“Come on in! We need that run! Move as if you meant it! Don’t fall asleep! Oh, for cats’ sake, fanning the air again? Run now! That’s it. Slide! Don’t be afraid of soiling your clothes, we’ll buy you another suit!”
I hold this is preferable to the soft and sarcastic method, but they used both varieties at Yale, and Joe sometimes got so discouraged at times that he felt like resigning. It was harder than he had dreamed of, and he had not pictured a rosy time for himself.
“I don’t believe I’m ever going to make even the class scrub, Spike,” said Joe to his room-mate one day, following some long practice, when he had not even been called on to bat.
“Oh, yes you will,” declared his friend. “You can pitch—you know it, and I know it. I haven’t caught off you these two weeks for nothing. You can pitch, and they’ll find it out sooner or later. Don’t give up!”
“I’m not going to. And say, come to think of it, you’re no better off than I am. They haven’t noticed you either, and yet I’ve never seen anyone who held the balls any better than you do. And, as for throwing to second—say, you’ve got Kendall beaten.”
“I’m glad you think so,” murmured Spike.
“I know it!” insisted Joe. “I’ve played in a few games. But what’s the use of kicking? Maybe our chance will come.”
“I hope so,” replied Spike.
The practice went on, the elimination and weeding out process being carried on with firm hands, regardless of the heart-breaks caused.
“First game to-morrow,” announced Jimmie Lee, bursting into Joe’s room one evening. “It’s just been decided.”