New York Giants Opening Day line-up at the Polo Grounds, 1910
This is not a baseball story. The grandstand does not rise as oneman and shout itself hoarse with joy. There isn't a three-baggerin the entire three thousand words, and nobody is carried home onthe shoulders of the crowd. For that sort of thing you need notsquander fifteen cents on your favorite magazine. The modest sumof one cent will make you the possessor of a Pink 'Un. There youwill find the season's games handled in masterly fashion by asix-best-seller artist, an expert mathematician, and anoriginal-slang humorist. No mere short story dub may hope tocompete with these.In the old days, before the gentry of the ring had learned thewisdom of investing their winnings in solids instead of liquids,this used to be a favorite conundrum: When is a prize-fighter nota prize-fighter?Chorus: When he is tending bar.I rise to ask you Brothah Fan, when is a ball player not aball player? Above the storm of facetious replies I shout theanswer:When he's a shoe clerk.Any man who can look handsome in a dirty baseball suit is anAdonis. There is something about the baggy pants, and theMicawber-shaped collar, and the skull-fitting cap, and the foot orso of tan, or blue, or pink undershirt sleeve sticking out at thearms, that just naturally kills a man's best points. Then too, abaseball suit requires so much in the matter of leg. Therefore,when I say that Rudie Schlachweiler was a dream even in hisbaseball uniform, with a dirty brown streak right up the side ofhis pants where he had slid for base, you may know that the girlscamped on the grounds during the season.During the summer months our ball park is to us what the GrandPrix is to Paris, or Ascot is to London. What care we that Eversgets seven thousand a year (or is it a month?); or that Chicago'snew South-side ball park seats thirty-five thousand (or is itmillion?). Of what interest are such meager items compared withthe knowledge that "Pug" Coulan, who plays short, goes with UndineMeyers, the girl up there in the eighth row, with the pink dressand the red roses on her hat? When "Pug" snatches a high one outof the firmament we yell with delight, and even as we yell we turnsideways to look up and see how Undine is taking it. Undine'sshining eyes are fixed on "Pug," and he knows it, stoops to brushthe dust off his dirt-begrimed baseball pants, takes an attitude ofcareless grace and misses the next play.Our grand-stand seats almost two thousand, counting the boxes.But only the snobs, and the girls with new hats, sit in the boxes.Box seats are comfortable, it is true, and they cost only anadditional ten cents, but we have come to consider themundemocratic, and unworthy of true fans. Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne, whospends her winters in Egypt and her summers at the ball park, comesout to the game every afternoon in her automobile, but she neveroccupies a box seat; so why should we? She perches up in thegrand-stand with the rest of the enthusiasts, and when Kelly putsone over she stands up and clinches her fists, and waves her armsand shouts with the best of 'em. She has even been known to cry,"Good eye! Good eye!" when things were at fever heat. The onlyreally blase individual in the ball park is Willie Grimes, whopeddles ice-cream cones. For that matter, I once saw Willie turna languid head to pipe, in his thin voice, "Give 'em a dark one,Dutch! Give 'em a dark one!"Well, that will do for the firsh dash of local color. Now forthe story.Ivy Keller came home June nineteenth from Miss Shont's selectschool for young ladies. By June twenty-first she was bored limp.You could hardly see the plaits of her white tailored shirtwaistfor fraternity pins and secret society emblems, and her bedroom wasablaze with college banners and pennants to such an extent that themaid gave notice every Thursday--which was upstairs cleaning day.For two weeks after her return Ivy spent most of her timewriting letters and waiting for them, and reading the classics onthe front porch, dressed in a middy blouse and a blue skirt, withher hair done in a curly Greek effect like the girls on the coversof the Ladies' Magazine. She posed against the canvas bosom of theporch chair with one foot under her, the other swinging free,showing a tempting thing in beaded slipper, silk stocking, and whatthe story writers call "slim ankle."On the second Saturday after her return her father came homefor dinner at noon, found her deep in Volume Two of "LesMiserables.""Whew! This is a scorcher!" he exclaimed, and dropped down ona wicker chair next to Ivy. Ivy looked at her father with languidinterest, and smiled a daughterly smile. Ivy's father was aninsurance man, alderman of his ward, president of the CivicImprovement Club, member of five lodges, and an habitual delegate.It generally was he who introduced distinguished guests who spokeat the opera house on Decoration Day. He called Mrs. Keller"Mother," and he wasn't above noticing the fit of a gown on apretty feminine figure. He thought Ivy was an expurgated editionof Lillian Russell, Madame De Stael, and Mrs. Pankburst."Aren't you feeling well, Ivy?" he asked. "Looking a littlepale. It's the heat, I suppose. Gosh! Something smells good.Run in and tell Mother I'm here."Ivy kept one slender finger between the leaves of her book."I'm perfectly well," she replied. "That must be beefsteak andonions. Ugh!" And she shuddered, and went indoors.Dad Keller looked after her thoughtfully. Then he went in,washed his hands, and sat down at table with Ivy and her mother."Just a sliver for me," said Ivy, "and no onions."Her father put down his knife and fork, cleared his throat,and spake, thus:"You get on your hat and meet me at the 2:45 inter-urban.You're going to the ball game with me.""Ball game!" repeated Ivy. "I? But I'd----""Yes, you do," interrupted her father. "You've been mopingaround here looking a cross between Saint Cecilia and Little Evalong enough. I don't care if you don't know a spitball from afadeaway when you see it. You'll be out in the air all afternoon,and there'll be some excitement. All the girls go. You'll likeit. They're playing Marshalltown."Ivy went, looking the sacrificial lamb. Five minutes afterthe game was called she pointed one tapering white finger in thedirection of the pitcher's mound."Who's that?" she asked."Pitcher," explained Papa Keller, laconically. Then,patiently: "He throws the ball.""Oh," said Ivy. "What did you say his name was?""I didn't say. But it's Rudie Schlachweiler. The boys callhim Dutch. Kind of a pet, Dutch is.""Rudie Schlachweiler!" murmured Ivy, dreamily. "What a strongname!""Want some peanuts?" inquired her father."Does one eat peanuts at a ball game?""It ain't hardly legal if you don't," Pa Keller assured her."Two sacks," said Ivy. "Papa, why do they call it a diamond,and what are those brown bags at the corners, and what does itcount if you hit the ball, and why do they rub their hands in thedust and then--er--spit on them, and what salary does a pitcherget, and why does the red-haired man on the other side dance aroundlike that between the second and third brown bag, and doesn't apitcher do anything but pitch, and wh----?""You're on," said papa.After that Ivy didn't miss a game during all the time that theteam played in the home town. She went without a new hat, anddidn't care whether Jean Valjean got away with the goods or not,and forgot whether you played third hand high or low in bridge.She even became chummy with Undine Meyers, who wasn't her kind ofa girl at all. Undine was thin in a voluptuous kind of way, ifsuch a paradox can be, and she had red lips, and a roving eye, andshe ran around downtown without a hat more than was strictlynecessary. But Undine and Ivy had two subjects in common. Theywere baseball and love. It is queer how the limelight will makeheroes of us all.Now "Pug" Coulan, who was red-haired, and had shoulders likean ox, and arms that hung down to his knees, like those of anorang-outang, slaughtered beeves at the Chicago stockyards inwinter. In the summer he slaughtered hearts. He wore mustardcolored shirts that matched his hair, and his baseball stockingsgenerally had a rip in them somewhere, but when he was on thediamond we were almost ashamed to look at Undine, so wholly did herheart shine in her eyes.Now, we'll have just another dash or two of local color. Ina small town the chances for hero worship are few. If it weren'tfor the traveling men our girls wouldn't know whether stripes orchecks were the thing in gents' suitings. When the baseball seasonopened the girls swarmed on it. Those that didn't understandbaseball pretended they did. When the team was out of town ourform of greeting was changed from, "Good-morning!" or "Howdy-do!"to "What's the score?" Every night the results of the gamesthroughout the league were posted up on the blackboard in front ofSchlager's hardware store, and to see the way in which the crowdstood around it, and streamed across the street toward it, you'dhave thought they were giving away gas stoves and hammock couches.Going home in the street car after the game the girls used togaze adoringly at the dirty faces of their sweat-begrimed heroes,and then they'd rush home, have supper, change their dresses, dotheir hair, and rush downtown past the Parker Hotel to mail theirletters. The baseball boys boarded over at the Griggs House, whichis third-class, but they used their tooth-picks, and held thepostmortem of the day's game out in front of the Parker Hotel,which is our leading hostelry. The postoffice receipts record forour town was broken during the months of June, July, and August.Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne started the trouble by having the teamover to dinner, "Pug" Coulan and all. After all, why not? Noforeign and impecunious princes penetrate as far inland as ourtown. They get only as far as New York, or Newport, where they aregobbled up by many-moneyed matrons. If Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne foundthe supply of available lions limited, why should she not try tocontent herself with a jackal or so?Ivy was asked. Until then she had contented herself withgazing at her hero. She had become such a hardened baseball fanthat she followed the game with a score card, accurately jottingdown every play, and keeping her watch open on her knee.She sat next to Rudie at dinner. Before she had nibbled hersecond salted almond, Ivy Keller and Rudie Schlachweiler understoodeach other. Rudie illustrated certain plays by drawing lines onthe table-cloth with his knife and Ivy gazed, wide-eyed, andallowed her soup to grow cold.The first night that Rudie called, Pa Keller thought it agreat joke. He sat out on the porch with Rudie and Ivy and talkedbaseball, and got up to show Rudie how he could have got the goatof that Keokuk catcher if only he had tried one of his famousopen-faced throws. Rudie looked politely interested, and laughedin all the right places. But Ivy didn't need to pretend. RudieSchlachweiler spelled baseball to her. She did not think of hercaller as a good-looking young man in a blue serge suit and a whiteshirtwaist. Even as he sat there she saw him as a blonde godstanding on the pitcher's mound, with the scars of battle on hisbaseball pants, his left foot placed in front of him at rightangles with his right foot, his gaze fixed on first base in acunning effort to deceive the man at bat, in that favorite attitudeof pitchers just before they get ready to swing their left leg andh'ist one over.The second time that Rudie called, Ma Keller said:"Ivy, I don't like that ball player coming here to see you.The neighbors'll talk."The third time Rudie called, Pa Keller said: "What's that guydoing here again?"The fourth time Rudie called, Pa Keller and Ma Keller said, inunison: "This thing has got to stop."But it didn't. It had had too good a start. For the rest ofthe season Ivy met her knight of the sphere around the corner.Theirs was a walking courtship. They used to roam up as far as theState road, and down as far as the river, and Rudie would fain havetalked of love, but Ivy talked of baseball."Darling," Rudie would murmur, pressing Ivy's arm closer,"when did you first begin to care?""Why I liked the very first game I saw when Dad----""I mean, when did you first begin to care for me?""Oh! When you put three men out in that game withMarshalltown when the teams were tied in the eighth inning.Remember? Say, Rudie dear, what was the matter with your armto-day? You let three men walk, and Albia's weakest hitter got ahome run out of you.""Oh, forget baseball for a minute, Ivy! Let's talk aboutsomething else. Let's talk about--us.""Us? Well, you're baseball, aren't you?" retorted Ivy. "Andif you are, I am. Did you notice the way that Ottumwa man pitchedyesterday? He didn't do any acting for the grandstand. He didn'treach up above his head, and wrap his right shoulder with his lefttoe, and swing his arm three times and then throw seven inchesoutside the plate. He just took the ball in his hand, looked at itcuriously for a moment, and fired it--zing!--like that, over theplate. I'd get that ball if I were you.""Isn't this a grand night?" murmured Rudie."But they didn't have a hitter in the bunch," went on Ivy."And not a man in the team could run. That's why they'retail-enders. Just the same, that man on the mound was a wizard,and if he had one decent player to give him some support----"Well, the thing came to a climax. One evening, two weeksbefore the close of the season, Ivy put on her hat and announcedthat she was going downtown to mail her letters."Mail your letters in the daytime," growled Papa Keller."I didn't have time to-day," answered Ivy. "It was a thirteeninning game, and it lasted until six o'clock."It was then that Papa Keller banged the heavy fist of decisiondown on the library table."This thing's got to stop!" he thundered. "I won't have anygirl of mine running the streets with a ball player, understand?Now you quit seeing this seventy-five-dollars-a-month bush leagueror leave this house. I mean it.""All right," said Ivy, with a white-hot calm. "I'll leave.I can make the grandest kind of angel-food with marshmallow icing,and you know yourself my fudges can't be equaled. He'll be playingin the major leagues in three years. Why just yesterday there wasa strange man at the game--a city man, you could tell by hishat-band, and the way his clothes were cut. He stayed through thewhole game, and never took his eyes off Rudie. I just know he wasa scout for the Cubs.""Probably a hardware drummer, or a fellow that Schlachweilerowes money to."Ivy began to pin on her hat. A scared look leaped into PapaKeller's eyes. He looked a little old, too, and drawn, at thatminute. He stretched forth a rather tremulous hand."Ivy-girl," he said."What?" snapped Ivy."Your old father's just talking for your own good. You'rebreaking your ma's heart. You and me have been good pals, haven'twe?""Yes," said Ivy, grudgingly, and without looking up."Well now, look here. I've got a proposition to make to you.The season's over in two more weeks. The last week they play outof town. Then the boys'll come back for a week or so, just to hangaround town and try to get used to the idea of leaving us. Thenthey'll scatter to take up their winter jobs-cutting ice, most of'em," he added, grimly."Mr. Schlachweiler is employed in a large establishment inSlatersville, Ohio," said Ivy, with dignity. "He regards baseballas his profession, and he cannot do anything that would affect hispitching arm."Pa Keller put on the tremolo stop and brought a misty lookinto his eyes."Ivy, you'll do one last thing for your old father, won'tyou?""Maybe," answered Ivy, coolly."Don't make that fellow any promises. Now wait a minute! Letme get through. I won't put any crimp in your plans. I won'tspeak to Schlachweiler. Promise you won't do anything rash untilthe ball season's over. Then we'll wait just one month, see? Tillalong about November. Then if you feel like you want to seehim----""But how----""Hold on. You mustn't write to him, or see him, or let himwrite to you during that time, see? Then, if you feel the way youdo now, I'll take you to Slatersville to see him. Now that's fair,ain't it? Only don't let him know you're coming."" M-m-m-yes," said Ivy."Shake hands on it." She did. Then she left the room with arush, headed in the direction of her own bedroom. Pa Kellertreated himself to a prodigious wink and went out to the vegetablegarden in search of Mother.The team went out on the road, lost five games, won two, andcame home in fourth place. For a week they lounged around theParker Hotel and held up the street corners downtown, took manyfarewell drinks, then, slowly, by ones and twos, they left for thepacking houses, freight depots, and gents' furnishing stores fromwhence they came.October came in with a blaze of sumac and oak leaves. Ivystayed home and learned to make veal loaf and apple pies. Theworry lines around Pa Keller's face began to deepen. Ivy said thatshe didn't believe that she cared to go back to Miss Shont's selectschool for young ladies.October thirty-first came."We'll take the eight-fifteen to-morrow," said her father toIvy."All right," said Ivy."Do you know where he works?" asked he."No," answered Ivy."That'll be all right. I took the trouble to look him up lastAugust."The short November afternoon was drawing to its close (as ourbest talent would put it) when Ivy and her father walked along thestreets of Slatersville. (I can't tell you what streets, becauseI don't know.) Pa Keller brought up before a narrow little shoeshop."Here we are," he said, and ushered Ivy in. A short, stout,proprietary figure approached them smiling a mercantile smile."What can I do for you?" he inquired.Ivy's eyes searched the shop for a tall, golden-haired form ina soiled baseball suit."We'd like to see a gentleman named Schlachweiler--RudolphSchlachweiler," said Pa Keller."Anything very special?" inquired the proprietor."He's--rather busy just now. Wouldn't anybody else do? Of course,if----""No," growled Keller.The boss turned. "Hi! Schlachweiler!" he bawled toward therear of the dim little shop."Yessir," answered a muffled voice."Front!" yelled the boss, and withdrew to a safe listeningdistance.A vaguely troubled look lurked in the depths of Ivy's eyes.From behind the partition of the rear of the shop emerged a tallfigure. It was none other than our hero. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he struggled into his coat as he came forward, wipinghis mouth with the back of his hand, hurriedly, and swallowing.I have said that the shop was dim. Ivy and her father stoodat one side, their backs to the light. Rudie came forward, rubbinghis hands together in the manner of clerks."Something in shoes?" he politely inquired. Then he saw."IvyMiss Keller!" he exclaimed. Then, awkwardly:"Well, how-do, Mr. Keller. I certainly am glad to see you both.How's the old town? What are you doing in Slatersville?""Why--Ivy----" began Pa Keller, blunderingly.But Ivy clutched his arm with a warning hand. The vaguelytroubled look in her eyes had become wildly so."Schlachweiler!" shouted the voice of the boss. "Customers!"and he waved a hand in the direction of the fitting benches."All right, sir," answered Rudie. "Just a minute.""Dad had to come on business," said Ivy, hurriedly. "And hebrought me with him. I'm--I'm on my way to school in Cleveland,you know. Awfully glad to have seen you again. We must go. Thatlady wants her shoes, I'm sure, and your employer is glaring at us.Come, dad."At the door she turned just in time to see Rudie removing theshoe from the pudgy foot of the fat lady customer.We'll take a jump of six months. That brings us into the lapof April.Pa Keller looked up from his evening paper. Ivy, home for theEaster vacation, was at the piano. Ma Keller was sewing.Pa Keller cleared his throat. "I see by the paper," heannounced, "that Schlachweiler's been sold to Des Moines. Too badwe lost him. He was a great little pitcher, but he played in badluck. Whenever he was on the slab the boys seemed to give him poorsupport.""Fudge!" exclaimed Ivy, continuing to play, but turning aspirited face toward her father. "What piffle! Whenever a playerpitches rotten ball you'll always hear him howling about thesupport he didn't get. Schlachweiler was a bum pitcher. Anybodycould hit him with a willow wand, on a windy day, with the sun inhis eyes."
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