“It looks like an extra inning game,” was the remark that went around the stands.
Like all pitchers, Joe was only a moderately good batter and his average hovered around the two hundred mark.
Perhaps on this account Hamilton was too confident, for he took a chance and put one over “in the groove.” [Joe caught it square on the end of the bat] and the ball sailed far away into right over the fielder’s head.
Joe was off with the crack of the bat. He rounded first like a frightened jackrabbit and straightened out for second. The ground fell away from under his flying feet. He was running like the wind. He heard the frantic roar of the crowds, the yells of the coachers. On he went toward third, touched it and thundered down to the plate. He knew the ball was coming, he saw the catcher set himself. Twenty feet from home he launched himself into the air and slid into the rubber, just eluding the catcher’s outstretched hand.
The game was over, the Giants had won the pennant, and had put themselves in line for the great Series that would decide the championship of the world!
How they came through that ordeal will be told in our next volume entitled: “Baseball Joe in the World’s Series; Or, Pitching for the Championship.”
Joe could never quite remember just what happened for the next few minutes. The gleeful shouts of his team-mates, the rush and roar of the great crowd that surged down upon him, the tugging and pulling that seemed to be rending him apart—all this he sensed but dimly. He only knew that he was blissfully, supremely happy. He had played his part gallantly. He had made good on the Giants. He had won the flag!
But had he not won more than that? Was he not now free to speak? He touched the little glove that lay in his pocket.
He dressed as rapidly as he could and emerged with Jim into the street. He hailed a passing taxi.