“Play ball!”
Joe walked to the mound, a trifle nervous, as anyone would have been under the circumstances, but, with it all, holding himself well in hand. As he got ready to deliver the customary five balls before attending to the batter a quiet-appearing man, sitting in one of the press boxes, moved so as to get a better view of the young pitcher.
“What’s the matter, Mack?” asked one of the reporters. “Think you see some bushleaguers in this bunch of college boys?”
“You never can tell,” was the quiet answer. “I’m always on the lookout for recruits, and I’m particularly in need of a good pitcher.”
“Well, both teams have some good ones I hear,” went on the newspaper man, and then he devoted himself to sending out an account of the game to his paper.
With the first ball that he delivered Joe knew that he was in shape to pitch the game of his career. He was sure of his control, and he realized that with a little care he could place the horsehide just where he wanted it to go.
“If we can only bat a few we’ve got this cinched,” decided Joe, always aware, though, of the fatal element of luck.
The early results seemed to justify his confidence. For four innings not a Princeton man got farther than first base, and the crowd was wildly cheering him.
“If it will only last,” he thought, and the memory of his sore arm came to him as a shock. But he had not suffered from it since, and he hoped he would not.