“I’m all by my lonesome,” returned his new friend, “and I’ll be only too glad to accept your invitation. To tell the truth, I was looking forward to a dull evening all by myself, as my eyes are not strong enough to do much reading at night.”
They made their way back to Joe’s reservation and settled themselves cozily for a long talk. They formed a dramatic contrast, if they had thought of it. On the one hand was a veteran, who, like Goldsmith’s soldier:
“Shouldered his crutch to show how fields were won,”
while Joe presented a picture of eager, ambitious youth, dreaming of coming fame and standing with shining eyes on the very threshold of achievement. But though so widely separated in years, they were one in the mystic free masonry that unites all lovers of the great national game of our country.
“We didn’t use to travel in any such style as this in the old days,” remarked Wilson, as he looked around at the rich appointments of the Pullman. “As a matter of fact, we had to scratch sometimes to get money enough to carry the team from one place to another in an ordinary day coach. Those were the days when baseball was a sport, pure and simple, and nobody thought of it as a business to make money from. Usually there were no regular salaries for the players, and they simply divided up the receipts from the different games and made them go as far as they would. Many of the games were played in open fields, where everybody could come and contribute what they liked when the hat was passed for the collection. Even when there were enclosed grounds, the admission fee was twenty-five cents or less, and except on special occasions the crowds were nowhere near as large as they are to-day. But we’d rather play than eat, and we played the game for the fun we could get out of it. And fun it was, I assure you.”
“You spoke of making over a hundred runs in a single game,” remarked Joe. “There must have been some walloping of the horsehide, and I feel sorry for the fielders that had to chase the ball.”
“They certainly got plenty of exercise,” chuckled Wilson. “Of course, the batters in those days had a big advantage over the pitchers. Nobody knew anything about curving the ball until the time of Cummings and Mathews, and instead of the ball looking like a pea as it came over the plate it was more like a balloon. The ball had no friends, and everybody took a poke at it. The batter, too, could step out of the box to reach for a ball, and they took advantage of it. If they do it today, you call them out. There was no ‘waiting out’ the pitcher in order to get a base on balls. It was a point of honor to swipe the ball for all you were worth, and the public expected you to do it.
“It was mighty hard on the fielders in the old days,” he went on, “because none of them wore gloves, and as the ball was harder and livelier than it is today, broken fingers were much more common. I’ve seen some of the old boys who had had every finger on both hands broken at some time or another. I was an outfielder and got off more easily; but I’ve had two broken fingers,” and he held up his right hand for Joe to see.