Pitching in a Pinch; or, Baseball from the Inside

by Christy Mathewson

The real truth is that Bescher was not asleep, but trying to get that old jump which would have meant the stolen base. Again, he takes the twelve feet, and I don’t perceive it. He gets started with my arm and goes into the bag ahead of the ball.

“Great base runner,” comments the fickle crowd.

Bescher has only accomplished what he was trying to do before, but he has gotten away with it this time. Being a great ball-player is the gentle art of getting away with it.

Spectators often wonder why a pitcher wearies them with throwing over to the first base many times, when it is plain to see that he has no chance of catching his quarry. “Bill” Dahlen used to be one of the best men in the game for getting back in some way when on base, employing a straddle slide and just hooking the bag with his toe, leaving “a shoe-string to touch.” The result was that he was always handing the pitcher the laugh as he brushed himself off, for none can say Dahlen was not an immaculate ball-player.

But the pitchers found out that they could tire Dahlen out by repeatedly throwing over to the bag, and that, after five throws, which required five dashes and slides back to the base, he was all in and could not steal because he didn’t have the physical strength left. Thus, as soon as Dahlen got on, a pitcher began throwing over until he had him tired out, and then he pitched to the batter. So “Bill” crossed them by living on the bag until he thought he saw his opportunity to get the jump, and then he would try to steal.

Few good base runners watch the ball after they have once left the bag. They look at the baseman to see how he is playing and make the slide accordingly. If Devore sees Huggins of St. Louis behind the base, he slides in front and pulls his body away from the bag, so that he leaves the smallest possible area to touch. If he observes the baseman cutting inside to block him off, he goes behind and hooks it with just one toe, again presenting the minimum touching surface. If the ball is hit while the runner is en route, he takes one quick glance at the coacher on the third base line and can tell by his motions whether to turn back or to continue.

McGraw devotes half his time and energy in the spring to teaching his men base running and the art of sliding, which, when highly cultivated, means being there with one toe and somewhere else with the rest of the body. But most of all he impresses on the athletes the necessity of getting the start before making the attempt to steal. As long as I live I shall believe that if Snodgrass had known he had the jump in the third game of the world’s series in 1911, when he really had it, and if he had taken advantage of it, we would have won the game and possibly the championship. It was in the contest that Baker balanced by banging the home run into the right field bleachers in the ninth inning, when I was pitching. That tied the score, 1 to 1.

For nine innings I had been pitching myself out, putting everything that I had on every ball, because the team gave me no lead to rest on. When Baker pushed that ball into the bleachers with only two more men to get out to win the game, I was all in. But I managed to live through the tenth with very little on the ball, and we came to the bat. Snodgrass got a base on balls and journeyed to second on a sacrifice. He was taking a big lead off the middle base with the pitcher’s motion, and running back before the catcher got the ball, because a quick throw would have caught him. It was bad baseball, but he was nervous with the intense strain and over-eager to score.

Then came the time when he took a longer lead than any other, and Lapp, the Athletics’ catcher, seeing him, was sure he was going to steal, and in his hurry to get the ball away and save the game, let it past him. Snodgrass had the jump, and probably would have made the base had he kept on going, but he had no orders to steal and had turned and taken a step or two back toward second when he saw Lapp lose the ball. Again he turned and retraced his steps, and I never saw a man turn so slowly, simply because I realized how important a turn that was going to be. Next I looked at Lapp and saw him picking up the ball, which had rolled only about three feet behind him. He snapped it to third and had Snodgrass by several feet. Snodgrass realized this as he plunged down the base line, but he could not stop and permit himself to be tagged and he could not go back, so he made that historic slide which was heard almost around the world, cut off several yards of Frank Baker’s trousers, and more important than the damage to the uniform, lost us the game.

Snodgrass had the jump in his first start, and if he had kept right on going he would have made the bag without the aid of the passed ball, in my opinion. But he did not know that he had this advantage and was on his way back, when it looked for a minute as if the Athletics’ catcher had made a mistake. This really turned out to be the “break” in the game, for it was on that passed ball that Snodgrass was put out. He would probably have scored the run which would have won the game had he lived either on second or third base, for a hit followed.