two deliveries were balls. But a “knuckler” fooled the second batsman and a drop that looked awfully good until it was almost at the plate evened the score. Then a low one straight across the rubber, which the batsman swung at terrifically and missed by inches, made the first out. The next man landed on the first ball and drove it between shortstop and third, but Joe Kenny had sneaked in and his throw to the plate, while it let the batsman get to second, held the first runner at third, and brought a salvo of applause from the home-team’s supporters.

Tom was bothered now by the memory of that steal to the plate and was afraid to wind up lest the runner on third duplicate the performance of his team-mate. The result was that the batsman, after fouling several times and having two strikes called on him, got his base on balls. There was but one out now and the bases were filled, and Petersburg was cheering and shouting continuously and beating time lustily with feet and hands. Back of first and third the coachers kept up an unceasing cross-fire. On the bench Mr. George leaned forward anxiously.

“If he gives that fellow one on the outside, it’s all over,” he muttered. Mr. Talbot nodded.

“If we get out of this mess with less than two runs coming across, we’ll be lucky,” he said.

Sam Craig walked down and conferred a minute with Tom, and the visiting partisans hooted loudly. The infield moved in to cut off runs at the plate. It was Petersburg’s chance to win the game.

Tom knew that he must at least keep the next two men from hitting out of the infield. Neither of them were dangerous batters, although that counted for little since at such times it frequently happens that the poorest hitter on a team comes to the mark with a rescuing wallop. The first batsman was plainly anxious to hit, and Sam took his cue from that. The first ball was a drop that failed to please the umpire. Sam was more than ordinarily deliberate in returning the ball to Tom, and Tom was as slow as cold molasses. He looked all over the field before he even faced the batsman again. Then he studied that youth thoughtfully for several seconds before he began to wrap his fingers about the ball. The batter showed his impatience. He stepped from one foot to the other, leaned across the plate, flourished his bat with short strokes. Sam gave the signal, Tom nodded, threw up his hands, and shot the ball like a streak of greased lightning across the inner corner of the platter.

“Strike!” announced the umpire. The batsman turned angrily.

“What!” he cried. Sam tossed back the ball. On third the runner was dancing and shuffling, running along the base-line with Tom’s wind-up, and scooting back to the bag as the ball was delivered.

Again the signal and again the ball sped forward. But this time it was a slow one that floated lazily to the plate and then erratically settled down and under the swinging bat.