“Perhaps you ought to see a specialist,” Jim suggested. “A little electric treatment might be the thing you need. What I really think is that, as McRae says, you’ve been overworking your arm.”
“Oh, I guess it will come around of itself,” said Joe. “I’m not going to baby it. Perhaps when we go on our western trip I may take a day or two off and run down and see old bone-setter Neese. He’s a wonder at manipulating arms. Perhaps a sinew or muscle has got a little twisted and a touch of his will set it all right again.”
A few days later Joe took another turn in the box. But this time he pitched more with his head than his arm, in accordance with his own judgment and also with McRae’s advice.
“Don’t try for strike-outs, Joe, except perhaps in certain cases,” the veteran manager advised him. “Remember there are nine men on the team. Let some of the rest of the boys earn their pay. I’d rather lose a whole raft of games, even the pennant itself, than to have you tax your arm too much.”
Joe followed the advice, though the old winning habit was so strong with him that it was hard not to let himself out for all he was worth. But he cut out his fast ball to a large extent and depended more upon his drifters and his curves. He spared himself as much as possible as long as men were not on the bases, and only when the bags were occupied did he tighten up.
He won that game, which was against the Brooklyns, but it was a free hitting contest throughout. And it was a day when the boys from over the big bridge were full of errors that they had to get out of their systems. So that when the game was finally chalked up to the credit of the Giants Joe admitted to himself that he had won not because he was so good, but because the other fellows were so bad.
Still it was a game to the good, and just at that time the Giants needed all the games that they could get. They had had to relinquish the lead to the Chicagos and it looked, too, as though the fast-traveling Pittsburghs would soon shove them down into third position.
The hilarity that had filled the atmosphere of the Giant clubhouse in the early part of the season was now conspicuous by its absence. Never before had it been so completely demonstrated that the Giants without Joe were like the play of “Hamlet” with Hamlet left out. They were like a charging regiment who had been sweeping their enemies before them and then were suddenly dismayed by the fall of their leader.
It was no wonder that they looked forward with apprehension to their forthcoming western trip. If they had been barely able to hold their own with the confessedly weaker eastern teams, what could they expect when they met the Cubs, the Pirates, the Reds, and the Cardinals on their own stamping grounds?
This peace of mind was not increased by the fact that the betting was heavily against them. Increasingly bigger odds were being offered that they would not win the pennant. Of course the reason for this was not far to seek. It was evident to all that Joe, the mainstay of the team, was not “right.”