“To ‘trap’ a fly ball is to make a pick up out of it, as you know. In one Lowell game years ago with Biltmore, Tom worked his ‘trap’ for two double plays. Once there were men on first and second. The batter sent a short fly to Tom. Of course the runners held to the bases. Instead of making the catch which would have been easy, Tom scooped it off the ground. The man on first was, of course, forced and the man on second was caught on his way to third. Later in the same game on the same kind of a fly ball, Tom made believe he was going to trap the ball again, so the man on second took a big lead. Tom, however, made a fly catch out of it and throwing to second made a double play once more.”
“You’ll never be able to catch a Jefferson player again like you did last year,” said Frank Church to Everson.
“How’s that,” said Talkington.
“Well, I won’t mention the name of the boy he caught, because he is present and he doesn’t like the story, but this same brilliant player was on first in one of the games and had started to steal second. The batter made a beautiful line hit to center on a line about fifteen feet high. Everson, there, stood at second, looked up and pretended to be getting ready to catch a nice little pop fly. Seeing this, our good Mr. Player having failed to keep his eye on the ball hustled back to first, but by the time he had got back and taken a second look he saw the center fielder picking up the ball. Before he could get to second, the ball had been thrown to Johnny, here, who touched the bag for a force out. Johnny only laughed but our good player said to him then, ‘Grin, you little shrimp, grin. You had me good, but I’ll get you some day for it.’”
Everybody had a good laugh at this, even Martin, for by this time they knew who it was by his sheepish expression, but they didn’t see how he could get even with Everson.
So they played many of the games over again and got very well acquainted with each other and the rivalry between the two schools was laid aside for the time being. They left for New York on Wednesday afternoon on the same train and acted like good friends together until the next afternoon in New York when they entered the Polo Grounds with its row after row of seats entirely surrounding the big park, when the big crowd that had come to see the final game stirred up all the bitter rivalry and they prepared for the big battle.
When they awoke in New York in the morning, the players, many of whom had never been there, were somewhat surprised to find that the town was apparently not excited about what was going to happen. People seemed to be going about their business just the same as though the baseball championship was not to be decided there that day. They didn’t realize, of course, what a big city New York is nor the habits of its people.
By noon, however, the crowds on the trolley cars and elevated traveling northward were enormous, and it soon developed that the town was headed for the Polo Grounds. New York had simply hustled in the morning to get its business out of the way, so it could do as it pleased in the afternoon and it pleased New York to try to see the game.
When the teams got up to One hundred and Fifty-fifth Street they were as much surprised as they had been in the morning. The whole town seemed to be there. Enough to make a good-sized city inside and about twice as many outside trying to get in.
The gates were locked at noon, three hours before the game. There was room for no more. The players got through the crowd as best as they could. With the help of the policemen, they managed to clear sufficient space in front of the stands to engage in a little practice and to warm up the pitchers. But there was little real practice done that day outside of enough to limber up their muscles.