“Oh, get a little more speed on! Don’t run so much like an ice wagon. Remember that the object is to get to the base before the ball does!”
“Lively now! Throw that in as if you meant it! We’re not playing bean bag, remember!”
“Oh, swing to it! Swing to it! Make your body do some of the work as well as your arms!”
“Don’t be afraid of the ball! It’s hard, of course, that’s the way it’s made. But if you’re going to flinch every time it comes your way you might as well play ping-pong!”
“Stand up to the plate! What if you do get hit?”
Thus the coaches were trying to instill into the new candidates for the ’varsity nine some rudiments of how they thought the game should be played. Sharp and bitter the words were sometimes, bitten off with a snap and exploded with cutting sarcasm, but it was their notion of how to get the best out of a man, and perhaps it was.
“Remember we want to win games,” declared Mr. Benson. “We’re not on the diamond to give a ladies’ exhibition. You’ve got to play, and play hard if you want to represent Yale.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Mr. Whitfield. “We’ve got to have the college championship this year. We’ve GOT to have it. Now try that over,” he commanded of Ford Weston, who had struck one man out in practice. “Do it again. That’s the kind of playing we want.”
Joe, who had been catching with Spike, looked enviously at his rival, who was on the coveted mound, taking in succession many batters as they came up. Shorty Kendall was catching for the ’varsity pitcher, and the balls came into his big mitt with a resounding whack that told of speed.