“Good old Hughson,” murmured Joe regretfully. “It won’t seem like the old team without him. I only hope he’ll prove as great a manager as he was a pitcher.”
There were murmurs of assent to this from all about him, for Hughson had been a favorite with every member of the team, as indeed he had been with players and fans all over the United States.
For many years before Joe had broken into baseball, Hughson had stood for all that was best and greatest in the game. For more than ten years he had been recognized as the finest pitcher on the diamond. Again and again he had led the Giants to the championship. He had everything that a pitcher should have—speed, curves, slants, drops, in bewildering variety and profusion. The very fact that he was slated to pitch against a team was almost enough for that team to count the day lost. It was not merely the skill and strength of his pitching arm that inspired terror in his opponents. Still more formidable was the head set on his sturdy shoulders. He could outguess the batsman in a way that seemed almost uncanny. He mixed brains with his work, saving his strength when he could, letting the eight men behind him do their share of the work. But when the pinch came, he tightened up, and usually it was all over but the shouting.
Add to this phenomenal skill that he was a gentleman, on and off the diamond, genial, kindly, always playing fair, an honor and an ornament to the national game, and it was not hard to understand his wonderful popularity.
Joe had especial reason for the warm feeling with which he regarded Hughson. The latter had greeted him cordially when he first came to the Giant team. He had realized the marvelous skill with which Joe was endowed and he knew that the time might come when he would take his own crown as the greatest pitcher of the game. Yet there was no trace of jealousy or apprehension in his treatment of the newcomer. He coached him, corrected his faults, brought out his strong points and taught him all that he knew himself, not omitting the secret of the “fadeaway” ball that had made him famous. He and Joe had become and always remained the warmest of friends.
An automobile crash in which Hughson had been caught had injured his pitching arm, and despite an extended course of treatment its magic had gone forever. Even after that misfortune, however, he had remained with the Giants for two seasons. But he was not the Hughson of old. He was able to get by in many games by favoring his arm and depending chiefly on headwork.
Now he had left the team with which he had been identified for so many years and accepted the position of manager of the Cincinnati Reds. The best wishes of all the Giant team had gone with him. Already under his management the Reds were improving and seemed to be facing the best season they had had in years.
Only the week before the Cincinnatis had played the Giants on the occasion of the first invasion of the Western clubs—played, too, with such vim and spirit that the best the Giants could do was to break even on the series.