HIS FIRST CHANCE
Joe Matson’s hope of a quick recognition from the man he had helped that day, and who had turned out to be Yale’s head coach, was doomed to disappointment, for Mr. Hasbrook—or, to give him the title lovingly bestowed on him by the players, “Horsehide”—had something else to do just then besides recognizing casual acquaintances. He wanted to watch the playing.
After a brief conference between himself and the other two coaches, in which the ’varsity captain had a part, Horsehide motioned for the playing to be resumed. He said little at first, and then when Weston, who was pitching, made a partial motion to throw the ball to first base, to catch a man there, but did not complete his evident intention, Mr. Hasbrook called out:
“Hold on there! Wait a minute, Weston. That was as near a balk as I’ve ever seen, and if this was a professional game you might lose it for us, just as one of the world series was, by a pitcher who did the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Weston, slightly surprised.
“I mean that pretending to throw a ball to first, and not completing the action, is a balk, and your opponents could claim it if they had been sharp enough. Where were your eyes?” he asked, of the scrub captain.
“I—er—I didn’t think——”
“That’s what your brains are for,” snapped the head coach. “You can’t play ball without brains, any more than you can without bases or a bat. Watch every move. It’s the best general who wins battles—baseball or war. Now go on, and don’t do that again, Weston, and, if he does, you call a balk on him and advance each man a base,” ordered Horsehide.
The ’varsity pitcher and the scrub captain looked crestfallen, but it was a lesson they needed to learn.