And there is hard physical work, too. Of course it is a welcome change from the class-room work, or the lectures, to get out on the diamond, but it is work, none the less.
Then there are the coaches to put up with. I never was a coach, though I have played under them, and I suppose there is some virtue in the method they use—that of driving the men.
And when a lad has done his best, has stood up to the ball, and clouted at it for all he is worth, only to fan the yielding air, it is rather discouraging to hear the coach remark sarcastically:
“You’re not playing ping-pong, you know, Jones.”
Or to hear him say with vinegary sweetness:
“Did you hurt yourself that time, Smith? It was a beautiful wind blow, but—er—pardon me if I mention, just for your benefit you know, that the object in this game is to hit the ball. You hit it, and then you run—run, understand, not walk. And another thing, don’t be so afraid of it.
“Of course this isn’t a rubber ball, of the sort you probably used to play baby in the hole with—it’s hard, and when it hits you it’s going to hurt. But—don’t let it hit you, and for cats’ sake stand up to the plate!”
It’s a way coaches have, I suppose, and always will. Joe felt so, at any rate, and he had rather one would fairly howl at him, in all sorts of strenuous language, than use that sarcastic tone. And I think I agree with him.
There is something you get at when a coach yells at you:
“Come on there you snail! Are you going to hold that base all day? Someone else wants to get past you know.