“I wonder if I’ll ever get there,” mused Joe, and, somehow he regretted, for the first time since coming to Yale, that he had consented to the college arrangement. It seemed so impossible for him to make way against the handicap of other players ahead of him.
“If I’d finished at Excelsior,” he told himself, “I think I’d have gotten into some minor league where good playing tells, and not class. Hang it all!”
The practice went on. It was the first of the outdoor playing, and while the gymnasium work had seemed to develop some new and unexpectedly good material, the real test of the diamond sent some of the more hopeful candidates back on the waiting list. As yet Joe had been given scant notice. He had been told to bat, pitch, catch and run, but that was all. He had done it, but it had all seemed useless.
The day was a perfect Spring one, and the diamond was in excellent condition. It had been rather wet, but the wind had dried it, and, though there were still evidences of frost in the ground, they would soon disappear under the influence of the warm sun.
In various sorts of uniforms, scattered over the big field, the candidates went at their practice with devotion and zeal. Winning a baseball game may not be much in the eyes of the world, getting the college championship may seem a small matter to the man of affairs—to the student or the politician, intent on bigger matters. But to the college lads themselves it meant much—it was a large part of their life.
And, after all, isn’t life just one big game; and if we play it fairly and squarely and win—isn’t that all there is to it? And, in a measure, doesn’t playing at an athletic game fit one to play in life? It isn’t always the winning that counts, but the spirit of fair play, the love for the square deal, the respect for a worthy foe, and the determination not to give up until you are fairly beaten—all these things count for much. So, after all, one can not blame the college lads for the intense interest they take in their games. It is the best kind of training for life, for it is clean and healthful.
For a week or more this preliminary practice was kept up. The weather remained fine, and every afternoon the diamond was the scene of much excitement. The candidates reported faithfully, and worked hard. There were many shifts from some of the Sophomore or Junior nines to the ’varsity, and back again. Some who had been called to the “scrub,” as I shall call the class nines when they practiced against the ’varsity, were sent back to the waiting list—at best to bunt balls to their fellows, to pitch or catch as suited the positions they hoped to fill.
Nor was it all easy work, it was really hard toil. It is one thing to play ball without much care as to the outcome, to toss the horsehide back and forth, and, if it is missed, only to laugh.
It is one thing to try to bat, to watch the ball coming toward you, wondering what sort of a curve will break, and whether you will hit it or miss it—or whether it will hit you—it is one thing to do that in a friendly little game, and laugh if you strike out.
But when making a nine depends on whether your stick connects with the sphere—when getting the college letter for your sweater can be made, or unmade, by this same catching of the ball, then there is a different story back of it. There is a nervous tension that tires one almost as much as severe physical labor.