“Rather nifty record, if you ask me,” exulted Jim, whose own fine work, supplementing that of Joe’s, had been largely responsible for the fine showing of the team.
“Good as far as it goes,” agreed Joe. “But now the western teams are coming down like wolves on the fold and we’ll be put to the hardest test we’ve been up against yet.”
“Let them come,” grinned Jim. “I’m fond of wolf meat.”
Bear meat, however, proved to be on the menu, for the Chicago Cubs were the first of the western teams to invade the Polo Grounds. Of late they had been clawing their way through the other teams in their section and they were full of pep and ginger as they opened in New York.
An immense crowd that filled every seat in the grandstand and bleachers was on hand to witness the first combat. The traditional rivalry between the two cities that had existed since the days of “Pop” Anson and Frank Chance could always be depended on to furnish contests that would be for blood from the first stroke of the gong.
Evans, the Chicago manager, himself a famous veteran of the game, strolled up to McRae and shook hands. The two were bitter enemies on the playing field but the best of friends off it.
“Sorry, John,” chaffed Evans. “It’ll hurt me a lot more than it hurts you, but we’ve got to have this game. We need it in our business.”
“Seems to me I’ve heard something like that before,” smiled McRae. “Some day when dreams come true you may manage to squeeze through, but that won’t be this day. I’ve already chalked the game up on my side of the ledger.”
“Turn over, turn over, you’re on your back,” gibed the Chicago manager. “Axander was never in better trim, and he’s just honing to get at you.”
“Axander isn’t so bad,” admitted McRae. “But then, you know, I’ve got some twirlers myself that are not rotten. One of them is named Matson—‘Baseball Joe’ they call him. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”