The Purple Pennant

by Ralph Henry Barbour

When the first man had been thrown out, Haley to Merrick, Haley let down a mite and the Springdale right-fielder smashed out a two-bagger that sailed high over Bryan’s head and rolled far into the outfield. After that Haley tightened up again and struck out the next candidate, and the half was over a few minutes later when the runner was caught flat-footed off second by a rattling throw-down by Lanny which Bryan took on the run.

Merrick was first up in the last half of the inning and, obeying instructions, hit desperately at the first ball pitched, missed it to the glee of the Springdale “rooters” and staggered back out of the box. The next delivery was low and wide. The next one, too, was a ball. Then came a slow drop, and Gordon, sizing it up nicely, stepped forward and laid his bat gently against it. It wasn’t an ideal ball to bunt, but Gordon managed to get his bat a bit over it and at the same moment start for first. The ball trickled but a scant six feet to the left of base, but the catcher overran it slightly and threw low to first and Gordon was safe.

Scott tried hard to sacrifice with a bunt, but Newton kept them almost shoulder-high and before he knew it Scott was in the hole. With the score two and one Newton could afford to waste one, and after he had tried the patience of the crowd by repeated efforts to catch Gordon napping at first, he sent in a slow ball that Scott refused. Then, since the batsman had two strikes on him and would naturally not risk an attempt to bunt, Newton tried to end the agony by sending a straight ball waist-high over the outer corner of the plate. Whereupon Scott did exactly what he’d been told to do and laid the ball down very neatly halfway between plate and box and streaked to first. He almost made it, too, but a quick turn and throw by Newton beat him by a foot. Gordon, however, was safely on second, and Clearfield rejoiced loudly.

Cotner continued the bunting game, but although he advanced Gordon to third his bunt went straight to the waiting third-baseman, who had been playing well in, and he made the second out. Warner Jones got a fine round of applause as he stepped to the bat and there were cries of “Give us a home-run, Cap!” “Knock the cover off it!” “Here’s where we score!” At third-base Gordon ran back and forth along the path and the coach shouted vociferously, but Newton refused to get rattled. Instead, to the deep disgust of the Clearfield adherents, he pitched four wide balls and Warner, tossing aside his bat, walked resentfully to first. Clearfield loudly censured the pitcher, impolitely intimating that he was afraid, but Newton only smiled and gave his attention to Lanny. Four more pitch-outs and Lanny, too, walked, filling the bases and eliciting derisive and disappointed howls from the Purple.

Breen was next at bat and, since in spite of being a left-hander, he had so far failed to solve the Springdale pitcher, the audience expected that Dick would pull him out and substitute a pinch-hitter—probably McCoy or Lewis. But, after a momentary stir at the bench and a quick consultation between Dick and Haley, Breen advanced to the plate, bat in hand. Knowing ones in the stands shook their heads and grumbled, and Fudge emphatically condemned proceedings and became very pessimistic. Perry, daring to hint that perhaps, after all, Dick Lovering had some good reason for allowing Breen to bat, was silenced by exactly four perfectly good arguments against such a possibility. By which time Howard Breen had a ball and a strike on him, the coachers were jumping and shrieking and the purple flags were waving madly while several hundred voices roared out a bedlam of sound. For it was now or never, in the belief of most, and a safe hit was needed very, very badly!

Breen faced Fortune calmly. Perhaps that misjudgment in right-field—it couldn’t be scored as an error, but that didn’t take any of the sting out of it for Howard—had put him on his mettle and endowed him with a desperate determination to make atonement. And possibly Dick Lovering was counting on that very thing. At all events Breen came through! With one strike and two balls against him, Breen picked out a wide curve and got it on the middle of his bat. It was a lucky hit, but it did the business. It started over Newton’s head, went up and up, curved toward the foul-line and finally landed just out of reach of first- and second-basemen a foot inside the white mark!

And when second-baseman scooped it up Breen was racing across the bag, Gordon had tallied and Warner Jones was just sliding into the plate.

For the succeeding three minutes pandemonium reigned. Purple banners whipped the air, new straw hats were subjected to outrageous treatment and caps sailed gloriously into space. At first-base Bryan was hugging Breen ecstatically and midway between the plate and the pitcher’s box a half-dozen Springdale players were holding a rueful conference. When comparative quiet had returned, and after Fudge had saved his face by carefully explaining that Breen’s hit had been the luckiest fluke that he, Fudge, had ever witnessed in a long and eventful life, the game went on.

Newton for the first time showed nerves. Haley, who was only an average batter at the best, was sent to first after five deliveries. The Clearfield cheering, momentarily stilled, broke forth with renewed vehemence. It was Bryan’s turn at bat. Bryan stood disdainfully inert while two bad ones passed him, and then Springdale’s relief pitcher, who had been warming up off and on for the last four innings, took the helm and Newton, who had pitched a remarkable game up to the eighth inning, retired to the bench.