“You’re a miracle man to-day, Joe!” exclaimed McRae, beaming on him. “You’re winning your own game with a vengeance. Now all you have to do is to hold those birds down and we’ll have bagged the game.”
One other thing was being borne in on the Chicago fans, and that was that they were possibly to see that rarest of things on the diamond—a no-hit game. Here it was the seventh inning, and not even the semblance of a hit had been scored on Joe. Axander had yielded five in all, of which Joe had gathered two. But Joe had an absolutely clean score. Could he keep it up?
The Chicago manager growled and raged and implored his men to do something. They tried desperately, but it was Joe’s day and he would not be denied. They resorted to all the tricks of the trade, tried to bunt, tried to get hit with the ball, anything to get on first. Their coachers roared from the side lines in an attempt to rattle Joe. But he was as cold as ice, as hard as steel.
He had never felt more sure of himself. He had thrown aside his cap and looked like a young Viking as he stood in the box, hurling the ball over with such tremendous speed that it defied the eye to follow it, or sending it in with such deceptive slants that he had the batsman striking wildly at the air. His control was perfect. The ball seemed inspired with almost human intelligence. It whizzed, it dodged, it jumped, it dropped, as though guided by a spring.
The seventh inning passed. Not a hit.
The eighth inning passed. Still no hit. Joe was simply toying with the batsmen. He held his enemies in the hollow of his hand.
Axander had also kept the Giants from scoring any more runs, and was pitching a brand of ball that would have won nine games out of ten.
In the last half of the ninth, the Chicagos came in for their final stand with the head of their batting order at the bat. Yells of encouragement came from the rooters as they implored them to stage a last-inning rally.
Burton came to the plate. “One strike.” “One ball.” “Foul strike.” “Three strikes.” “Out!”