The next three innings went far toward justifying McRae’s prediction. Each pitcher was “making monkeys” of the members of the opposition. Rance kept up his good work and Joe was pitching like a man possessed.
That long sinewy arm of his was working with the regularity of a piston rod. In those three innings only nine men faced him. He struck out five men and forced the others to send up fouls that were caught by Mylert or feeble grassers to the infield that were easily relayed to first.
He made the ball do stunts that stood his opponents on their heads. It dipped, rose, and did everything that the batsman did not want or expect it to do. It was a wonderful exhibition of pitching skill.
Rance was the first to weaken under the strain. Joe had found him for a single in the fourth and Burkett had been robbed of a hit only by a phenomenal leap and catch by Naylor at second. But Rance put on steam, and none of Joe’s comrades were able to bring him in.
The Brooklyns came in to bat in the fifth inning, but they were hardly in long enough to know just why. Joe contented himself with just three pitches. Maley grounded out to Burkett at first who only had to set his foot on the base, Reis hoisted a high foul that Mylert gathered in and Trench sent up a pop fly that came gently into the shortstop’s hands. It was just a case of coming up, taking a swing, and going away to hide.
Thompson, the Brooklyn manager, was furious.
“If you can’t hit him why don’t you wait him out?” he snarled to his discomfited henchmen. “If we can only get a man on base, he may work himself around.”
“Wait him out!” returned Trench. “That would be suicide, the way that bird is working the corners of the plate. He isn’t giving any bases on balls. If we don’t strike at ’em the umpire will call ’em strikes anyway. We might as well die one way as another.”
“You’re a lot of old women,” growled Thompson. “I’m going to fire this team and get another from the Old Ladies’ Home.”
In the fifth the Giants broke the ice.