The first man up sent a hot grounder to Honus. He got it, held it long enough to hold the man on second close to the bag, but too long to make the throw to first easy. Therefore he threw it with all his might at Hal, and in doing so he threw it very wide of the bag. Hal saw it coming with the speed of a bullet; he also saw the runner rushing toward him along the base line. His throwing or really his pitching hand was his left hand, and that was bare. To run up the base line far enough to get that ball in his gloved hand meant a collision with the runner, to take it with his bare left probably meant a crippled hand and the loss of his pitching ambition.
All this he seemed to think of as that ball was rushing at him across a space of possibly one hundred feet from where Honus stood and in probably one-half a second of time. By that time the ball was upon him. Should he take it with his left or should he run up the base line and get it with his right? He did neither; [he stuck his left foot in the bag, whirled quickly around with his back to the ball, stretched out his right mitt, stuck it out in the air and caught the ball with one hand].
“Runner out!” was all he heard, and the crowd and his team mates, the Armour boys and even the man on second were so thunderstruck with the quickness of it all and the apparent ease with which it was done that they cheered for five minutes, and the man on second forgot to run home while he had a chance. Nothing like it had ever been seen before on any ball ground. Surely he did not think that out while the ball was coming toward him. He couldn’t have thought it out. He didn’t have time. It was instinct—a sort of baseball eighth sense. Hughie was dancing up and down before the bench with joy, plucking blades of grass now with one hand, now with another, whistling through his fingers, sticking one leg out before him straight, yelling “Eyah.”
The whole team was wild, but with a different kind of wildness. A fellow that could do that was a natural ball player. If he could make one stop like that he could make another. This game didn’t make so much difference now—they had discovered a first baseman. Hughie knew it, the whole team knew it—and the opposing team knew it—they all sensed it. The fans in the stands may not have realized it, and Hal was sure he didn’t know what it was all about, in fact, he hardly knew yet what he had done.
The umpire had called time to let the excitement subside, and after a few minutes play was resumed. From nervousness the team had gone to the other extreme. They were exhilarated. The next man up hit a low liner over third. Delvin rushed over, stuck out his right hand and the ball stuck; two out. The next man hit a hot grounder to Everson, who relayed it to Hal. Out of pure joy, he fired it about five feet over Hal’s head. Again the latter figured over quickly in his mind how to get that ball. While he was thinking about it his instinct made him leap up in the air and stick up his gloved hand into space, and again the ball stuck and came down with him as he landed on the bag, two feet ahead of the runner. Three out.
[Again the crowd went wild.] “What’s his name? He’s a wonder. Where did he learn to play first base?” and such expressions were heard on all sides as he walked to the bench. After that it was easy. The team simply had the confidence, more of it than they ever had before. Armour on the other hand was now nervous. Miner didn’t let them have another hit and the Lowell boys pounded out five more runs, so that the final score stood 9 to 4 in favor of the champions.
