Or he may remark:
“You’re looking heavy this year. Better take another little workout this afternoon.”
And so ends the first day. That night I flex the muscles in my salary wing and wonder to myself if it is going to be very sore. I get the answer next day. And what always makes me maddest is that the fans up North imagine that we are having some kind of a picnic in Marlin Springs, Texas. My idea of no setting for a pleasure party is Marlin Springs, Texas.
Photo by L. Van Oeyen, Cleveland, Ohio
Close Play at the Plate
This picture illustrates how easily the base runner, with his deceptive slide, can get away from the catcher, who has the ball waiting for him. It is always a hard decision for the umpire. Shown in the picture are, left to right, Conroy of Washington, Umpire Evans, and Catcher Land of Cleveland.
The morning of the second day is always a pleasant occasion. The muscles which have remained idle so long begin to rebel at the unaccustomed exercise, and the players are as pleasant as a flock of full-grown grizzly bears. I would not be a waiter for a ball club on a spring tour if they offered me a contract with a salary as large as J. P. Morgan’s income.
Each year the winter kinks seem to have settled into the muscles more permanently and are harder to iron out. Of course, there comes a last time for each one of us to go South, and every season I think, on the morning of the second day, when I try to work my muscles, that this one is my last.
The bushers lend variety to the life in a spring camp. Many of them try hard to “horn in” with the men who have made good as Big Leaguers. When a young player really seems to want to know something, any of the older men will gladly help him, but the trouble with most of them is that they think they are wonders when they arrive.