New York Giants Opening Day line-up at the Polo Grounds, 1910
He bought a ticket at the 25-cent window, andedging his huge bulk through the turnstile, laboriouslyfollowed the noisy crowd toward the bleachers.I could not have been mistaken. He was OldWell-Well, famous from Boston to Baltimore asthe greatest baseball fan in the East. His singularyell had pealed into the ears of five hundredthousand worshippers of the national game and wouldnever be forgotten.At sight of him I recalled a friend's baseballtalk. ``You remember Old Well-Well? He's allin--dying, poor old fellow! It seems young Burt,whom the Phillies are trying out this spring, isOld Well-Well's nephew and protege. Used toplay on the Murray Hill team; a speedy youngster.When the Philadelphia team was here last,Manager Crestline announced his intention to playBurt in center field. Old Well-Well was too illto see the lad get his tryout. He was heart-brokenand said: `If I could only see one more game!' ''The recollection of this random baseball gossipand the fact that Philadelphia was scheduled toplay New York that very day, gave me a suddendesire to see the game with Old Well-Well. I did notknow him, but where on earth were introductionsas superfluous as on the bleachers? It was a veryeasy matter to catch up with him. He walkedslowly, leaning hard on a cane and his wide shoulderssagged as he puffed along. I was about tomake some pleasant remark concerning the prospectsof a fine game, when the sight of his faceshocked me and I drew back. If ever I had seenshadow of pain and shade of death they hovereddarkly around Old Well-Well.No one accompanied him; no one seemed torecognize him. The majority of that merry crowdof boys and men would have jumped up wild withpleasure to hear his well-remembered yell. Notmuch longer than a year before, I had seen tenthousand fans rise as one man and roar a greetingto him that shook the stands. So I wasconfronted by a situation strikingly calculated torouse my curiosity and sympathy.He found an end seat on a row at about themiddle of the right-field bleachers and I choseone across the aisle and somewhat behind him.No players were yet in sight. The stands werefilling up and streams of men were filing into theaisles of the bleachers and piling over the benches.Old Well-Well settled himself comfortably in hisseat and gazed about him with animation. Therehad come a change to his massive features. Thehard lines had softened; the patches of graywere no longer visible; his cheeks were ruddy;something akin to a smile shone on his face as helooked around, missing no detail of the familiarscene.During the practice of the home team Old Well-Well sat still with his big hands on his knees; butwhen the gong rang for the Phillies, he grew restless,squirming in his seat and half rose severaltimes. I divined the importuning of his old habitto greet his team with the yell that had made himfamous. I expected him to get up; I waited forit. Gradually, however, he became quiet as a mangoverned by severe self-restraint and directed hisattention to the Philadelphia center fielder.At a glance I saw that the player was new tome and answered the newspaper description ofyoung Burt. What a lively looking athlete! Hewas tall, lithe, yet sturdy. He did not need tochase more than two fly balls to win me. Hisgraceful, fast style reminded me of the great CurtWelch. Old Well-Well's face wore a raptexpression. I discovered myself hoping Burt wouldmake good; wishing he would rip the boards offthe fence; praying he would break up the game.It was Saturday, and by the time the gongsounded for the game to begin the grand standand bleachers were packed. The scene was glittering,colorful, a delight to the eye. Around thecircle of bright faces rippled a low, merrymurmur. The umpire, grotesquely padded in frontby his chest protector, announced the batteries,dusted the plate, and throwing out a white ball,sang the open sesame of the game: ``Play!''Then Old Well-Well arose as if pushed from hisseat by some strong propelling force. It had beenhis wont always when play was ordered or in amoment of silent suspense, or a lull in theapplause, or a dramatic pause when hearts heat highand lips were mute, to bawl out over the listening,waiting multitude his terrific blast: ``Well-Well-Well!''Twice he opened his mouth, gurgled andchoked, and then resumed his seat with a veryred, agitated face; something had deterred himfrom his purpose, or he had been physicallyincapable of yelling.The game opened with White's sharp bounderto the infield. Wesley had three strikes called onhim, and Kelly fouled out to third base. ThePhillies did no better, being retired in one, two,three order. The second inning was short and notallies were chalked up. Brain hit safely in thethird and went to second on a sacrifice. Thebleachers began to stamp and cheer. He reachedthird on an infield hit that the Philadelphia short-stop knocked down but could not cover in timeto catch either runner. The cheer in the grandstand was drowned by the roar in the bleachers.Brain scored on a fly-ball to left. A double alongthe right foul line brought the second runnerhome. Following that the next batter went outon strikes.In the Philadelphia half of the inning youngBurt was the first man up. He stood left-handedat the plate and looked formidable. Duveen, thewary old pitcher for New York, to whom this newplayer was an unknown quantity, eyed his easyposition as if reckoning on a possible weakness.Then he took his swing and threw the ball. Burtnever moved a muscle and the umpire called strike.The next was a ball, the next a strike; still Burthad not moved.``Somebody wake him up!'' yelled a wag in thebleachers. ``He's from Slumbertown, all right, allright!'' shouted another.Duveen sent up another ball, high and swift.Burt hit straight over the first baseman, a linedrive that struck the front of the right-fieldbleachers.``Peacherino!'' howled a fan.Here the promise of Burt's speed was fulfilled.Run! He was fleet as a deer. He cut throughfirst like the wind, settled to a driving stridesrounded second, and by a good, long slide beatthe throw in to third. The crowd, who went togames to see long hits and daring runs, gave hima generous hand-clapping.Old Well-Well appeared on the verge of apoplexy.His ruddy face turned purple, then black;he rose in his seat; he gave vent to smotheredgasps; then he straightened up and clutched hishands into his knees.Burt scored his run on a hit to deep short, aninfielder's choice, with the chances against retiringa runner at the plate. Philadelphia could nottally again that inning. New York blanked in thefirst of the next. For their opponents, an error,a close decision at second favoring the runner,and a single to right tied the score. Bell of NewYork got a clean hit in the opening of the fifth.With no one out and chances for a run, theimpatient fans let loose. Four subway trains incollision would not have equalled the yell and stampin the bleachers. Maloney was next to bat andhe essayed a bunt. This the fans derided withhoots and hisses. No team work, no inside ballfor them.``Hit it out!'' yelled a hundred in unison.``Home run!'' screamed a worshipper of longhits.As if actuated by the sentiments of his admirersMaloney lined the ball over short. It looked goodfor a double; it certainly would advance Bell tothird; maybe home. But no one calculated onBurt. His fleetness enabled him to head thebounding ball. He picked it up cleanly, andchecking his headlong run, threw toward third base.Bell was half way there. The ball shot straightand low with terrific force and beat the runner tothe bag.``What a great arm!'' I exclaimed, deep in mythroat. ``It's the lad's day! He can't bestopped.''The keen newsboy sitting below us broke theamazed silence in the bleachers.``Wot d'ye tink o' that?''Old Well-Well writhed in his seat. To him ifwas a one-man game, as it had come to be for me.I thrilled with him; I gloried in the making goodof his protege; it got to be an effort on my partto look at the old man, so keenly did his emotioncommunicate itself to me.The game went on, a close, exciting, brilliantlyfought battle. Both pitchers were at their best.The batters batted out long flies, low liners, andsharp grounders; the fielders fielded these difficultchances without misplay. Opportunities camefor runs, but no runs were scored for severalinnings. Hopes were raised to the highest pitchonly to be dashed astonishingly away. The crowdin the grand stand swayed to every pitched ball;the bleachers tossed like surf in a storm.To start the eighth, Stranathan of New Yorktripled along the left foul line. Thunder burstfrom the fans and rolled swellingly around thefield. Before the hoarse yelling, the shrillhooting, the hollow stamping had ceased Stranathanmade home on an infield hit. Then bedlam brokeloose. It calmed down quickly, for the fans sensedtrouble between Binghamton, who had beenthrown out in the play, and the umpire who waswaving him back to the bench.``You dizzy-eyed old woman, you can't seestraight!'' called Binghamton.The umpire's reply was lost, but it was evidentthat the offending player had been ordered out ofthe grounds.Binghamton swaggered along the bleacherswhile the umpire slowly returned to his post. Thefans took exception to the player's objection andwere not slow in expressing it. Various wittyenconiums, not to be misunderstood, attested tothe bleachers' love of fair play and their disgustat a player's getting himself put out of the gameat a critical stage.The game proceeded. A second batter had beenthrown out. Then two hits in succession lookedgood for another run. White, the next batter,sent a single over second base. Burt scooped theball on the first bounce and let drive for the plate.It was another extraordinary throw. Whetherball or runner reached home base first was mostdifficult to decide. The umpire made his sweepingwave of hand and the breathless crowd caughthis decision.``Out!''In action and sound the circle of bleachersresembled a long curved beach with a mountingbreaker thundering turbulently high.``Rob--b--ber--r!'' bawled the outraged fans,betraying their marvelous inconsistency.Old Well-Well breathed hard. Again thewrestling of his body signified an inward strife. Ibegan to feel sure that the man was in a mingledtorment of joy and pain, that he fought the maddeningdesire to yell because he knew he had notthe strength to stand it. Surely, in all the yearsof his long following of baseball he had never hadthe incentive to express himself in his peculiarway that rioted him now. Surely, before the gameended he would split the winds with his wonderfulyell.Duveen's only base on balls, with the help ofa bunt, a steal, and a scratch hit, resulted in a runfor Philadelphia, again tying the score. How thefans raged at Fuller for failing to field the luckyscratch.``We had the game on ice!'' one cried.``Get him a basket!''New York men got on bases in the ninth andmade strenuous efforts to cross the plate, but itwas not to be. Philadelphia opened up with twoscorching hits and then a double steal. Burt cameup with runners on second and third. Half thecrowd cheered in fair appreciation of the way fatewas starring the ambitious young outfielder; theother half, dyed-in-the-wool home-team fans, bentforward in a waiting silent gloom of fear. Burtknocked the dirt out of his spikes and facedDuveen. The second ball pitched he met fairly andit rang like a bell.No one in the stands saw where it went. Butthey heard the crack, saw the New York shortstopstagger and then pounce forward to pick up theball and speed it toward the plate. The catcherwas quick to tag the incoming runner, and thensnap the ball to first base, completing a doubleplay.When the crowd fully grasped this, which wasafter an instant of bewilderment, a hoarse crashingroar rolled out across the field to bellow backin loud echo from Coogan's Bluff. The grandstand resembled a colored corn field waving in aviolent wind; the bleachers lost all semblance ofanything. Frenzied, flinging action--wild chaos--shrieking cries--manifested sheer insanity ofjoy.When the noise subsided, one fan, evidentlya little longer-winded than his comrades, cried outhysterically:``O-h! I don't care what becomes of me--now-w!''Score tied, three to three, game must go teninnings--that was the shibboleth; that was theovermastering truth. The game did go ten innings--eleven--twelve, every one marked by masterlypitching, full of magnificent catches, stopsand throws, replete with reckless base-runningand slides like flashes in the dust. But they wereunproductive of runs. Three to three! Thirteeninnings!``Unlucky thirteenth,'' wailed a superstitiousfan.I had got down to plugging, and for the firsttime, not for my home team. I wanted Philadelphiato win, because Burt was on the team. WithOld Well-Well sitting there so rigid in his seat,so obsessed by the playing of the lad, I turnedtraitor to New York.White cut a high twisting bounder inside thethird base, and before the ball could be returnedhe stood safely on second. The fans howled withwhat husky voice they had left. The second hitterbatted a tremendously high fly toward center field.Burt wheeled with the crack of the ball and racedfor the ropes. Onward the ball soared like a sailingswallow; the fleet fielder ran with his back tothe stands. What an age that ball stayed in theair! Then it lost its speed, gracefully curved andbegan to fall. Burt lunged forward and upwards;the ball lit in his hands and stuck there as heplunged over the ropes into the crowd. Whitehad leisurely trotted half way to third; he saw thecatch, ran back to touch second and then easilymade third on the throw-in. The applause thatgreeted Burt proved the splendid spirit of thegame. Bell placed a safe little hit over short,scoring White. Heaving, bobbing bleachers--wild, broken, roar on roar!Score four to three--only one half inning leftfor Philadelphia to play--how the fans rooted foranother run! A swift double-play, however, endedthe inning.Philadelphia's first hitter had three strikescalled on him.``Asleep at the switch!'' yelled a delighted fan.The next batter went out on a weak pop-up flyto second.``Nothin' to it!''``Oh, I hate to take this money!''``All-l o-over!''Two men at least of all that vast assemblagehad not given up victory for Philadelphia. I hadnot dared to look at Old Well-Well for a long,while. I dreaded the nest portentious moment.I felt deep within me something like clairvoyantforce, an intangible belief fostered by hope.Magoon, the slugger of the Phillies, sluggedone against the left field bleachers, but, beingheavy and slow, he could not get beyond secondbase. Cless swung with all his might at the firstpitched ball, and instead of hitting it a mile ashe had tried, he scratched a mean, slow, teasinggrounder down the third base line. It was assafe as if it had been shot out of a cannon. Magoonwent to third.The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities;sharp commands came from the players'bench. The Philadelphia team were bowling andhopping on the side lines, and had to be put downby the umpire.An inbreathing silence fell upon stands andfield, quiet, like a lull before a storm.When I saw young Burt start for the plate andrealized it was his turn at bat, I jumped as if Ihad been shot. Putting my hand on Old Well-Well's shoulder I whispered: ``Burt's at bat:He'll break up this game! I know he's going tolose one!''The old fellow did not feel my touch; he did nothear my voice; he was gazing toward the fieldwith an expression on his face to which no humanspeech could render justice. He knew what wascoming. It could not be denied him in that moment.How confidently young Burt stood up to theplate! None except a natural hitter could havehad his position. He might have been Wagnerfor all he showed of the tight suspense of thatcrisis. Yet there was a tense alert poise to hishead and shoulders which proved he was alive tohis opportunity.Duveen plainly showed he was tired. Twice heshook his head to his catcher, as if he did notwant to pitch a certain kind of ball. He had touse extra motion to get his old speed, and hedelivered a high straight ball that Burt fouled overthe grand stand. The second ball met a similarfate. All the time the crowd maintained thatstrange waiting silence. The umpire threw out aglistening white ball, which Duveen rubbed in thedust and spat upon. Then he wound himself upinto a knot, slowly unwound, and swinging witheffort, threw for the plate.Burt's lithe shoulders swung powerfully. Themeeting of ball and bat fairly cracked. The lowdriving hit lined over second a rising glitteringstreak, and went far beyond the center fielder.Bleachers and stands uttered one short cry,almost a groan, and then stared at the speedingrunners. For an instant, approaching doom couldnot have been more dreaded. Magoon scored.Cless was rounding second when the ball lit. IfBurt was running swiftly when he turned first hehad only got started, for then his long sprinter'sstride lengthened and quickened. At second hewas flying; beyond second he seemed to mergeinto a gray flitting shadow.I gripped my seat strangling the uproar withinme. Where was the applause? The fans weresilent, choked as I was, but from a different cause.Cless crossed the plate with the score thatdefeated New York; still the tension never laxeduntil Burt beat the ball home in as beautiful a runas ever thrilled an audience.In the bleak dead pause of amazed disappointmentOld Well-Well lifted his hulking figure andloomed, towered over the bleachers. His wideshoulders spread, his broad chest expanded, hisbreath whistled as he drew it in. One fleetinginstant his transfigured face shone with a gloriouslight. Then, as he threw back his head andopened his lips, his face turned purple, the musclesof his cheeks and jaw rippled and strung, the veinson his forehead swelled into bulging ridges. Eventhe back of his neck grew red.``WellWell!!!''Ear-splitting stentorian blast! For a momentI was deafened. But I heard the echo ringingfrom the cliff, a pealing clarion call, beautiful andwonderful, winding away in hollow reverberation,then breaking out anew from building tobuilding in clear concatenation.A sea of faces whirled in the direction of thatlong unheard yell. Burt had stopped statue-likeas if stricken in his tracks; then he came running,darting among the spectators who had leaped thefence.Old Well-Well stood a moment with slow glancelingering on the tumult of emptying bleachers, onthe moving mingling colors in the grand stand,across the green field to the gray-clad players.He staggered forward and fell.Before I could move, a noisy crowd swarmedabout him, some solicitous, many facetious.Young Burt leaped the fence and forced his wayinto the circle. Then they were carrying the oldman down to the field and toward the clubhouse.I waited until the bleachers and field wereempty. When I finally went out there was a crowdat the gate surrounding an ambulance. I caughta glimpse of Old Well-Well. He lay white andstill, but his eyes were open, smiling intently.Young Burt hung over him with a pale and agitatedface. Then a bell clanged and the ambulanceclattered away.
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