“That thing keeps chasing me everywhere,” laughed Joe. “I can’t get away from it.”
“It’ll make good advertising,” laughed McRae. “There’ll be a big crowd out when you pitch your first game to see the man who can throw a snowball as well as he can a baseball. But what tickled me when I read about it was the quick thinking it showed. That’s what I want on my team. I want a player to be quick in the head as well as in the feet. I haven’t any use for ivory domes.”
It was the first time that Joe had ever had a chance to have a real talk with the famous manager. They had known each other, of course, by sight, and had exchanged occasional nods when they met. And, as Joe had whimsically told his folks, there had been an interchange of chaff in the heat of battle. But now for the first time Joe had a chance to judge of the man on whom his fate would so largely depend during the coming season, and his impression had been a favorable one.
He was familiar with McRae’s record as a player before he had become a manager. He was an intensely aggressive man. Aggressiveness stood out all over him like “the quills on the fretful porcupine.” On the field he was scrappy and fearless and fought like a tiger for every bit of advantage that might help his team to win. He was a terror to umpires and had probably been ordered off the field more times than any manager in the league.
But though he carried his zeal too far at times, and had made many enemies, he had many good qualities that offset his defects. He was generous and fair to his men and protected them against public clamor, when they had incurred the rage of the fickle fans. He kept Burkett, after that ghastly error at second that had lost a championship. Twice he had lost the World’s Series, owing to a muff by the center fielder at the crucial point in the game. But he knew that the man had tried to do his best and he had refused to release him. He was a hard man but he tried to be a just one, and Joe felt sure that he would have every chance to make good under his management.
A tall young fellow came down the car and paused beside the seat.
“Mr. Matson?” he asked.
Joe nodded pleasantly.
“My name is Barclay,” went on the newcomer. “Mr. McRae suggested that I come over and have a talk with you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Joe, as he rose and grasped his hand. “You’re from Princeton, aren’t you?”