“Hit it a mile!”
“Show them where you live!”
Erlich looked him over carefully and then tempted him with an out drop. Bobby refused to bite.
The next came straight for his head and would have knocked him out had not Bobby dropped to the ground like a flash.
“He’s trying to bean him,” came in angry shouts from the Rockledge part of the stand.
Erlich, however, who, to do him justice, had no such intention, offered an apology which Bobby accepted without question, as he dug his toes into the ground and waited for the next offering.
It came in the form of a wide outcurve which failed to cut the plate and went for a ball.
Bobby now was on “easy street,” for there were three balls and no strikes, and his opponent had to put them over.
The next ball was to Bobby’s liking, half way between the knee and waist. He swung at it, caught it full and fair, and the ball started off toward right.
Down to first Bobby ran with the speed of a frightened jack-rabbit. He had rounded the bag before he dared to look for the ball. There it was, soaring along like a bird, while both the right and center fielders had turned their backs and were racing after it. He knew it was a sure three-bagger. Could he stretch it into a homer?