Joe had never felt in better form. He had superb control and had not yet issued a pass. His mastery of the ball seemed almost uncanny. It seemed to understand him and obeyed his slightest wish.
His speed was dazzling, and the ball zipped over the plate as though propelled by a gun.
“Why don’t you line it out?” growled the Boston manager, as one of his players came back discomfited to the bench.
“How can I hit ’em if I can’t see ’em,” the player grunted in excuse.
But Joe did not rely wholly upon speed. Every once in a while he mixed in a slow one that looked as big as a balloon as it sailed lazily toward the plate. But when the batter almost broke his back in reaching for it, the ball would drop suddenly beneath the bat and go plunk into the catcher’s mitt.
“If I only dared to pitch that boy in all the remaining games of the Series!” thought McRae to himself. “He’s just making monkeys of those fellows.”
For six full innings the score remained unchanged.
Then the storm broke, and a perfect deluge of hits rained from the Giants’ bats.
Becker began it by whaling out a terrific drive to center that netted three bases. Iredell followed with a one cushion jolt between second and short that scored Becker. Joe pumped one to center that was good for a base; and on the futile throw made to third to catch Iredell, Joe by fast running got as far as second. Mylert went out on an infield fly, but the burly Burkett clouted a screaming triple to right, scoring both of his mates while he rested, grinning, at third.