Breaking into Fast Company
They may say baseball is the same in the minorleagues that it is in the big leagues, but any oldball player or manager knows better. Where thedifference comes in, however, is in the greaterexcellence and unity of the major players, a speed,a daring, a finish that can be acquired only incompetition with one another.I thought of this when I led my party intoMorrisey's private box in the grand stand of theChicago American League grounds. We hadcome to see the Rube's break into fast company.My great pitcher, Whittaker Hurtle, the Rube,as we called him, had won the Eastern LeaguePennant for me that season, and Morrisey, theChicago magnate, had bought him. Milly, myaffianced, was with me, looking as happy as shewas pretty, and she was chaperoned by hermother, Mrs. Nelson.With me, also, were two veterans of my team,McCall and Spears, who lived in Chicago, andwho would have traveled a few miles to see theRube pitch. And the other member of my partywas Mrs. Hurtle, the Rube's wife, as saucy andas sparkling-eyed as when she had been NanBrown. Today she wore a new tailor-made gown,new bonnet, new gloves--she said she had decoratedherself in a manner befitting the wife of amajor league pitcher.Morrisey's box was very comfortable, and, asI was pleased to note, so situated that we had afine view of the field and stands, and yet werecomparatively secluded. The bleachers were filling.Some of the Chicago players were on thefield tossing and batting balls; the Rube,however, had not yet appeared.A moment later a metallic sound was heard onthe stairs leading up into the box. I knew it forbaseball spiked shoes clanking on the wood.The Rube, looking enormous in his uniform,stalked into the box, knocking over two chairs ashe entered. He carried a fielder's glove in onehuge freckled hand, and a big black bat in theother.Nan, with much dignity and a very manifestpride, introduced him to Mrs. Nelson.There was a little chatting, and then, upon thearrival of Manager Morrisey, we men retired tothe back of the box to talk baseball.Chicago was in fourth place in the league race,and had a fighting chance to beat Detroit out forthe third position. Philadelphia was scheduledfor that day, and Philadelphia had a great team.It was leading the race, and almost beyond allquestion would land the flag. In truth, only onemore victory was needed to clinch the pennant.The team had three games to play in Chicago andit was to wind up the season with three inWashington. Six games to play and only oneimperatively important to win! But baseball isuncertain, and until the Philadelphians won that gamethey would be a band of fiends.``Well, Whit, this is where you break in,'' Isaid. ``Now, tip us straight. You've had morethan a week's rest. How's that arm?''``Grand, Con, grand!'' replied the Rube withhis frank smile. ``I was a little anxious till Iwarmed up. But say! I've got more up my sleevetoday than I ever had.''``That'll do for me,'' said Morrisey, rubbinghis hands. ``I'll spring something on theseswelled Quakers today. Now, Connelly, give Hurtleone of your old talks--the last one--and thenI'll ring the gong.''I added some words of encouragement, notforgetting my old ruse to incite the Rube by rousinghis temper. And then, as the gong rang and theRube was departing, Nan stepped forward forher say. There was a little white under the tan onher cheek, and her eyes had a darkling flash.``Whit, it's a magnificent sight--that beautifulgreen field and the stands. What a crowd offans! Why, I never saw a real baseball crowdbefore. There are twenty thousand here. Andthere's a difference in the feeling. It's sharper--new to me. It's big league baseball. Not a soulin that crowd ever heard of you, but, I believe,tomorrow the whole baseball world will have heardof you. Mr. Morrisey knows. I saw it in hisface. Captain Spears knows. Connie knows. Iknow.''Then she lifted her face and, pulling him downwithin reach, she kissed him. Nan took her husband'swork in dead earnest; she gloried in it,and perhaps she had as much to do with makinghim a great pitcher as any of us.The Rube left the box, and I found a seatbetween Nan and Milly. The field was a splendidsight. Those bleachers made me glow with managerialsatisfaction. On the field both teamspranced and danced and bounced around in practice.In spite of the absolutely last degree of egotismmanifested by the Philadelphia players, I couldnot but admire such a splendid body of men.``So these are the champions of last season andof this season, too,'' commented Milly. ``I don'twonder. How swiftly and cleanly they play!They appear not to exert themselves, yet theyalways get the ball in perfect time. It all remindsme of--of the rhythm of music. And that championbatter and runner--that Lane in center--isn't he just beautiful? He walks and runs like ablue-ribbon winner at the horse show. I tell youone thing, Connie, these Quakers are on dressparade.''``Oh, these Quakers hate themselves, I don'tthink!'' retorted Nan. Being a rabid girl-fan itwas, of course, impossible for Nan to speak baseballconvictions or gossip without characteristicbaseball slang. ``Stuck on themselves! I neversaw the like in my life. That fellow Lane is soswelled that he can't get down off his toes. Buthe's a wonder, I must admit that. They're abunch of stars. Easy, fast, trained--they'remachines, and I'll bet they're Indians to fight. I cansee it sticking out all over them. This willcertainly be some game with Whit handing up thatjump ball of his to this gang of champs. But,Connie, I'll go you Whit beats them.''I laughed and refused to gamble.The gong rang; the crowd seemed to hum andrustle softly to quiet attention; Umpire McClungcalled the names of the batteries; then thefamiliar ``Play!''There was the usual applause from the grandstand and welcome cheers from the bleachers.The Rube was the last player to go out.Morrisey was a manager who always played to thestands, and no doubt he held the Rube back foreffect. If so, he ought to have been gratified.That moment reminded me of my own team andaudience upon the occasion of the Rube's debut.It was the same only here it happened in thebig league, before a championship team andtwenty thousand fans.The roar that went up from the bleachers mightwell have scared an unseasoned pitcher out of hiswits. And the Quakers lined up before theirbench and gazed at this newcomer who had thenerve to walk out there to the box. Cogswellstood on the coaching line, looked at the Rube andthen held up both arms and turned toward theChicago bench as if to ask Morrisey: ``Wheredid you get that?''Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leanedover the box-rail and looked at the championswith fire in her eye. ``Oh, you just wait! wait!''she bit out between her teeth.Certain it was that there was no one who knewthe Rube as well as I; and I knew beyond theshadow of a doubt that the hour before me wouldsee brightening of a great star pitcher on the bigleague horizon. It was bound to be a full hourfor me. I had much reason to be grateful to WhitHurtle. He had pulled my team out of a rut andwon me the pennant, and the five thousand dollarsI got for his release bought the little cottage onthe hill for Milly and me. Then there was mypride in having developed him. And all that Ineeded to calm me, settle me down into assuranceand keen criticism of the game, was to see theRube pitch a few balls with his old incomparablespeed and control.Berne, first batter for the Quakers, walked upto the plate. He was another Billy Hamilton,built like a wedge. I saw him laugh at the longpitcher.Whit swayed back, coiled and uncoiled. Somethingthin, white, glancing, shot at Berne. Heducked, escaping the ball by a smaller marginthan appeared good for his confidence. He spokelow to the Rube, and what he said was probablynot flavored with the milk of friendly sweetness.``Wild! What'd you look for?'' called outCogswell scornfully. ``He's from the woods!''The Rube swung his enormously long arm, tookan enormous stride toward third base, and pitchedagain. It was one of his queer deliveries. Theball cut the plate.``Ho! Ho!'' yelled the Quakers.The Rube's next one was his out curve. Itbroke toward the corner of the plate and wouldhave been a strike had not Berne popped it up.Callopy, the second hitter, faced the Rube, andhe, too, after the manner of ball players, madesome remark meant only for the Rube's ears.Callopy was a famous waiter. He drove morepitchers mad with his implacable patience thanany hitter in the league. The first one of theRube's he waited on crossed the in-corner; thesecond crossed the out-corner and the third wasRube's wide, slow, tantalizing ``stitch-ball,'' aswe call it, for the reason that it came so slow abatter could count the stitches. I believe Callopywaited on that curve, decided to hit it, changedhis mind and waited some more, and finally theball maddened him and he had to poke at it, theresult being a weak grounder.Then the graceful, powerful Lane, championbatter, champion base runner, stepped to theplate. How a baseball crowd, any crowd, anywhere,loves the champion batter! The ovationLane received made me wonder, with this impressivereception in a hostile camp, what could bethe manner of it on his home field? Any boy ball-player from the lots seeing Lane knock the dirtout of his spikes and step into position would haveknown he was a 400 hitter.I was curious to see what the Rube would pitchLane. It must have been a new and significantmoment for Hurtle. Some pitchers actually wiltwhen facing a hitter of Lane's reputation. Buthe, on his baseball side, was peculiarly unemotional.Undoubtedly he could get furious, but thatonly increased his effectiveness. To my amazementthe Rube pitched Lane a little easy ball, notin any sense like his floater or stitch-ball, but justa little toss that any youngster might have tossed.Of all possible balls, Lane was not expecting suchas that, and he let it go. If the nerve of it amazedme, what did it not do to Lane? I saw his facego fiery red. The grand stand murmured; let outone short yelp of pleasure; the Quaker playerschaffed Lane.The pitch was a strike. I was gripping mychair now, and for the next pitch I prophesied theRube's wonderful jump ball, which he had not yetused. He swung long, and at the end of his swingseemed to jerk tensely. I scarcely saw the ball.It had marvelous speed. Lane did not offer to hitit, and it was a strike. He looked at the Rube,then at Cogswell. That veteran appeared amused.The bleachers, happy and surprised to be able toyell at Lane, yelled heartily.Again I took it upon myself to interpret theRube's pitching mind. He had another ball thathe had not used, a drop, an unhittable drop. Ithought he would use that next. He did, andthough Lane reached it with the bat, the hit wasa feeble one. He had been fooled and the sidewas out.Poole, the best of the Quaker's pitching staff,walked out to the slab. He was a left-hander,and Chicago, having so many players who battedleft-handed, always found a southpaw a hardnut to crack. Cogswell, field manager andcaptain of the Quakers, kicked up the dust aroundfirst base and yelled to his men: ``Git in thegame!''Staats hit Poole's speed ball into deep shortand was out; Mitchell flew out to Berne; Randgrounded to second.While the teams again changed sides the fanscheered, and then indulged in the first stretch ofthe game. I calculated that they would be stretchingtheir necks presently, trying to keep track ofthe Rube's work. Nan leaned on the railingabsorbed in her own hope and faith. Milly chatteredabout this and that, people in the boxes, andthe chances of the game.My own interest, while it did not whollypreclude the fortunes of the Chicago players at thebat, was mostly concerned with the Rube's fortunesin the field.In the Rube's half inning he retired Bannisterand Blandy on feeble infield grounders, andworked Cogswell into hitting a wide curve highin the air.Poole meant to win for the Quakers if his goodarm and cunning did not fail him, and his pitchingwas masterly. McCloskey fanned, Hutchinsonfouled out, Brewster got a short safe fly justout of reach, and Hoffner hit to second, forcingBrewster.With Dugan up for the Quakers in the thirdinning, Cogswell and Bannister, from the coachinglines, began to talk to the Rube. My ears,keen from long practice, caught some of theremarks in spite of the noisy bleachers.``Say, busher, you 've lasted longer'n weexpected, but you don't know it!''``Gol darn you city ball tossers! Now you jestlet me alone!''``We're comin' through the rye!''``My top-heavy rustic friend, you'll need anairship presently, when you go up!''All the badinage was good-natured, which wassure proof that the Quakers had not arrived atanything like real appreciation of the Rube. Theywere accustomed to observe the trying out ofmany youngsters, of whom ninety-nine out of ahundred failed to make good.Dugan chopped at three strikes and slammedhis bat down. Hucker hit a slow fly to Hoffer.Three men out on five pitched balls! Cogswell,old war horse that he was, stood a full momentand watched the Rube as he walked in to thebench. An idea had penetrated Cogswell's brain,and I would have given something to know whatit was. Cogswell was a great baseball general,and though he had a preference for matured ball-players he could, when pressed, see the qualityin a youngster. He picked up his mitt and tookhis position at first with a gruff word to hisplayers.Rand for Chicago opened with a hit, and thebleachers, ready to strike fire, began to cheer andstamp. When McCloskey, in an attempt to sacrifice,beat out his bunt the crowd roared. Rand,eing slow on his feet, had not attempted to makethird on the play. Hutchinson sacrificed, neatlyadvancing the runners. Then the bleachersplayed the long rolling drum of clattering feetwith shrill whistling accompaniment. Brewsterbatted a wicked ground ball to Blandy. He doveinto the dust, came up with the ball, and feintingto throw home he wheeled and shot the ball toCogswell, who in turn shot it to the plate to headRand. Runner and ball got there apparentlytogether, but Umpire McClung's decision wentagainst Rand. It was fine, fast work, but howthe bleachers stormed at McClung!``Rob-b-ber!''Again the head of the Quakers' formidable listwas up. I knew from the way that Cogswellpaced the coaching box that the word had goneout to look the Rube over seriously. There werepossibilities even in rubes.Berne carefully stepped into the batter's box,as if he wanted to be certain to the breadth of ahair how close he was to the plate. He was therethis time to watch the Rube pitch, to work himout, to see what was what. He crouched low, andit would have been extremely hard to guess whathe was up to. His great play, however, was hisability to dump the ball and beat out the throwto first. It developed presently, that this wasnow his intention and that the Rube knew it andpitched him the one ball which is almost impossibleto bunt--a high incurve, over the inside corner.There was no mistaking the Rube's magnificentcontrol. True as a plumb line he shot upthe ball--once, twice, and Berne fouled both--twostrikes. Grudgingly he waited on the next, but it,too, was over the corner, and Berne went out onstrikes. The great crowd did not, of course, graspthe finesse of the play, but Berne had struck out--that was enough for them.Callopy, the famous spiker, who had put manya player out of the game for weeks at a time,strode into the batter's place, and he, too, was notat the moment making any funny remarks. TheRube delivered a ball that all but hit Callopy fairon the head. It was the second narrow escapefor him, and the roar he let out showed how heresented being threatened with a little of his ownmedicine. As might have been expected, andvery likely as the Rube intended, Callopy hit thenext ball, a sweeping curve, up over the infield.I was trying to see all the intricate details ofthe motive and action on the field, and it was noteasy to watch several players at once. But whileBerne and Callopy were having their troubleswith the Rube, I kept the tail of my eye onCogswell. He was prowling up and down the third-base line.He was missing no signs, no indications, noprobabilities, no possibilities. But he was indoubt. Like a hawk he was watching the Rube,and, as well, the crafty batters. The inning mightnot tell the truth as to the Rube's luck, though itwould test his control. The Rube's speed andcurves, without any head work, would have madehim a pitcher of no mean ability, but was thisremarkable placing of balls just accident? Thatwas the question.When Berne walked to the bench I distinctlyheard him say: ``Come out of it, you dubs. I sayyou can't work him or wait him. He's peggin''em out of a gun!''Several of the Quakers were standing out fromthe bench, all intent on the Rube. He had stirredthem up. First it was humor; then ridicule,curiosity, suspicion, doubt. And I knew it would growto wonder and certainty, then fierce attack fromboth tongues and bats, and lastly--for ball playersare generous--unstinted admiration.Somehow, not only the first climaxes of a gamebut the decisions, the convictions, the reputationsof pitchers and fielders evolve around the greathitter. Plain it was that the vast throng ofspectators, eager to believe in a new find, wild towelcome a new star, yet loath to trust to their ownimpulsive judgments, held themselves in checkuntil once more the great Lane had faced theRube.The field grew tolerably quiet just then. TheRube did not exert himself. The critical stagehad no concern for him. He pitched Lane a highcurve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meantto be hit and a ball hard to hit safely. Lane knewthat as well as any hitter in the world, so he lettwo of the curves go by--two strikes. Again theRube relentlessly gave him the same ball; andLane, hitting viciously, spitefully, because he didnot want to hit that kind of a ball, sent up a flythat Rand easily captured.``Oh, I don't know! Pretty fair, I guess!''yelled a tenor-voiced fan; and he struck the key-note. And the bleachers rose to their feet andgave the Rube the rousing cheer of the brotherhoodof fans.Hoffer walked to first on a base on balls.Sweeney advanced him. The Rube sent up a giantfly to Callopy. Then Staats hit safely, scoringthe first run of the game. Hoffer crossed theplate amid vociferous applause. Mitchell endedthe inning with a fly to Blandy.What a change had come over the spirit of thatQuaker aggregation! It was something to makea man thrill with admiration and, if he happenedto favor Chicago, to fire all his fighting blood.The players poured upon the Rube a continuousstream of scathing abuse. They would have madea raging devil of a mild-mannered clergyman.Some of them were skilled in caustic wit, most ofthem were possessed of forked tongues; and Cogswell,he of a thousand baseball battles, had agenius for inflaming anyone he tormented. Thiswas mostly beyond the ken of the audience, andbehind the back of the umpire, but it was perfectlyplain to me. The Quakers were trying to rattlethe Rube, a trick of the game as fair for one sideas for the other. I sat there tight in my seat,grimly glorying in the way the Rube refused tobe disturbed. But the lion in him was rampant.Fortunately, it was his strange gift to pitch betterthe angrier he got; and the more the Quakersflayed him, the more he let himself out to theircrushing humiliation.The innings swiftly passed to the eighth withChicago failing to score again, with Philadelphiafailing to score at all. One scratch hit and a single,gifts to the weak end of the batting list, wereall the lank pitcher allowed them. Long since thebleachers had crowned the Rube. He was theirsand they were his; and their voices had thepeculiar strangled hoarseness due to over-exertion.The grand stand, slower to understand andapprove, arrived later; but it got there about theseventh, and ladies' gloves and men's hats weresacrificed.In the eighth the Quakers reluctantly yieldedtheir meed of praise, showing it by a cessation oftheir savage wordy attacks on the Rube. It wasa kind of sullen respect, wrung from the bosom ofgreat foes.Then the ninth inning was at hand. As thesides changed I remembered to look at thefeminine group in our box. Milly was in a mostbeautiful glow of happiness and excitement. Nansat rigid, leaning over the rail, her face whiteand drawn, and she kept saying in a low voice:``Will it never end? Will it never end?'' Mrs.Nelson stared wearily.It was the Quakers' last stand. They faced itas a team that had won many a game in the ninthwith two men out. Dugan could do nothing withthe Rube's unhittable drop, for a drop curve washis weakness, and he struck out. Hucker hit toHoffer, who fumbled, making the first error ofthe game. Poole dumped the ball, as evidentlythe Rube desired, for he handed up a straight one,but the bunt rolled teasingly and the Rube, beingbig and tall, failed to field it in time.Suddenly the whole field grew quiet. For thefirst time Cogswell's coaching was clearly heard.``One out! Take a lead! Take a lead! Gothrough this time. Go through!''Could it be possible, I wondered, that after sucha wonderful exhibition of pitching the Rube wouldlose out in the ninth?There were two Quakers on base, one out, andtwo of the best hitters in the league on deck, with achance of Lane getting up.``Oh! Oh! Oh!'' moaned Nan.I put my hand on hers. ``Don't quit, Nan.You'll never forgive yourself if you quit. Takeit from me, Whit will pull out of this hole!''What a hole that was for the Rube on the dayof his break into fast company! I measured itby his remarkable deliberation. He took a longtime to get ready to pitch to Berne, and when helet drive it was as if he had been trifling all beforein that game. I could think of no way to figureit except that when the ball left him there wasscarcely any appreciable interval of time beforeit cracked in Sweeney's mitt. It was the Rube'sdrop, which I believed unhittable. Berne let itgo by, shaking his head as McClung called it astrike. Another followed, which Berne choppedat vainly. Then with the same upheaval of hisgiant frame, the same flinging of long arms andlunging forward, the Rube delivered a third drop.And Berne failed to hit it.The voiceless bleachers stamped on the benchesand the grand stand likewise thundered.Callopy showed his craft by stepping back andlining Rube's high pitch to left. Hoffer leapedacross and plunged down, getting his gloved handin front of the ball. The hit was safe, but Hoffer'svaliant effort saved a tie score.Lane up! Three men on bases! Two out!Not improbably there were many thousandspectators of that thrilling moment who pitiedthe Rube for the fate which placed Lane at thebat then. But I was not one of them. Neverthelessmy throat was clogged, my mouth dry, andmy ears full of bells. I could have done somethingterrible to Hurtle for his deliberation, yet I knewhe was proving himself what I had always triedto train him to be.Then he swung, stepped out, and threw his bodywith the ball. This was his rarely used pitch, hislast resort, his fast rise ball that jumped up alittle at the plate. Lane struck under it. Howsignificant on the instant to see old Cogswell'shands go up! Again the Rube pitched, and thistime Lane watched the ball go by. Two strikes!That whole audience leaped to its feet,whispering, yelling, screaming, roaring, bawling.The Rube received the ball from Sweeney andquick as lightning he sped it plateward. The greatLane struck out! The game was over--Chicago,1; Philadelphia, 0. In that whirling moment when the crowd wentmad and Milly was hugging me, and Nan poundingholes in my hat, I had a queer sort of blankness,a section of time when my sensations weredeadlocked.``Oh! Connie, look!'' cried Nan. I saw Laneand Cogswell warmly shaking hands with theRube. Then the hungry clamoring fans tumbledupon the field and swarmed about the players.Wereupon Nan kissed me and Milly, and thenkissed Mrs. Nelson. In that radiant moment Nanwas all sweetness.``It is the Rube's break into fast company,'' shesaid.
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