The Rube
It was the most critical time I had yetexperienced in my career as a baseball manager.And there was more than the usual reason whyI must pull the team out. A chance for abusiness deal depended upon the good-will of thestockholders of the Worcester club. On theoutskirts of the town was a little cottage that Iwanted to buy, and this depended upon the businessdeal. My whole future happiness dependedupon the little girl I hoped to install in thatcottage.Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team,I had found a strong aggregation and anenthusiastic following. I really had a team withpennant possibilities. Providence was a strongrival, but I beat them three straight in the openingseries, set a fast pace, and likewise set Worcesterbaseball mad. The Eastern League clubswere pretty evenly matched; still I continued tohold the lead until misfortune overtook me.Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laidoff. Mullaney got spiked while sliding and wasout of the game. Ashwell sprained his ankle andHirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my greatpitcher, hurt his arm on a cold day and he couldnot get up his old speed. Stringer, who hadbatted three hundred and seventy-one and led theleague the year before, struck a bad spell andcould not hit a barn door handed up to him.Then came the slump. The team suddenly letdown; went to pieces; played ball that would havedisgraced an amateur nine. It was a trying time.Here was a great team, strong everywhere. Alittle hard luck had dug up a slump--and now!Day by day the team dropped in the race. Whenwe reached the second division the newspapersflayed us. Worcester would never stand for asecond division team. Baseball admirers, reporters,fans--especially the fans--are fickle. Theadmirers quit, the reporters grilled us, and thefans, though they stuck to the games with thatbarnacle-like tenacity peculiar to them, made lifemiserable for all of us. I saw the pennant slowlyfading, and the successful season, and the businessdeal, and the cottage, and Milly----But when I thought of her I just could not seefailure. Something must be done, but what? Iwas at the end of my wits. When Jersey Citybeat us that Saturday, eleven to two, shoving usdown to fifth place with only a few percentagepoints above the Fall River team, I grewdesperate, and locking my players in the dressingroom I went after them. They had lain down onme and needed a jar. I told them so straight andflat, and being bitter, I did not pick and choosemy words.``And fellows,'' I concluded, ``you've got tobrace. A little more of this and we can't pull out.I tell you you're a championship team. We hadthat pennant cinched. A few cuts and sprainsand hard luck--and you all quit! You lay down!I've been patient. I've plugged for you. Nevera man have I fined or thrown down. But now I'mat the end of my string. I'm out to fine younow, and I'll release the first man who showsthe least yellow. I play no more substitutes.Crippled or not, you guys have got to get in thegame.''I waited to catch my breath and expected somesuch outburst as managers usually get from criticizedplayers. But not a word! Then I addressedsome of them personally.``Gregg, your lay-off ends today. You playMonday. Mullaney, you've drawn your salaryfor two weeks with that spiked foot. If you can'trun on it--well, all right, but I put it up to yourgood faith. I've played the game and I knowit's hard to run on a sore foot. But you can do it.Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I know--now, canyou run?'' ``Sure I can. I'm not a quitter. I'm ready togo in,'' replied Ashwell.``Raddy, how about you?'' I said, turning tomy star twirler.``Connelly, I've seen as fast a team in as bad arut and yet pull out,'' returned Radbourne.``We're about due for the brace. When it comes--look out! As for me, well, my arm isn't right,but it's acting these warm days in a way that tellsme it will be soon. It's been worked too hard.Can't you get another pitcher? I'm not knockingHerne or Cairns. They're good for their turn,but we need a new man to help out. And he mustbe a crackerjack if we're to get back to the lead.''``Where on earth can I find such a pitcher?'' Ishouted, almost distracted.``Well, that's up to you,'' replied Radbourne.Up to me it certainly was, and I cudgeled mybrains for inspiration. After I had given up inhopelessness it came in the shape of a notice Iread in one of the papers. It was a brief mentionof an amateur Worcester ball team being shutout in a game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsvilleplayed Sunday ball, which gave me an opportunityto look them over.It took some train riding and then a journeyby coach to get to Rickettsville. I mingled withthe crowd of talking rustics. There was only onelittle ``bleachers'' and this was loaded to thedanger point with the feminine adherents of theteams. Most of the crowd centered alongside andback of the catcher's box. I edged in and got aposition just behind the stone that served as homeplate.Hunting up a player in this way was no newthing to me. I was too wise to make myselfknown before I had sized up the merits of myman. So, before the players came upon the fieldI amused myself watching the rustic fans andlistening to them. Then a roar announced theappearance of the Rickettsville team and theiropponents, who wore the name of Spatsburg ontheir Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms of thesecountry amateurs would have put a PhiladelphiaMummer's parade to the blush, at least for brightcolors. But after one amused glance I got downto the stern business of the day, and that was todiscover a pitcher, and failing that, baseball talentof any kind.Never shall I forget my first glimpse of theRickettsville twirler. He was far over six feettall and as lean as a fence rail. He had a greatshock of light hair, a sunburned, sharp-featuredface, wide, sloping shoulders, and arms enormouslylong. He was about as graceful and hadabout as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow.``He's a rube!'' I ejaculated, in disgust anddisappointment.But when I had seen him throw one ball to hiscatcher I grew as keen as a fox on a scent. Whatspeed he had! I got round closer to him andwatched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was agiant. To be sure, he was lean, rawboned as ahorse, but powerful. What won me at once washis natural, easy swing. He got the ball awaywith scarcely any effort. I wondered what hecould do when he brought the motion of his bodyinto play.``Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?'' Iasked of a boy.``Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, butit ain't. Huh!'' replied this country youngster.Evidently my question had thrown some implicationupon this particular player.``I reckon you be a stranger in these parts,''said a pleasant old fellow. ``His name's Hurtle--Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He hain'tlost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee!Never pitched any before, nuther.''Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name!Rickettsville chose the field and the game began.Hurtle swung with his easy motion. The ball shotacross like a white bullet. It was a strike, and sowas the next, and the one succeeding. He couldnot throw anything but strikes, and it seemed theSpatsburg players could not make even a foul.Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant littleto me. And I was so fascinated by what I saw inhim that I could hardly contain myself. Afterthe first few innings I no longer tried to. I yelledwith the Rickettsville rooters. The man was awonder. A blind baseball manager could haveseen that. He had a straight ball, shoulder high,level as a stretched string, and fast. He had ajump ball, which he evidently worked by puttingon a little more steam, and it was the speediestthing I ever saw in the way of a shoot. He had awide-sweeping outcurve, wide as the blade of amowing scythe. And he had a drop--an unhittabledrop. He did not use it often, for it madehis catcher dig too hard into the dirt. But wheneverhe did I glowed all over. Once or twice heused an underhand motion and sent in a ball thatfairly swooped up. It could not have been hitwith a board. And best of all, dearest to themanager's heart, he had control. Every ball he threwwent over the plate. He could not miss it. Tohim that plate was as big as a house.What a find! Already I had visions of the long-looked-for brace of my team, and of the pennant,and the little cottage, and the happy light of apair of blue eyes. What he meant to me, thatcountry pitcher Hurtle! He shut out the Spatsburgteam without a run or a hit or even a scratch.Then I went after him. I collared him and hismanager, and there, surrounded by the gapingplayers, I bought him and signed him before anyof them knew exactly what I was about. I didnot haggle. I asked the manager what he wantedand produced the cash; I asked Hurtle what hewanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand,paid him in advance, and got his name to thecontract. Then I breathed a long, deep breath; thefirst one for weeks. Something told me that withHurtle's signature in my pocket I had the EasternLeague pennant. Then I invited all concerneddown to the Rickettsville hotel.We made connections at the railroad junctionand reached Worcester at midnight in time for agood sleep. I took the silent and backwardpitcher to my hotel. In the morning we hadbreakfast together. I showed him about Worcesterand then carried him off to the ball grounds.I had ordered morning practice, and as morningpractice is not conducive to the cheerfulnessof ball players, I wanted to reach the dressingroom a little late. When we arrived, all the playershad dressed and were out on the field. I hadsome difficulty in fitting Hurtle with a uniform,and when I did get him dressed he resembled atwo-legged giraffe decked out in white shirt, graytrousers and maroon stockings.Spears, my veteran first baseman and captainof the team, was the first to see us.``Sufferin' umpires!'' yelled Spears. ``Here,you Micks! Look at this Con's got with him!''What a yell burst from that sore anddisgruntled bunch of ball tossers! My players werea grouchy set in practice anyway, and today theywere in their meanest mood.``Hey, beanpole!''``Get on to the stilts!''``Con, where did you find that?''I cut short their chaffing with a sharp order forbatting practice.``Regular line-up, now no monkey biz,'' I wenton. ``Take two cracks and a bunt. Here, Hurtle,''I said, drawing him toward the pitcher'sbox, ``don't pay any attention to their talk. That'sonly the fun of ball players. Go in now and practicea little. Lam a few over.''Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervouslyover the ball. I thought it best not to say moreto him, for he had a rather wild look. I rememberedmy own stage fright upon my first appearancein fast company. Besides I knew what myamiable players would say to him. I had a secrethope and belief that presently they would yellupon the other side of the fence.McCall, my speedy little left fielder, ledoff at bat. He was full of ginger, chipper asa squirrel, sarcastic as only a tried ball playercan be.``Put 'em over, Slats, put 'em over,'' he called,viciously swinging his ash.Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box andseemed to be rolling something in his mouth.Then he moved his arm. We all saw the balldart down straight--that is, all of us exceptMcCall, because if he had seen it he might havejumped out of the way. Crack! The ball hit himon the shin.McCall shrieked. We all groaned. That crackhurt all of us. Any baseball player knows how ithurts to be hit on the shinbone. McCall wavedhis bat madly.``Rube! Rube! Rube!'' he yelled.Then and there Hurtle got the name that wasto cling to him all his baseball days.McCall went back to the plate, red in the face,mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every timeRube pitched a ball. He never even ticked oneand retired in disgust, limping and swearing.Ashwell was next. He did not show much alacrity.On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flatin the dust. The ball whipped the hair of hishead. Rube was wild and I began to get worried.Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but whenhe assayed a bunt the gang yelled derisively athim.``What's he got?'' The old familiar cry ofbatters when facing a new pitcher!Stringer went up, bold and formidable. Thatwas what made him the great hitter he was. Heloved to bat; he would have faced anybody; hewould have faced even a cannon. New curveswere a fascination to him. And speed for him,in his own words, was ``apple pie.'' In thisinstance, surprise was in store for Stringer. Rubeshot up the straight one, then the wide curve, thenthe drop. Stringer missed them all, struck out,fell down ignominiously. It was the first timehe had fanned that season and he looked dazed.We had to haul him away.I called off the practice, somewhat worriedabout Rube's showing, and undecided whether ornot to try him in the game that day. So I wentto Radbourne, who had quietly watched Rubewhile on the field. Raddy was an old pitcher andhad seen the rise of a hundred stars. I told himabout the game at Rickettsville and what I thoughtof Rube, and frankly asked his opinion.``Con, you've made the find of your life,'' saidRaddy, quietly and deliberately.This from Radbourne was not only comforting;it was relief, hope, assurance. I avoided Spears,for it would hardly be possible for him to regardthe Rube favorably, and I kept under cover untiltime to show up at the grounds.Buffalo was on the ticket for that afternoon,and the Bisons were leading the race and playingin topnotch form. I went into the dressing roomwhile the players were changing suits, becausethere was a little unpleasantness that I wanted tospring on them before we got on the field.``Boys,'' I said, curtly, ``Hurtle works today.Cut loose, now, and back him up.''I had to grab a bat and pound on the wall tostop the uproar.``Did you mutts hear what I said? Well, it goes.Not a word, now. I'm handling this team. We'rein bad, I know, but it's my judgment to pitch Hurtle,rube or no rube, and it's up to you to backus. That's the baseball of it.''Grumbling and muttering, they passed out ofthe dressing room. I knew ball players. If Hurtleshould happen to show good form they wouldturn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in theirrear. He looked like a man in a trance. I wantedto speak encouragingly to him, but Raddy told meto keep quiet.It was inspiring to see my team practice thatafternoon. There had come a subtle change. Iforesaw one of those baseball climaxes that canbe felt and seen, but not explained. Whether itwas a hint of the hoped-for brace, or only anotherflash of form before the final let-down, I had nomeans to tell. But I was on edge.Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, andI sent my team into the field. When that long,lanky, awkward rustic started for the pitcher'sbox, I thought the bleachers would make him dropin his tracks. The fans were sore on any onethose days, and a new pitcher was bound to hearfrom them.``Where! Oh, where! Oh, where!''``Connelly's found another dead one!''``Scarecrow!''``Look at his pants!''``Pad his legs!''Then the inning began, and things happened.Rube had marvelous speed, but he could not findthe plate. He threw the ball the second he gotit; he hit men, walked men, and fell all overhimself trying to field bunts. The crowd stormed andrailed and hissed. The Bisons pranced round thebases and yelled like Indians. Finally they retiredwith eight runs.Eight runs! Enough to win two games! Icould not have told how it happened. I was sickand all but crushed. Still I had a blind, doggedfaith in the big rustic. I believed he had not gotstarted right. It was a trying situation. I calledSpears and Raddy to my side and talked fast.``It's all off now. Let the dinged rube take hismedicine,'' growled Spears.``Don't take him out,'' said Raddy. ``He's notshown at all what's in him. The blamed hayseedis up in the air. He's crazy. He doesn'tknow what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may bescared to death, but he's dead in earnest.''Suddenly I recalled the advice of the pleasantold fellow at Rickettsville.``Spears, you're the captain,'' I said, sharply.``Go after the rube. Wake him up. Tell him hecan't pitch. Call him `Pogie!' That's a namethat stirs him up.''``Well, I'll be dinged! He looks it,'' repliedSpears. ``Here, Rube, get off the bench. Comehere.''Rube lurched toward us. He seemed to bewalking in his sleep. His breast was laboring andhe was dripping with sweat.``Who ever told you that you could pitch?''asked Spears genially. He was master at baseballridicule. I had never yet seen the youngster whocould stand his badinage. He said a few things,then wound up with: ``Come now, you crossbetween a hayrack and a wagon tongue, get sore anddo something. Pitch if you can. Show us! Doyou hear, you tow-headed Pogie!''Rube jumped as if he had been struck. His faceflamed red and his little eyes turned black. Heshoved his big fist under Capt. Spears' nose.``Mister, I'll lick you fer thet--after the game!And I'll show you dog-goned well how I canpitch.''``Good!'' exclaimed Raddy; and I echoed hisword. Then I went to the bench and turned myattention to the game. Some one told me thatMcCall had made a couple of fouls, and after waitingfor two strikes and three balls had struckout. Ashwell had beat out a bunt in his old swiftstyle, and Stringer was walking up to the plateon the moment. It was interesting, even in a losinggame, to see Stringer go to bat. We allwatched him, as we had been watching him forweeks, expecting him to break his slump with oneof the drives that had made him famous. Stringerstood to the left side of the plate, and I couldsee the bulge of his closely locked jaw. He swungon the first pitched ball. With the solid rap weall rose to watch that hit. The ball lined first,then soared and did not begin to drop till it wasfar beyond the right-field fence. For an instantwe were all still, so were the bleachers. Stringerhad broken his slump with the longest drive evermade on the grounds. The crowd cheered as hetrotted around the bases behind Ashwell. Tworuns.``Con, how'd you like that drive?'' he askedme, with a bright gleam in his eyes.``O-h-!--a beaut!'' I replied, incoherently. Theplayers on the bench were all as glad as I was.Henley flew out to left. Mullaney smashed a two-bagger to right. Then Gregg hit safely, but Mullaney,in trying to score on the play, was out atthe plate.``Four hits! I tell you fellows, something'scoming off,'' said Raddy. ``Now, if onlyRube----''What a difference there was in that long rustic!He stalked into the box, unmindful of the hootingcrowd and grimly faced Schultz, the first batterup for the Bisons. This time Rube was deliberate.And where he had not swung before he nowgot his body and arm into full motion. The ballcame in like a glint of light. Schultz lookedsurprised. The umpire called ``Strike!''``Wow!'' yelled the Buffalo coacher. Rube spedup the sidewheeler and Schultz reached wide tomeet it and failed. The third was the lightningdrop, straight over the plate. The batter pokedweakly at it. Then Carl struck out and Manningfollowing, did likewise. Three of the best hittersin the Eastern retired on nine strikes! That wasno fluke. I knew what it meant, and I sat therehugging myself with the hum of something joyousin my ears.Gregg had a glow on his sweaty face. ``Oh, butsay, boys, take a tip from me! The Rube's a worldbeater! Raddy knew it; he sized up that swing,and now I know it. Get wise, you its!''When old Spears pasted a single through shortstop,the Buffalo manager took Clary out of thebox and put in Vane, their best pitcher. Bogartadvanced the runner to second, but was thrownout on the play. Then Rube came up. He swunga huge bat and loomed over the Bison's twirler.Rube had the look of a hitter. He seemed to beholding himself back from walking right into theball. And he hit one high and far away. Thefast Carl could not get under it, though he madea valiant effort. Spears scored and Rube's longstrides carried him to third. The cold crowd inthe stands came to life; even the sore bleachersopened up. McCall dumped a slow teaser downthe line, a hit that would easily have scored Rube,but he ran a little way, then stopped, tried to getback, and was easily touched out. Ashwell's hardchance gave the Bison's shortstop an error, andStringer came up with two men on bases. Stringerhit a foul over the right-field fence and the crowdhowled. Then he hit a hard long drive straightinto the centerfielder's hands.``Con, I don't know what to think, but ding meif we ain't hittin' the ball,'' said Spears. Thento his players: ``A little more of that and we'reback in our old shape. All in a minute--at 'emnow! Rube, you dinged old Pogie, pitch!''Rube toed the rubber, wrapped his long brownfingers round the ball, stepped out as he swungand--zing! That inning he unloosed a few morekinks in his arm and he tried some new balls uponthe Bisons. But whatever he used and whereverhe put them the result was the same--they cut theplate and the Bisons were powerless.That inning marked the change in my team.They had come hack. The hoodoo had vanished.The championship Worcester team was itselfagain.The Bisons were fighting, too, but Rube hadthem helpless. When they did hit a ball one ofmy infielders snapped it up. No chances went tothe outfield. I sat there listening to my men, andreveled in a moment that I had long prayed for.``Now you're pitching some, Rube. Anotherstrike! Get him a board!'' called Ashwell.``Ding 'em, Rube, ding 'em!'' came from Capt.Spears.``Speed? Oh-no!'' yelled Bogart at thirdbase.``It's all off, Rube! It's all off--all off!''So, with the wonderful pitching of an angryrube, the Worcester team came into its ownagain. I sat through it all without another word;without giving a signal. In a way I realized theawakening of the bleachers, and heard the poundof feet and the crash, but it was the spirit of myteam that thrilled me. Next to that the work ofmy new find absorbed me. I gloated over his easy,deceiving swing. I rose out of my seat when hethrew that straight fast ball, swift as a bullet,true as a plumb line. And when those hard-hitting,sure bunting Bisons chopped in vain at thewonderful drop, I choked back a wild yell. ForRube meant the world to me that day.In the eighth the score was 8 to 6. The Bisonshad one scratch hit to their credit, but not arunner had got beyond first base. Again Rubeheld them safely, one man striking out, anotherfouling out, and the third going out on a little fly.Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! The bleacherswere making up for many games in whichthey could not express their riotous feelings.``It's a cinch we'll win!'' yelled a fan with avoice. Rube was the first man up in our half ofthe ninth and his big bat lammed the first ballsafe over second base. The crowd, hungry forvictory, got to their feet and stayed upon theirfeet, calling, cheering for runs. It was the momentfor me to get in the game, and I leaped up,strung like a wire, and white hot with inspiration.I sent Spears to the coaching box withorders to make Rube run on the first ball. Igripped McCall with hands that made him wince.Then I dropped back on the bench spent andpanting. It was only a game, yet it meant somuch! Little McCall was dark as a thunder cloud,and his fiery eyes snapped. He was the fastestman in the league, and could have bunted anarrow from a bow. The foxy Bison third basemanedged in. Mac feinted to bunt toward himthen turned his bat inward and dumped a teasingcurving ball down the first base line. Rube ranas if in seven-league boots. Mac's short legstwinkled; he went like the wind; he leaped intofirst base with his long slide, and beat thethrow.The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumblingdown. For a moment the air was full of deafeningsound. Then came the pause, the dying awayof clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspendedquiet. Spears' clear voice, as he coached Rube, inits keen note seemed inevitable of another run.Ashwell took his stand. He was another left-hand hitter, and against a right-hand pitcher, insuch circumstances as these, the most dangerousof men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captainknew it, as showed plainly in his signal to catchRube at second. But Spears' warning held orfrightened Rube on the bag.Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwellcould not be coaxed. Wearily Vane swung; theshortstop raced out to get in line for a possiblehit through the wide space to his right,and the second baseman got on his toes as bothbase runners started.Crack! The old story of the hit and run game!Ashwell's hit crossed sharply where a momentbefore the shortstop had been standing. Withgigantic strides Rube rounded the corner andscored. McCall flitted through second, and divinginto third with a cloud of dust, got the umpire'sdecision. When Stringer hurried up with Macon third and Ash on first the whole field seemedracked in a deafening storm. Again it subsidedquickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans hadbeen crushed too often of late for them to be fearless.But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspenseended. I was like a man clamped in a vise.Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with thesprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's armand slowly edged off first. Stringer waited forone strike and two balls, then he hit the next. Ithugged the first base line, bounced fiercely pastthe bag and skipped over the grass to bump hardinto the fence. McCall romped home, and lameAshwell beat any run he ever made to the plate.Rolling, swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feetcould not down the high piercing sustained yell ofthe fans. It was great. Three weeks of submergedbottled baseball joy exploded in one madoutburst! The fans, too, had come into their ownagain.We scored no more. But the Bisons werebeaten. Their spirit was broken. This did notmake the Rube let up in their last half inning.Grim and pale he faced them. At every long stepand swing he tossed his shock of light hair. Atthe end he was even stronger than at the beginning.He still had the glancing, floating airyquality that baseball players call speed. And hestruck out the last three batters.In the tumult that burst over my ears I satstaring at the dots on my score card. Fourteenstrike outs! one scratch hit! No base on ballssince the first inning! That told the story whichdeadened senses doubted. There was a roar inmy ears. Some one was pounding me. As I struggledto get into the dressing room the crowdmobbed me. But I did not hear what they yelled.I had a kind of misty veil before my eyes, inwhich I saw that lanky Rube magnified into aglorious figure. I saw the pennant waving, andthe gleam of a white cottage through the trees,and a trim figure waiting at the gate. Then Irolled into the dressing room.Somehow it seemed strange to me. Most of theplayers were stretched out in peculiar convulsions.Old Spears sat with drooping head. Thena wild flaming-eyed giant swooped upon me. Witha voice of thunder he announced:``I'm a-goin' to lick you, too!''After that we never called him any name exceptRube.
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