Winning his game

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Jimmy, surviving Nick’s pun, chose a likely bat and took his stand. Being first man up, it was required of Jimmy that he secure his base by any method short of robbery. Fairway sneaked the first one over on him and teased him with a slow ball, which Jimmy wisely let pass. After that an attempt to bunt resulted in a foul down the third-base side. With two against him, Jimmy took a firmer grip of his bat and bent all his energies to the task. Naturally, Fairway could afford to waste a ball, and did so, and it was two-and-two. Jimmy took heart. The next one looked good and he swung briskly. Another foul resulted, the first-baseman almost making the catch. Another offering curved up to him and again he laid his bat against it and again it went foul. Fairway dragged his sleeve across his perspiring face, had a good look at the signals and unlimbered. The ball shot in, knee-high and looking good, and Jimmy started his swing. But something warned him in time and he recovered just as the ball took a most deceptive drop in front of the plate.

“Ball—three!” called the umpire. Jimmy grinned and hitched his trousers. From the bench came encouraging and approving cries. Jimmy stepped out of the box and wiped his damp hands in the dust. Then he wiped them on his trousers. Then he stepped back with bat poised.

“All right, Fairy!” called the catcher. “Right over now, old man!”

Jimmy’s smile broadened. “Fairy” was such an amusing title for that tall, husky youth down there! Then the ball was singing up to him, his bat was swinging at it, there was a slap and Jimmy was legging it to first. But again he had fouled, and again the Fates that rule over the lives of such as James Townsend Logan came to his rescue. The catcher, running back with gaze set skyward, hands poised for the descending ball, managed at the last instant to get the sun’s rays fairly in his eyes. The ball struck his mitten, bounded out, was juggled and dropped to the sod. A shrill shout of joy arose from the Grafton bench. The catcher angrily sped the ball to third and looked for his mask in a very disgruntled manner. Jimmy held it out to him.

“Hard luck,” said Jimmy consolingly. “Next time I’ll put it where you can catch it.”

The Lawrence backstop grunted.

That trifling incident proved psychological, as many trifling incidents do in baseball, and Fairway’s next attempt at a strike passed a foot wide of the base, and Jimmy, dropping his bat, trotted to base amidst the plaudits and laughter of the spectators. The coachers got busy on the instant, Captain Murtha at first and Bert Winslow at third, and sent a veritable fusillade of interesting remarks across the diamond.

“On your toes, Jimmy! Take a lead! Watch his arm! Look out! Up again! At a boy! Here we go! Go on! Go on! Who-oa!”

Jimmy, hooking a leg back to the bag, grinned, climbed to his feet again, shook the dust from his togs and inched along the base line. Fairway gave him up after two attempts and turned his attention to Pete Gordon. Gordon was there to sacrifice, of course, and the safest way to do it was to bunt. But Pete was the slugging kind of a hitter, the sort who doesn’t very frequently connect, but slams out wicked liners or screeching flies when he does. Bunting, therefore, was not his strong suit, and his two attempts failed, the first one going foul and the second resulting in a harmless swing against the atmosphere. After that, with two strikes against him and only one ball to his credit, Pete was not dangerous, and when he finally hit one it arched amiably into center fielder’s hands and Jimmy retraced his steps to first.