“Your name is Miles, ain’t it?” asked Larry. “Well, that’s the way I’m going to hit the ball—miles.”
He lunged savagely at the first ball that came over the plate and lashed it into the crowded grandstand for what would have been a sure homer, if it had not been a few inches on the wrong side of the foul line.
Larry kicked at the decision, but to no avail, and he came back disappointedly to the plate. But the mighty clout had sobered Miles somewhat, and the next two were out of Larry’s reach and went as balls. Larry fouled off the next for strike two, and let the next go by for the third ball.
“Good eye, Larry,” called Joe approvingly. “He’s in the hole now and will have to put the next one over. Soak it on the seam.”
Larry caught the next one fairly, and it started on a journey between right and center. Platz, the Pirate rightfielder, took one look at it and turned and ran in the direction the ball was going. At the back of the park was a low fence that separated the field from the bleachers. Just as the ball was passing over this, Platz reached out his hand and grabbed it. The force of the ball and the rate at which he was running carried him head over heels to the other side, but when he rose, the ball was in his hand.
It was a magnificent catch, and well deserved the thunderous applause that rose from the stand, applause in which even the Giant supporters joined, though it seemed to sound the death knell of their hopes.
“Hard luck, old man, to be robbed that way,” said Joe consolingly, as Larry came back, sore and muttering to himself.
“To crack out two homers in one turn at bat and not even get a hit,” mourned Larry. “Sure, if I was starvin’ and it started to rain soup, I’d be out in it with only a fork to catch it with.”
Joe received a generous hand as he came to the bat, due not only to his general popularity but to the wonderful game he had so far pitched.
“Oh, you home-run king!” shouted an enthusiastic fan. “Show them that you deserve the name. Win your own game.”