“Stuh-rike!” intoned the umpire. Babe turned upon him indignantly.
“What?” he demanded, outraged.
There was no reply beyond a baleful glance from the cold gray eyes of the official. Babe grunted, waved that useless weapon twice across the plate and grimly set himself again. From the bench came encouraging advice. “Make him pitch to you, Babe!” “It only takes one, old son!” “Let’s have it, Babe! You’re better than he is!” A palpable ball went past, but Babe breathed easier when the umpire called it by its right name. Cross pegged twice to first, where Bud was taking long chances on the path to second, got no results and again gave his attention to Babe. Then the signal came and Babe’s big fingers clutched more tightly about the inadequate handle of the toy weapon. The ball sped toward him and Bud started, hot foot, for second. Babe swung, putting all his force of weight and muscle into action. The infield was shouting loudly as Babe’s bat, meeting no opposition, swung right on around, taking Babe with it. Then the Munson catcher stepped forward and threw, straight and true but high, to shortstop. Ball and Bud reached the bag at the same instant, but Bud was saved by the fraction of time required by the shortstop to bring the ball from above his head to the level of his shoe tops. Holman’s cheered, Bud arose carefully and patted a cloud of dust from his togs and Cross viewed the runner venomously ere he stepped back into the box.
Two strikes and one ball, reflected Babe. He had forgotten to allow for the difference in the weight of his bat that time and had swung too soon. It had been a good ball, if a trifle lower than Babe liked them, and he would have got it if he hadn’t been too quick. But what could you do with a matchstick, anyway? What was it Ginger had said? “That bat’s got a lot of pep to it. Just meet ’em sharp like.” Drat the red-headed little rascal! Maybe his advice was good, though. Babe guessed it was. Maybe, next time, if he held back a little—
The next time came. Cross had balls to spare, but something whispered to Babe that the long-legged pitcher was eager to end the innings, that he meant to close the incident with his next delivery. Babe had forgotten his anger now. He was the old calm, cool-headed Babe. Something of his accustomed confidence returned as he narrowed his eyes slightly and poised that inadequate bat. Cross stepped forward, his hand shot toward the plate, the ball sped from it, grew bigger, hung for a brief moment in air as though motionless and then was at the plate.
“Just meet it sharp!” said Babe to himself. Then his bat swept around in what for Babe was scarcely more than a half-swing, there was a sharp crack, and ball and batsman were off at the same instant. And so was Bud, his legs twinkling as he sped for third. The ball streaked, low and at lightning speed, straight across the base line midway between first and second. After its passage first baseman and second baseman picked themselves up from the turf and raced to their bags. In right field a frantic player cupped his hands before the rolling ball, straightened and threw desperately to the plate. But Bud’s spikes spurned the rubber just as the ball began its long bound, and before the sphere had settled into the catcher’s mitten Holman’s shouts proclaimed victory and Bud, breathless but happy, was fighting his way to the bench through a mob of frantic friends.
Half an hour later, seated beside Babe on the dusty red velvet of a day-coach, Ginger was making confession. “It was an awful nervy thing to do, Babe, but, gee, I just had to! Honest, I did, Babe! Look at the fix we was in. We only needed the one run to cop the game, didn’t we? And you ain’t never come through in the pinches with that bat, Babe, have you? Didn’t you say yourself that you ain’t never made a hit off that Cross guy? Sure, you did! I just knew you’d go in there and try to slug out a homer, if you had that big club, Babe, and we didn’t need no homer to win, see? All we needed was just a nice little hit, Babe, like a fellow would make if he just took a short swing and hit the old apple clean. So I says ‘If he don’t have the old bridge timber he’ll have to use one of the other bats, and maybe thataway he’ll come through.’ And so when you wasn’t lookin’ I hid the old blackjack in the stand. Believe me, I was scared! And if—”
“Believe me,” interrupted Babe very, very fiercely, “you had a right to be scared, for I certainly intended to crown you for fair, son!”
Ginger grinned and edged a wee bit closer to the big chap. “Aw, gee,” he said, “I wasn’t caring about no lickin’, Babe. What I was scared of was maybe you wouldn’t make no hit, after all! But you did, didn’t you, Babe?”
“Sure did,” agreed Babe cheerfully.