Winning his game

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Then Dud was back in the box again and Gordon was shouting one thing and signaling another and again the Lawrence coachers were doing their level best to rattle him. But that first of the eighth was easy work for Dud. The luck was all Grafton’s. The first of the enemy beat out a bunt and then was caught by Gordon going to second. Dud scored his second strike-out on the next man, using just four deliveries. The succeeding batter proved more troublesome, for after Dud had worked two strikes across he began to lay against the others and foul them off with a fine impartiality. Everything, it seemed, was fish that went to his net, and Dud was beginning to despair of ever getting rid of him. He slipped up once and sailed one over the stubborn batsman’s head, and added a second ball to the score. Then, however, Gordon signaled a low curve and this time the ever-ready bat missed! So did Gordon, for that matter, but he found the rolling sphere and got it to Ayer well ahead of the runner. Dud got a round of applause all to himself this time, as he went back to the bench to pick out his bat, but he was so busy wondering just how much of a fool he would look when he stood up there and tried to hit the redoubtable Fairway that he didn’t even hear it.

I’d like to tell you, in view of what occurred later, that Dud picked out one of Fairway’s slants and drove it across River Street for a home-run. But nothing of that sort happened, and if Dud didn’t look like a fool at the bat on that occasion it was only because pitchers aren’t supposed to be hitters. Dud was an easy proposition for the rival twirler. He promptly forgot everything he had ever learned about batting and swung wildly at the first two offers, held himself away from temptation at the third one and fanned the air an inch above the succeeding ball. He returned to the bench shame-facedly, but no one paid any attention to his fiasco and it dawned on him that he had done just what they had expected him to do and a great big determination arose in him to do better the next time, to learn how to judge a ball rightly and to eventually become that rara avis of baseballdom, a pitcher who can hit! But there was, it proved, no second chance for him today. Nick Blake fanned as effectively if not as promptly as Dud had and Bert Winslow was thrown out at first. And the ninth inning began.

Once more Dud proved his mastery of the enemy, but there were no strike-outs for him this time. The first Lawrence batsman hit to Winslow and went out at first, the next man flied out to Ordway and the third, after Dud had put two strikes across, lighted on a low curve and popped it unexpectedly into short right for a base. Dud made three attempts to catch him napping and failed and the next minute the runner was sliding to second ahead of Gordon’s hurried throw. But Lawrence got no further, for the following batsman, trying hard to hit safely out of the infield, merely succeeded in smashing a liner into Ayer’s hands.

Once more Grafton swung her bats and tried to break the deadlock. The heat was moderating now and long shadows were creeping across the diamond, but the players of both sides were fagged and wilted and prayed for the end of the contest. But it wasn’t to come yet, for Ordway fanned, Murtha flied out to left field—it would have been a wonderful hit if that fielder hadn’t raced back like a rabbit and made a one-hand catch that brought applause even from the Grafton adherents—Ayer beat out a bunt and Boynton hit a weak grounder to shortstop and the ninth had passed into history.

Dud was back at his post again, a little tired, too, in spite of the fact that he had worked only two innings. He had the head of the list against him now and realized that this was no time for slip-ups. Lawrence began enthusiastically. The little, blond-headed second-baseman outwitted Gordon and Dud and walked to first. The next batsman fouled out to Ayer. Then came a sharp rap and the ball sailed over second base and there were two on and only one out. But things looked better a few minutes later, for Dud scored his third strike-out, turning the left-fielder ignominiously back to the bench. That surely ought to have ended things for all practical purposes, but right there Luck took a hand in the game. The next batsman was anxious to hit, and Gordon knew it. In consequence the latter signaled high ones and Dud tried to serve them up. They caught him on the second for a strike, after the first had gone as a ball, and then Dud fooled him with a low one that barely crossed and the score was two-and-one. It seemed all over but the shouting and Gordon risked all on the next delivery. One finger was the signal and Dud sped the fast one in breast-high with not a thing on it but steam. The batsman leaned against that nice ball and drove it far and high into right field and although Boynton was under it he missed the catch. And although he recovered it quickly and sped it back to second, and Guy Murtha pegged it on to third, the runner there was safe and the chap who had hit took advantage of the play and slid to second unchallenged.

Lawrence caught hopefully at the chance before her. A pinch hitter took the place of the center fielder. Gordon had no line on the new man and had to guess his tastes. A high one was refused and was judged a ball, a curve that just didn’t cut the outer corner went as another ball. Gordon signaled for a drop and the batter bit at it and had one strike against him. Then another drop failed to please the umpire and Dud was in the hole. Gordon called for a high one over the plate and Dud tried to put it there. But he didn’t. The ball went wide and Dud saw with dismay the batsman trotting to first and heard the triumphant yelps of the enemy. Another pinch hitter was up and Gordon, a little anxious of countenance now, was asking for a curve ball. Dud responded and scored a strike, the batter hitting hard but uselessly. Then came a ball, then a second. Gordon was calling all sorts of encouragement. Guy Murtha came over and told Dud to take his time. His teammates were assuring him that he could do it. The enemy’s coachers, back of first and third, were howling and dancing like Comanche Indians. The runners were running back and forth along the paths. Pandemonium was fairly loose and the din thumped against Dud’s ears excruciatingly. He felt his courage ebbing out of his finger-tips. He wanted to ask Murtha to let him quit, to put someone else in, but was more afraid to do that than he was to go on. Gordon was pleading for a straight one. Dud glued his eyes to the catcher’s chest, took his half wind-up and sped the ball. And even as he released it he knew that he had failed again!

“Ball—three!” called the umpire through the din.

Gordon was hurrying down the alley toward him, shaking the ball at him, his eyes blazing.

“Settle down!” he growled. “Put ’em over! You can do it! Now get on to yourself!”

Dud took the ball, nodded dazedly and turned back to the mound. Murtha was there, Murtha and Winslow, too, and the captain was looking over past third base and juggling a pebble in his dirt-grimed hands. When he turned his gaze sought Dud grimly.