This was not an especially encouraging beginning, but each of the men tried to look as though the manager could not by any possibility be referring to him. Some of them hoped that he would not descend from generalities to particulars.
The manager’s keen eyes ranged around the circle as though looking for contradiction. There was a silence as of the tomb.
“You fellows haven’t been playing baseball,” he went on. “You’ve been playing hooky. Look at the way you’ve let the other teams walk over you. The Chicagos took three out of four from you. The Cardinals grabbed two out of three, and it’s only the mercy of heaven that rain kept them from copping another. Look at the way you’ve been batting. Every team in the League except the Phillies has a better average. You’ve got enough beef about you to knock the ball out of the lot, and you’ve been doing fungo hitting, knocking up pop flies. What in the name of seven spittin’ cats do you mean by it? Every time you collect your salaries you ought to be arrested for getting money on false pretenses.”
He paused for a moment, and some of the more hopeful players thought that perhaps he was through. But he was only getting his breath. He faced them scornfully.
“Giants!” he exclaimed with sarcasm. “Giants you call yourselves. Get wise to yourselves. If you’re Giants, I’m a Chinaman. It’s dwarfs you are, pygmies. Now I want you boobs to get one thing into your heads. Get it straight. You’ve got to win this series from Pittsburgh. Do you get me? You’ve got to! If you don’t, I’ll disband the whole team and start getting another one from the old ladies’ home.”
Much more he said to the same effect, with the result that when the men, with heightened color and nerves rasped by his caustic tongue lashing, left the clubhouse, they were in red-hot fighting mood. Pygmies were they? Well, on the ball field they’d prove to McRae that he didn’t know what he was talking about.
An immense crowd was present that filled Forbes Field to capacity when the bell rang for the beginning of the game. Joe had pitched only two days before, and McRae decided to send Markwith into the box.
In the first inning, Dawley, the Pittsburgh pitcher, found it hard to locate the plate, and Curry was passed to first. On the hit and run play, Iredell popped to the pitcher, and Curry had all he could do to get back to first. Burkett lined a clean hit over the second baseman’s head, but by sharp fielding Curry was kept from going beyond the middle bag. On the next ball pitched, Curry tried to steal third but was thrown out. Burkett in the meantime had got to second, but he was left there when Wheeler sent a long fly to center that Ralston captured after a hard run.
The Pittsburghs were not long in proving that they had their batting clothes on. Ralston landed on the first ball that Markwith sent up for a home run. The crowd chortled with glee, and the Giants and the few supporters they had in the stands were correspondingly glum. The blow seemed to shake Markwith’s nerve, and the next batter was passed. Bemis sent a sizzling grounder to Iredell and it bounced off his glove, the batter reaching first and Baskerville taking second on the play. Astley dribbled a slow one to Markwith, who turned to throw to third, but finding that Baskerville was sure of making the bag, turned and threw high to Burkett at first. The tall first baseman leaped high in the air and knocked it down, but not in time to get his man. With the bases full Brown slapped a two bagger to center that cleared the bases, three men galloping over the plate in succession.
It was evidently not Markwith’s day, and McRae beckoned him to come in to the bench while the crowd jeered the visitors and cheered their own favorites. Poor Markwith looked disconsolate enough, and after a moment’s conference with McRae, which he was not anxious to prolong, he meandered over the field to the showers.