Then Miles, the last hope, came up, and Joe wound up the game in a blaze of glory by letting him down on three successive strikes.
The Giants had won 1 to 0 in the best-played game of the year. The newspaper correspondents exhausted their stock of adjectives in describing it in the next day’s papers.
Only twenty-seven men had faced Joe in that game. Not a man had reached first. Not a pass had been issued. Not a hit had been made. It was one of the rarest things in baseball—a perfect game.
And as the crowning feature, the one run that gave the victory to the Giants had been scored by Joe himself by those dazzling steals to third and home.
It was a good omen for the success of the Western trip, and the Giant players were jubilant.
“No jinx after us this time,” chuckled Larry.
“If there is, he got a black-eye to-day,” laughed Jim. “Gee, Joe, that was a wonderful game. You won it almost by your lonesome. The rest didn’t have much to do.”
“They had plenty,” corrected Joe. “More than one of those Pirate clouts would have gone for a hit if it hadn’t been for the stone-wall defense the boys put up. No man ever won a no-hit game with bad playing behind him.”