From the manner in which he moved about and shifted his hands, I could see that he was more nervous than ever, and I trembled for the results. I will be fair enough to say that it was no easy fly to catch, especially for a baseman inclined to be nervous. Fred Harrison was all this. He was thinking no doubt of all that depended on his play, while the ball hung there in the air, so that, by the time it reached him, he had lost his head completely, and made a frantic grab at it which proved utterly futile. The ball went through his hands, and dropped to the ground, while the two runners scored, and the game stood 6 to 6.
The next man was put out without trouble, and the inning closed. The crowd in the grand stand had suppressed their joy as well as possible out of respect to our feelings, but we could not have found fault with any demonstration, for their gain had come so unexpectedly that an outburst of cheers would have been natural. We were out of spirits, and played poorly at the bat during the first half of the ninth inning, the result being that we were retired without a run. It was only when the last of the three men was out that we realized our predicament, and prepared for a desperate tug.
“Fellows,” said Ray quietly, but setting his lips firmly, “our reputation is at stake now. You know your duty, so don’t fail. We simply must put those men out in one, two, three order. Then we can make up our lost ground.”
The first man, however, got his base, and, on a passed ball of Dick Palmer’s, he reached second. The next two men we disposed of readily; one of them, however, made a sacrifice hit that sent the runner to third base. There were now two out. I pitched a slow outcurve to the next man, who caught it on the end of his bat, and sent it flying along the grounds to my right, but not close enough for me to reach it. George Ives dashed to one side, picked it up neatly, and tossed it to Fred Harrison.
George was a strong thrower, and may perhaps have thrown a little to one side, but the ball was within easy reach of Harrison’s hands. The latter, however, in his nervousness, again misjudged the ball; it struck on the tips of his fingers and bounded away, while the runner on third base reached the home plate, and the game was lost to us by a score of 7 to 6.
The delight of the Dean men may be imagined. They ran about shouting and hugging one another, while we stood for several seconds in our various positions almost unable to realize the truth. Laughing and cheering, the crowd moved off toward the gate, while we despondently gathered up our things and walked silently toward our omnibus.
There we found our friends, but none of them inclined to say anything. There was simply nothing to say. Having gone into the game with feelings of the utmost confidence, our chagrin and humiliation passed all expression. I looked at no one. I simply wanted to be alone—to bury myself in some place where I could not see the reproachful and disappointed eyes that I knew would look upon our return.
But even reproach and disappointment were not the worst I feared. I expected ridicule, for the idea of being beaten by Dean College seemed absurd. Such a thing had never been known at Belmont.
“Don’t tell me there is no such thing as luck in baseball,” said Tony Larcom’s voice behind me.
“Nonsense,” I exclaimed impatiently. “What has luck to do with us? With all our hard luck we would have won, but for—— Well, never mind. He feels it no doubt worse than the rest of us, so let us spare him any criticism.”