“Not Weston; no. But the rules themselves are against you. It’s utterly impossible that you should pitch this year.”
“Why? What rules? I didn’t know I was ineligible.”
“Well, you are. Listen, Joe. Under the intercollegiate rules no Freshman can play on the ’varsity baseball nine, let alone being the pitcher.”
“He can’t?” and Joe stood aghast.
“No. It’s out of the question. I supposed you knew that or I’d have mentioned it before.”
Joe was silent a moment. His heart seemed almost to stop beating. He felt as though the floor of the room was sinking from under his feet.
“I—I never thought to ask about rules,” said Joe, slowly. “I took it for granted that Yale was like other smaller universities—that any fellow could play on the ’varsity if he could make it.”
“Not at Yale, or any of the big universities,” went on Ricky in softened tones, for he saw that Joe was much affected. “You see the rule was adopted to prevent the ringing in of a semi-professional, who might come here for a few months, qualify as a Freshman, and play on the ’varsity. You’ve got to be a Sophomore, at least, before you can hope to make the big team, and then of course, it’s up to you to make a fight for the pitcher’s box.”
Once more Joe was silent. His hopes had been suddenly crushed, and, in a measure, it was his own fault, for he had taken too much for granted. He felt a sense of bitterness—bitterness that he had allowed himself to be persuaded to come to Yale against his own wishes.
And yet he knew that it would never have done to have gone against his parents. They had their hearts set on a college course for him.