The early part of the game was full of promise for the Giants. Joe twirled in superb form and up to the sixth his opponents had made only three hits off him and not a Brave had got as far as third base.
Schiff was in the box for the Bostons and pitched an excellent game. He was a good pitcher, and his eccentricities had provoked many a laugh around the circuit and had won him the nickname of “Crazy Schiff.”
His memory was poor, and one of his oddities was his carrying about of a small notebook which he sometimes consulted when he was faced by a batsman whose special weakness, real or supposed, he had forgotten.
He would study this gravely while the stands rocked with laughter and his opponents jeered at him. But he cared little for that. After he had learned what he wanted he thrust his book back into the pocket of his baseball shirt and wound up for his pitch.
The Giants had their batting clothes on that day, and although Schiff pitched fairly well they had nicked him for four runs by the end of the fifth inning and the game seemed carefully tucked away on ice, in view of the way that Joe was pitching.
Joe himself had accounted for one of those runs on the first occasion he came to the bat. Schiff had never pitched to him before, and looked him over carefully.
He cudgeled his brains to remember what he had been told about Joe’s special weakness, but could not recall anything. Then he had recourse to his little book while the spectators proceeded to jeer him.
He scanned the names in alphabetical order until he got to the Ms.
“Matson. Matson,” he murmured. “Vere iss dot Matson?” He was a German. “Oh, here it vos.”