The odds were in the Giants’ favor, because they were the stronger team and because they were playing on their own grounds. Still, they had been whipped by the same team before on the same grounds, and they might be again. And the nervous tension they were under because of the importance of the game made them the more liable to break at critical points in the contest. The Brooklyns, on the other hand, had nothing to lose, and for that very reason might be the cooler-headed.
McRae had picked Joe as his pitching “ace” for this deciding contest. Grimm had been selected as the boxman for the delegation from across the bridge. At the moment, he was going better than any other of the Dodgers’ staff, and any team that whipped him would know at least that it had been in a fight.
But on that day Joe feared no pitcher in the League. He was in magnificent shape in mind and body. In the preliminary practice with Mylert he made the latter wince, as the balls came over smoking hot.
“Save that stuff for the Brooklyns, Joe,” Mylert protested, “or you’ll have me a cripple before the bell rings.”
Not only Joe’s arm but his heart felt good that day. Mabel was sitting in a box, watching him proudly, and he felt that he simply couldn’t lose. She was his mascot, and he carried near his heart the little glove that had rested there when he won the championship of the world.
Beside her sat Clara, flushed and happy and as sweet as a rose. She had come on from Riverside, bringing the glad news that Mrs. Matson was making astonishing progress and had now almost entirely regained her health.
So it was with a mind at peace and spirits high that Joe faced the doughty sluggers of the team from across the big bridge.
From the very start, it was apparent that he had “everything.” Never had he been in finer form. Brain and muscle worked in perfect unison. Every ball he pitched had a reason behind it. He knew the weaknesses of every batter, and played upon them. The man who was death on low balls got a high one, and vice versa. His speed, his change of pace, his curve, his fadeaway, his hop, his control—all of these obeyed him as though under the spell of a magician. If ever a man made a ball “talk,” Joe did that day.
Again and again the Brooklyns switched their tactics. Sometimes they lashed out at the first ball pitched. Again they tried to wait him out. These failing, they resorted to bunting. Nothing was of any avail. They were simply up against unhittable pitching.
Inning after inning went by without a score. In the fourth, Naylor made a scratch, and in the seventh, Leete hit the ball for a clean single. But on these occasions, Joe tightened up, and no man got as far as second, despite the desperate efforts of their comrades to advance the runner.