They reached New York the next day to find the city agog for the opening of the season. The newspapers were devoting columns of their space to a discussion of the chance of the Giants as compared with those of other teams in the league. The question of the hour was whether the Giants would repeat.
That question was asked everywhere—on the streets, in the subways, in brokers’ offices, in business establishments, at social and sporting gatherings. The whirlwind finish of the Giants the year before was recalled and discussed from every angle. The roseate reports that had come from the southern training camp were duly weighed and considered.
The one point regarding which considerable doubt was expressed concerned the pitching staff. The injury that Joe had sustained in his rescue at the fire had provoked considerable shaking of heads. Of course, the verdict of the doctors had been telegraphed broadcast and that had brought some measure of reassurance. But doctors were not always right, and if they proved wrong in this case it was generally agreed that the Giants’ chances for the pennant had gone glimmering and that, in fact, they might have all they could do to finish in the first division.
Joe smiled to himself as he read the various prophecies of the sporting writers. While they had been at Riverside he and Jim had practiced for an hour or two every day and he knew that his arm was as good as ever. The inflammation had disappeared, all the soreness was gone, and all his curves, slants, hooks and hops went over without a twinge of pain. So he awaited the public test with serene and smiling confidence.
Before the team had gone to the training camp Joe and Jim had engaged a pleasant suite in the Westmere Arms, a quiet uptown apartment hotel, comfortably and handsomely furnished and within easy distance of the Polo Grounds.
While they were waiting for the return of the rest of the team, the boys practiced at the ball park every morning and afternoon, taking care not to overdo, but working just enough to keep them in superb fettle.
At last the opening day of the season arrived, a perfect day for baseball, bright and glorious, with just enough breeze stirring to temper the heat of the sun.
The city was baseball mad, and it was evident that a crowd would be present that would tax the capacity of the park. Even the night before people had begun to gather at the entrances and stood in line all night, waiting for the precious pasteboards that would give them admission to the grounds. By daybreak the lines extended for a block or two, and the assistance of a squad of police was necessary to keep order and prevent any one getting in out of his turn.
Shortly after ten o’clock it seemed as though the whole city had turned out en masse for the festive occasion. Hundreds of automobiles were parked in the adjacent streets. Tallyhos with flags and pennants brought up their hilarious loads. Subway and elevated trains, packed to the doors, groaned slowly along and deposited their burdens at the stations nearest the gates. When at last the entrances were thrown open the stands and bleachers were filled in a twinkling. An hour before the game was scheduled to begin there was not even standing room left. Almost as many were turned away as were packed in the park.
The Polo Grounds themselves had never looked more beautiful. The grass was like green velvet. The base paths had been rolled and scraped until they were almost as smooth as the top of a billiard table. Gleaming streaks of white marked out the foul lines, extending far down into left and right fields. The stands were black with humanity, relieved by the gay colors of the women, who were present in appreciable numbers and as ready to cheer and applaud as their masculine escorts. A band played lively music to keep the crowds patient while waiting for the appearance of the players. Everywhere was light, color, eagerness and hilarity. The crowd was out for a good time and had no doubt about getting it.