“Sure,” agreed Joe. “The boys did play like a bunch of hams. But every team does that once in a while. The boys will shake off this slump, and then they’ll begin to climb. Remember that time when we won twenty-six straight? What we’ve done once, we can do again. I’m not a seventh son of a seventh son, but I have a hunch that we’re just about due to do that very thing.”
“I hope you’re as good a prophet as you are a pitcher,” replied Jim, grinning. He was beginning to find Joe’s optimism contagious.
Their conversation was interrupted by the coming of McRae. A sudden silence fell over the occupants of the clubhouse, for they knew the danger signals, and a glance at the manager’s face told them that a storm was brewing.
“Giants!” exclaimed McRae, and they winced at the bitter sarcasm in his tone. “Where have I heard that word before? A fine bunch of pennant winners! Why, you couldn’t win the pennant in the Podunk League. Put you up against a gang of bushers, and they’d laugh themselves to death. Any high school nine would make you look foolish. Giants? Dwarfs, pigmies, runts! Easy meat for any team you come across! Champions of the world? Cellar champions! Sub-cellar champions! Just keep on this way, and the other teams will bury you so deep you’ll be coming out in China. I’m going to change my name. I’m ashamed to be known as the manager of such a bunch of dubs.”
Nobody ventured to interrupt the tirade, partly because they felt that he was justified in his anger and partly because no one cared to play the part of lightning rod. When McRae was in that mood, it was best to let him talk himself out.
From the general roast he came down to particulars. He glared around and singled out Curry. That hapless individual evaded his glance and pretended to be very busy in tying his shoe.
“You’re the one that started that bunch of errors in the eighth inning,” McRae shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him.
“Aw,” muttered Curry, “any one can make a muff once in a while.”
“It isn’t for the muff I’m calling you down,” retorted McRae. “I know that can happen to any man, and I never roast any one for it. Why, we lost the World’s championship one year in Boston when Rodgrass made that muff in centerfield. I never said a word to him about it, and in the next year’s contract I raised his salary. What I’m panning you for is that rotten throw that followed the muff. That’s when you lost your head. You could easily have caught Burton at second and stopped the rally.
“And you, Burkett,” he went on, turning to the first baseman. “For a man who calls himself a major leaguer, you certainly went the limit this afternoon. Don’t you get sleep enough at night that you have to go to sleep on first? And those wild throws, one over Renton’s head and the other over Mylert’s. Oh, what’s the use,” he continued, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve got a doctor on this club that can take care of any bone in the leg or bone in the arm, but he can’t do anything with bones in the head.”