Then Joe reached for the ball and caught it on the fly, just at his shoe tops, putting out the batter.
Warned by the roar that went up, the runners started back for the bags they had just left under the supposition that the ball was going to be caught on the bound. But they were too late.
Like a shot Joe threw the ball to Larry, who stepped on the bag, putting out Ellis. Then Larry relayed it to Burkett, catching Bailey before he could get back.
It was a triple play, all achieved by the classiest bit of headwork seen on the Polo Grounds that season. If Joe had run in and caught the ball in the ordinary way, only the batter would have been out. But his pretended hesitation had fooled the base runners and he had caught them both.
McRae looked at Robbie. Robbie looked at McRae. For once neither uttered a word. There were no words for such an occasion. But what they told Joe later was plenty.
With that game safely stowed away the record was tied. That in itself was much. But for Joe it was not enough.
In the last game, he himself was in the box. And the kind of ball he played that day made baseball history.
Yet, although he was a veritable wizard in the box and cracked out two home runs in succession, such is the uncertainty of the game that he came within a hair’s breadth of not putting it over.
For Morton, the Boston pitcher, was also determined to wind up his season’s work in a blaze of glory, and the men behind him played like demons, making almost miraculous stops and throws on what would ordinarily have been clean hits.
A momentary case of rattles among the Giants in the seventh let two runs across for the Bostons, and as Joe’s two homers were the only tallies for his side, the teams came to the ninth with the score tied.