Winning his game

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Brunswick went on the mound for the regulars in the fifth and Dud took Leddy’s place for the scrub. After that, as might have been expected, the fielders were much busier and runs began to trickle across quite frequently. Dud pitched three innings that afternoon and performed fairly creditably. Ed Brooks, fast rounding into form as a catcher, knew Dud’s failings and jockeyed him along with a lot of skill and wisdom. More than once Dud found himself in a hole, and if he escaped, as he generally did that day, it was more due to Brooks than to him. The catcher never hesitated to demand the third strike when it was due, leaving it to Dud to put on enough steam or to fool the batter with an unexpected slow ball, and it must be said to Dud’s credit that he frequently delivered the goods. But at that he was hammered hard by the head of the opposing batting list, and could only find consolation in the fact that Brunswick fared but little better at the hands of the scrubs.

Brunswick gave way to Joe Kelly in the eighth, and in that half-inning the scrubs almost snatched the game away from their haughty opponents. Kelly was wild and ineffective and filled the bases with the first three men up. Jimmy Logan, who had never set the world on fire with his batting, bunted cannily down the first-base line, managed to get in the way of Kelly’s throw to the plate and not only saw two runners score but reached first in safety himself. Prentiss fouled out on the second delivery and Jimmy was caught going down to second. Dud, whose turn it was at bat, had but slight hope of turning in a hit. But Kelly had another ascension—or perhaps merely continued his first!—and got himself in the hole to the tune of one strike and three balls. Dud let another strike go by and then hit at the next delivery. Luck favored him, for Nick Blake, at short, made a miserable stop of a weak grounder and threw to first the fraction of a second too late, and the runner from third was safe. That run brought the scrubs’ score to 11 to the regulars’ 13 and, even with two down, the scrubs dreamed of tying it up. But Boynton dispelled the illusion by popping a weak fly to Neil Ayer at first, and, since the practice period was up, Mr. Sargent called the game. For the succeeding half-hour the scrubs busied themselves to a man telling just how they would have won the game had it gone nine innings!

Doubtless pitching four innings to the tune of nine hits and two passes isn’t anything remarkable, but Dud left the field that afternoon treading on air. If, he confided to himself, he had mixed a few hooks in with those straight ones and, perhaps, succeeded in getting a “floater” over nicely a few times, he would have cut those nine bingles down to three or four! And, anyway, Pete hadn’t taken him out, as he had Brunswick, which showed that at least the coach was fairly satisfied with him. And when, while he was pulling off his togs, Guy Murtha stopped an instant to say “Good work, Baker: I like your style,” the air under Dud’s feet became roseate clouds! He didn’t even recall Star Meyer’s existence until, on the way to the showers, he literally ran into that youth. And then, instead of falling back, abashed, he pushed past the other with a fine indifference and rattled the curtain along the rod in Star’s face!

Afterwards, going across the Green in the early twilight, he overtook a group of fellows and, contrary to his usual custom of passing them with a muttered and doubtful greeting, he fell into step with Bert Winslow, much to that youth’s surprise, and carelessly offered an observation to the effect that it had been a dandy game. Bert agreed unenthusiastically, shot a curious side-glance at the other, felt some of his antipathy toward him vanish and remarked quite cordially: “You’re more of a pitcher than I thought, Baker. Where’d you learn it?”

“I haven’t learned it yet,” answered Dud, conquering his shyness with an effort that left him almost breathless. “Anyway, you didn’t have much trouble hitting me, Winslow.”

Bert accepted the compliment as merited, which it was, and thought better of the other’s discernment and modesty, and while he was beginning a reply Nick Blake, walking a few steps ahead, turned and regarded Dud gravely and remarked sadly: “I’ll give you a quarter next time, Baker, if you’ll tip me off when you’re going to pitch one of those slow ones. I don’t mind hitting the air, but I hate to break my back. Besides, I’m extremely sensitive to ridicule, Baker.”

The others laughed and Dud was spared the necessity of a reply by Bert Winslow. “If you were really sensitive to ridicule, Nick, you wouldn’t try to play,” he observed crushingly. Nick resented the insult promptly and battle ensued. Dud left the adversaries rolling on the turf, applauded by several spectators, and made his way on to Trow, feeling much embarrassed and extremely happy.

The happiness was reflected in the letter which he wrote home the next afternoon, for that was Sunday, and Dud, while he sometimes dashed off a hurried note on a weekday, made it a practice to always fill four pages with his somewhat scrawly writing on Sundays. His epistles invariably commenced the same way:

Dear Mother, Father and Sisters [there were two of the latter]:

I am well and getting on nicely. I hope you are all well when this reaches you.