“I’m mighty glad I won for my own sake,” answered Joe; “but I’m gladder still on account of the team. The boys backed me up in great shape—except in that fifth inning—and I’d have felt fearfully sore if I hadn’t been able to deliver the goods. But those Chicagos certainly made us fight to win.”
“They’re a great team,” admitted Jim; “and they put up a corking good game. But it was our day to win.”
“Did you see McRae and Robson after the game?” he went on, referring to the manager and the coach of the Giant team. “Whatever dignity they had, they lost it then. They fairly hugged each other and did the tango in front of the clubhouse.”
Joe grinned as the burly figures came before his mental vision.
“They’ve been under a fearful strain for the last few weeks,” he commented; “and I guess they had to let themselves go in some fashion or they’d have burst.”
“Do you realize what that home run of yours meant in money, to say nothing of the glory?” jubilated Jim.
“I haven’t had time to do much figuring yet,” smiled Joe.
“It meant at least fifty thousand dollars for the team,” pursued Jim. “We’ll get that much even if we lose the World Series, and a good deal more if we win. And if the Series goes to six or seven games the management will scoop in a big pot of money, too—anywhere from fifty to a hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s good,” replied Joe, a little absent-mindedly.