A moment later, at a motion from Colonel Chamberlain, who had just come onto the field, Johnny walked away.
“I’m sorry, Johnny.” The Colonel’s face was sober as Johnny reached his side. “It’s a tough break for the team, but J. can’t be with us today.”
“Jay?” Johnny stared.
“Suppose you are thinking J-a-y.” The Colonel smiled. “Just leave the last two letters off. That’s what our star pitcher prefers to be known by—just the plain letter ‘J.’ And, as I was saying, I couldn’t get him out—not today. He—he told me he didn’t want to chance it.”
“Chance what?” Johnny was keenly disappointed. “’Fraid his arm wouldn’t hold out?”
“Not that. Something else. I can’t explain further.” The Colonel’s voice dropped. “Just tell the boys we’re sorry. Hope he can be with you next game.”
It was a very sober Johnny who walked toward the spot where the Hillcrest team was gathered, waiting, expectant, hoping at any moment to see their new pitcher. This quiet, old-fashioned city had somehow gotten into Johnny’s blood. It was the home of his ancestors. He loved it for that and for other reasons. The people who lived here stood for certain things—that is, most of them did. They were honest, or at least as honest as they knew how to be. They were kind to the unfortunate. They believed in both work and rest. Saturday afternoon was their time for recreation. They loved their ball games. And there were very special reasons why, this year, these games must be a grand success. Johnny knew this. That was one reason for his sober face.
“Sorry!” he said quietly, a moment later, to Doug Danby, the captain. “The Colonel just told me our surprise pitcher won’t be here today.”
“Won’t be here?” Doug’s jaw dropped.
“Oh well!” he sighed a moment later. “Just have to make the best of it. And—” his lips closed tight. “We’ll win anyway.”