Perhaps the coolest man in all those thousands was Joe himself. He had never felt so completely the master of himself or the occasion. His nerves were like steel and his heart never missed a beat.
In that memorable ninth inning he pitched just nine balls to the three men who faced him. Every one went over the plate, but with such blinding speed, such hops, such drops, that they were simply unhittable. One, two, three, the Cubs came up to the plate. One, two, three, the Cubs went back to the bench.
When the last one went out on strikes an uproar came from the stands that was simply thunderous, that rose and sank and rose again as though it would never stop.
At last the umpires, with frantic wavings of their hands, restored a semblance of order and the Giants went in for their half. It was the irony of fate that, although nine hits had been registered off Axander while Joe had not permitted a single one, the score was still a tie at 0 to 0.
Renton was first at bat and shot one down the first base line that the baseman picked up neatly and stepped on the bag while the spectators groaned. Burkett raised a towering fly that Axander caught without moving from his tracks, and the groans redoubled. But they gave way to frantic cheers when Joe came to the bat.
There was no one on the Giant team that Axander would not rather have seen at the plate at that critical juncture. For all through the game his curves had held no terrors for Joe. He had already ripped out two doubles and a triple, but unluckily they had come at times when there was no one on base and his mates had failed to bring him around.
Now with the appeals of the crowd to Joe to line out a homer, Axander took stock of the situation and promptly decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
“Be a sport, old man,” begged Joe, who read his opponent’s decision in his eyes.
“I’d rather be a winner,” grinned Axander, as he deliberately threw the first ball six feet wide of the plate.