Joe had pitched the day before, and it was up to Fraser to take his turn in the box. He walked 86 out to his position with easy confidence. He was one of the best pitchers in either league, and it was he who had faced Joe in that last battle royal of the World’s Series and had gone down defeated, but not disgraced.
But to-day from the start, it was evident that he was not himself. His speed was there and the curves, but control was lacking.
“Wild as a hawk,” muttered McRae, as the first Denver man trotted down to base on balls.
“Can’t seem to locate the plate at all,” grunted Robbie.
“He’ll pull himself together all right,” remarked Brennan, hopefully.
But the prophecy proved false, and the next two men up waited him out and were also rewarded with passes. The bases were full without a hit having been made, and the crowds in the stand were roaring like mad.
Brennan from the coaching lines at first waved to Fraser and the latter, drawing off his glove, walked disgustedly to the bench.
“What’s the matter with you to-day?” queried McRae. “You seemed to think the plate was up in the grandstand.”
“Couldn’t get the hang of it, somehow,” Fraser excused himself. “Just my off day, I guess.”
Hamilton succeeded him in the box, and from 87 the way he started out it seemed as though he were going to redeem the poor work of his predecessor. He struck out the first man on three pitched balls, made the second send up a towering foul that Mylert caught after a long run, and the major leaguers began to breathe more freely.