Weatherby's Inning: A Story of College Life and Baseball

by Ralph Henry Barbour

University Baseball.—Outdoor practise on the Field at 4 sharp. Candidates must bring their own togs.

Jack went out to the field early and, having got into his baseball clothes, threw his white sweater over his back, and sat down on the steps of the locker-house in the sunshine. Many fellows passed him, going in and out of the building, some according him a word of greeting, others a mere nod, while still others pretended not to see him. But Jack was beyond slights to-day. The spring was in his blood and he would have liked to throw himself down on the grass and roll over like a colt for mere joy of living. Instead, he only beat a restless tattoo with his heels and watched the passers. Presently the varsity squad trotted out; King, who played left field and was substitute pitcher; Billings, third-baseman; “Wally” Stiles, second-baseman; Knox, last year’s shortstop and substitute pitcher; “Teddy” Motter, crack first-baseman; Lowe, center-fielder, and several more, with Gilberth emerging last of all in talk with Joe Perkins.

Jack watched Gilberth as he went by, much as a cat watches a mouse beyond its present reach. He had a score to even with Tracy Gilberth, and he was convinced that in good time the opportunity would come to him to even it. Meanwhile he waited patiently, observing Gilberth like a calm, inscrutable Fate. Gilberth had a firm grasp on the pitcher’s place, while Jack was only one of the second squad, and so, of late, their paths seldom crossed, and the senior had had no chance to give expression to his sentiments regarding the freshman. Of this Jack was glad, since Gilberth’s contemptuous glances roused his hatred as nothing else could.

The varsity squad took possession of the diamond and began practising. Presently Bissell, the varsity center-fielder, made his appearance and took the second squad in charge. Bissell was out of the game for the while with a sprained ankle, and Hanson, the head coach, had placed the second squad under his wing. There were sixteen of them in all, for the most part upper classmen who had failed to make the varsity the year before, with a sprinkling of sophomores and two freshmen. The freshmen were Jack and a small, wiry chap, named Clover, who was trying for shortstop. Bissell led the way to the batting nets and soon they were hard at work. A third squad, made up of some twenty more or less hopeless candidates, many of them freshmen who would later form the nucleus of their class nine, were occupying an improvised diamond at the farther end of the football field. The scene was animated and interesting. The sharp crack of bat meeting ball, the shrill cries of the coachers, and the low thud of flying spheres against padded gloves filled the air.

Jack had just finished his first turn at bat by sending a hot grounder across the grass, and had taken his place at the end of the line again when he heard an authoritative voice addressing Bissell, and looked around to find the head coach standing by.

“Haven’t you got a man who can pitch better than that, Bissell?” asked the coach.

Bissell surveyed the candidates doubtfully and the man who was pitching, quailing under the disapproving eye of the coach, threw his next ball over the batsman’s head and so completed his disgrace. The head coach was a small man, small in stature and small of limb and feature, but possessed of a shrewd and sharp brown eye that was the terror of shirking candidates. He was unmistakably good-looking, was Hanson—his full name was Alfred Ward Hanson—and had the faculty of commanding instant respect, rather a difficult feat for a small man. He was aided there, however, by a reputation for wonderful playing; nothing commands the respect and allegiance of the soldier or the athlete as does past prowess, and an army officer or college coach whose history contains valorous deeds is seldom troubled with insubordination or discouraged by half-heartedness in the ranks. Hanson was liked, respected, admired, and—feared.

“You must have somebody here that’s able to pitch a straight ball,” continued the coach.

“There ought to be,” replied Bissell. “How about it, you fellows? Can any of you pitch?”

There was a moment’s silence. Undoubtedly several of them could, but with Hanson’s dissatisfied gaze upon them they hesitated to make known their accomplishment. It was Jack who spoke first.