“You must do a little better,” the head coach urged him. “We’re not playing school teams, remember, but teams that are but little removed from the professional class, as regards ability. Play harder—sharper—more accurately—don’t get rattled.”
And Joe tried to tell himself that he would do or not do these things, but it was hard work. He had begun to realize what a career he had marked out for himself.
“Well, are you going to spring it?” asked Avondale of Weston, a day or so before the Cornell game. “What about the red paint?”
“Oh, I guess it will keep—if I pitch the game,” was the answer.
“Did you send the anonymous letter?”
“Don’t ask me,” snapped Weston.
The day of the next game came—one of the great battles of the diamond, on the winning or losing of which depended, in a measure, the gaining of the championship.
The Cornell host, many strong, descended on New Haven, and made the air vibrant with their yells. They cheered Yale, and were cheered in turn.
Out on the diamond they trotted—a likely looking lot of lads.
“Husky bunch,” commented Jimmie Lee.