[CHAPTER VIII]
A BASEBALL IDOL
“Put her there, Matson!” cried Hughson, his face beaming with pleasure. “I never saw better pitching than you showed us to-day.”
Joe’s face flushed. He shook Hughson’s hand heartily.
“Oh, it’s nothing compared with lots of games you’ve pitched, Hughson,” he said. “I’m only in the infant class yet.”
“A mighty husky infant,” laughed Hughson. “At least that’s what the Bostons think. It was a hard game for them to lose, just when they thought they had it tucked away in their bat bag.”
“I feel rather sorry for Albaugh,” said Joe. “He pitched a peach of a game and deserved to win.”
“He sure did,” conceded Hughson. “And nine times out of ten that kind of pitching would have won. But to-day he had the hard luck to be pitted against a better man. They got only one clean hit off of you. The other was a scratch. A little more and you’d have pitched a no-hit game. And that’s going some for the first game of the season, I’ll tell the world.
“Another thing that tickled me,” he went on, “was to see him pass you to first rather than give you a chance to hit the ball. That’s a compliment to all the boxmen of the country. As a rule we’re easy meat. The other pitchers are glad to see us come up to the plate. It has got to be a proverb that pitchers can’t hit. But you gave the lie to that proverb to-day. Those two hits of yours were ticketed for the fence. And that steal home was the classiest thing I’ve seen for a blue moon. That’s the kind of thinking that wins ball games. Do the thing the other fellow doesn’t expect you to do.”
“It was a case of touch and go,” replied Joe. “I knew that I had touched the plate before Menken put the ball on me, but I wasn’t sure the umpire would see it the same way. But he did, and that’s all that matters. By the way, Hughson, how is that arm of yours coming along?”