“The clouds do seem to be breaking away a little,” he assented. “But the base paths are a sea of mud, and the outfield is a perfect quagmire. There go the umpires now to look at it.”
Those dignitaries (there were four of them that officiated at each game, one behind the plate, one at the bases and the two others at the foul lines in right and left field, respectively) were, as a matter of fact, solemnly stalking out on the field.
From the stands went up a thunderous roar: “Call the game! Call the game!”
The Boston rooters were taking no chances and were perfectly willing to go without further baseball that afternoon, now that their favorites had the game won.
But their exhortations were unnecessary. Even McRae, clinging desperately to the last chance, could not in justice to his common sense urge that play should be continued. It was clearly impossible, and would have degenerated into a farce that would have risked the limbs of his athletes, to say nothing of the harm it would work to the game.
So there was no protest when the game was formally and finally declared off, and the disgruntled New Yorks gathered up their bats and strode from the field.
“Never mind, boys,” comforted McRae. “We can beat the Red Sox but we can’t beat them and the rain together. Better luck next time.”
“That listens good,” grumbled “Robbie,” who refused to be consoled. “But now we’ve lost the jump on them and it’s all to be done over again.”
“Well, we’re no worse off than they are, anyway,” returned the Giant manager.
“If we could only pitch Matson every day, the Series would be a cinch,” mused Robson.