“Great Scott! You sure do hit a fellow right between the eyes, Mac,” he responded. “Just what do you mean? You’ve got a captain now, haven’t you?”
“I had an apology for a captain up to this afternoon,” was the reply. “But I haven’t even that now. Here, read this,” and he thrust Iredell’s written resignation into his hand.
Joe read it with minute attention.
“I’m sorry for Iredell,” he remarked, as he refolded the paper and handed it back. “But I won’t pretend that I’m surprised. But what strikes me all in a heap is your question to me. Remember that I’m a pitcher. As my brother-in-law, Reggie, would remark, ‘it simply isn’t done.’”
“You’re a pitcher, all right,” responded McRae, “and the best that comes. But you’re more than that. You’re a thinker. And that’s the kind of man I’ve got to have for captain. There’s no other man on the team that fills the bill. They’d rattle around in the position like a pea in a tincup. You’d fill it to perfection. That’s the reason I offer it to you. You know, of course, that it means an increase in your salary, but I know that isn’t the thing that would especially appeal to you. I want you to take the position because I think it will be the best thing for the Giants. Think it over.”
There was silence for a few minutes while Joe thought it over and thought hard. He knew that it would mean an immense addition to his work and his responsibilities. He would have to play every day, while now he played, at the most, only twice a week.
Without self-conceit, he knew that he could qualify for the position. Again and again he had groaned inwardly at baseball sins of omission and commission that he felt sure would not have occurred had he had the deciding voice on the field.
It finally simmered down to this: Would it help the Giants? Would it increase their chances for the pennant? He decided that it would. And the moment he reached that conclusion his answer was ready.
“I’ll take it, Mac,” he announced.