The Winning Ball

by Zane Grey

　　One day in July our Rochester club, leader inthe Eastern League, had returned to the hotelafter winning a double-header from the Syracuseclub. For some occult reason there was to be alay-off next day and then on the following anotherdouble-header. These double-headers we hatednext to exhibition games. Still a lay-off fortwenty-four hours, at that stage of the race, was aGodsend, and we received the news with exclamationsof pleasure.After dinner we were all sitting and smokingcomfortably in front of the hotel when ourmanager, Merritt, came hurriedly out of the lobby.It struck me that he appeared a little flustered.``Say, you fellars,'' he said brusquely. ``Packyour suits and be ready for the bus at seven-thirty.''For a moment there was a blank, ominoussilence, while we assimilated the meaning of histerse speech.``I've got a good thing on for tomorrow,''continued the manager. ``Sixty per cent gatereceipts if we win. That Guelph team is hot stuff,though.''``Guelph!'' exclaimed some of the playerssuspiciously. ``Where's Guelph?''``It's in Canada. We'll take the night expressan' get there tomorrow in time for the game.An' we'll hev to hustle.''Upon Merritt then rained a multiplicity ofexcuses. Gillinger was not well, and ought to havethat day's rest. Snead's eyes would profit by alay-off. Deerfoot Browning was leading theleague in base running, and as his legs were allbruised and scraped by sliding, a manager whowas not an idiot would have a care of suchvaluable runmakers for his team. Lake had ``Charley-horse.'' Hathaway's arm was sore. Bane'sstomach threatened gastritis. Spike Doran'sfinger needed a chance to heal. I was stale, andthe other players, three pitchers, swore theirarms should be in the hospital.``Cut it out!'' said Merritt, getting exasperated.``You'd all lay down on me--now, wouldn'tyou? Well, listen to this: McDougal pitched today;he doesn't go. Blake works Friday, hedoesn't go. But the rest of you puffed-up, high-salaried stiffs pack your grips quick. See? It'llcost any fresh fellar fifty for missin' the train.''So that was how eleven of the Rochester teamfound themselves moodily boarding a Pullman enroute for Buffalo and Canada. We went to bedearly and arose late.Guelph lay somewhere in the interior ofCanada, and we did not expect to get there until 1o'clock.As it turned out, the train was late; we had todress hurriedly in the smoking room, pack ourcitizen clothes in our grips and leave the trainto go direct to the ball grounds without time forlunch.It was a tired, dusty-eyed, peevish crowd ofball players that climbed into a waiting bus at thelittle station.We had never heard of Guelph; we did not careanything about Rube baseball teams. Baseballwas not play to us; it was the hardest kind ofwork, and of all things an exhibition game was anabomination.The Guelph players, strapping lads, met us withevery mark of respect and courtesy and escortedus to the field with a brass band that was loud inwelcome, if not harmonious in tune.Some 500 men and boys trotted curiously alongwith us, for all the world as if the bus were acircus parade cage filled with striped tigers.What a rustic, motley crowd massed about in andon that ball ground. There must have been 10,000.The audience was strange to us. The Indians,half-breeds, French-Canadians; the huge, hulking,bearded farmers or traders, or trappers, whateverthey were, were new to our baseball experience.The players themselves, however, earned thelargest share of our attention. By the time theyhad practiced a few moments we looked at Merrittand Merritt looked at us.These long, powerful, big-handed lads evidentlydid not know the difference between lacrosse andbaseball; but they were quick as cats on their feet,and they scooped up the ball in a way wonderfulto see. And throw!--it made a professional'sheart swell just to see them line the ball acrossthe diamond.``Lord! what whips these lads have!'' exclaimedMerritt. ``Hope we're not up against it.If this team should beat us we wouldn't draw ahandful at Toronto. We can't afford to be beaten.Jump around and cinch the game quick. If weget in a bad place, I'll sneak in the `rabbit.' ''The ``rabbit'' was a baseball similar in appearanceto the ordinary league ball; under its horse-hide cover, however, it was remarkably different.An ingenious fan, a friend of Merritt, hadremoved the covers from a number of league ballsand sewed them on rubber balls of his own making.They could not be distinguished from theregular article, not even by an experiencedprofessional--until they were hit. Then! The factthat after every bounce one of these rubber ballsbounded swifter and higher had given it the nameof the ``rabbit.''Many a game had the ``rabbit'' won for us atcritical stages. Of course it was against the rulesof the league, and of course every player in theleague knew about it; still, when it was judiciouslyand cleverly brought into a close game, the ``rabbit''would be in play, and very probably overthe fence, before the opposing captain could learnof it, let alone appeal to the umpire.``Fellars, look at that guy who's goin' to pitch,''suddenly spoke up one of the team.Many as were the country players whom weseasoned and traveled professionals had runacross, this twirler outclassed them for remarkableappearance. Moreover, what put an entirelydifferent tinge to our momentary humor was thediscovery that he was as wild as a March hareand could throw a ball so fast that it resembled apea shot from a boy's air gun.Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the firstpitched ball, which he did not see, and the second,which ticked his shirt as it shot past, he turned tous with an expression that made us groan inwardly.When Deerfoot looked that way it meant thepitcher was dangerous. Deerfoot made no effortto swing at the next ball, and was promptly calledout on strikes.I was second at bat, and went up with somereluctance. I happened to be leading the league inboth long distance and safe hitting, and I dotedon speed. But having stopped many mean in-shoots with various parts of my anatomy, I wasrather squeamish about facing backwoods yapswho had no control.When I had watched a couple of his pitches,which the umpire called strikes, I gave him creditfor as much speed as Rusie. These balls were asstraight as a string, singularly without curve,jump, or variation of any kind. I lined the nextone so hard at the shortstop that it cracked likea pistol as it struck his hands and whirled himhalf off his feet. Still he hung to the ball andgave opportunity for the first crash of applause.``Boys, he's a trifle wild,'' I said to my team-mates, ``but he has the most beautiful ball to hityou ever saw. I don't believe he uses a curve,and when we once time that speed we'll kill it.''Next inning, after old man Hathaway hadbaffled the Canadians with his wide, tantalizingcurves, my predictions began to be verified. Sneadrapped one high and far to deep right field. Toour infinite surprise, however, the right fielderran with fleetness that made our own Deerfootseem slow, and he got under the ball and caughtit.Doran sent a sizzling grasscutter down towardleft. The lanky third baseman darted over, diveddown, and, coming up with the ball, exhibited thepower of a throwing arm that made as all greenwith envy.Then, when the catcher chased a foul flysomewhere back in the crowd and caught it, we beganto take notice.``Lucky stabs!'' said Merritt cheerfully. ``Theycan't keep that up. We'll drive him to the woodsnext time.''But they did keep it up; moreover, they becamemore brilliant as the game progressed. Whatwith Hathaway's heady pitching we soon disposedof them when at the bat; our turns, however,owing to the wonderful fielding of these backwoodsmen,were also fruitless.Merritt, with his mind ever on the slice of gatemoney coming if we won, began to fidget and fumeand find fault.``You're a swell lot of champions, now, ain'tyou?'' he observed between innings.All baseball players like to bat, and nothingpleases them so much as base hits; on the otherhand, nothing is quite so painful as to send outhard liners only to see them caught. And itseemed as if every man on our team connectedwith that lanky twirler's fast high ball and hitwith the force that made the bat spring only tohave one of these rubes get his big hands uponit.Considering that we were in no angelic frameof mind before the game started, and in view ofMerritt's persistently increasing ill humor, thisfailure of ours to hit a ball safely graduallyworked us into a kind of frenzy. From indifferencewe passed to determination, and from thatto sheer passionate purpose.Luck appeared to be turning in the sixth inning.With one out, Lake hit a beauty to right. Doranbeat an infield grounder and reached first. Hathawaystruck out.With Browning up and me next, the situationlooked rather precarious for the Canadians.``Say, Deerfoot,'' whispered Merritt, ``dumpone down the third-base line. He's playin' deep.It's a pipe. Then the bases will be full an' Reddy'llclean up.''In a stage like that Browning was a manabsolutely to depend upon. He placed a slow buntin the grass toward third and sprinted for first.The third baseman fielded the ball, but, beingconfused, did not know where to throw it.``Stick it in your basket,'' yelled Merritt, in adelight that showed how hard he was pulling forthe gate money, and his beaming smile as heturned to me was inspiring. ``Now, Reddy, it'sup to you! I'm not worrying about what's happenedso far. I know, with you at bat in a pinch,it's all off!''Merritt's compliment was pleasing, but it didnot augment my purpose, for that already hadreached the highest mark. Love of hitting, if noother thing, gave me the thrilling fire to arise tothe opportunity. Selecting my light bat, I wentup and faced the rustic twirler and softly saidthings to him.He delivered the ball, and I could have yelledaloud, so fast, so straight, so true it sped towardme. Then I hit it harder than I had ever hit aball in my life. The bat sprung, as if it werewhalebone. And the ball took a bullet coursebetween center and left. So beautiful a hit was itthat I watched as I ran.Out of the tail of my eye I saw the centerfielder running. When I rounded first base I gota good look at this fielder, and though I had seenthe greatest outfielders the game ever produced,I never saw one that covered ground so swiftlyas he.On the ball soared, and began to drop; on thefielder sped, and began to disappear over a littlehill back of his position. Then he reached up witha long arm and marvelously caught the ball inone hand. He went out of sight as I touchedsecond base, and the heterogeneous crowd knewabout a great play to make more noise than a herdof charging buffalo.In the next half inning our opponents, by cleandrives, scored two runs and we in our turn againwent out ignominiously. When the first of theeighth came we were desperate and clamored forthe ``rabbit.''``I've sneaked it in,'' said Merritt, with a lowvoice. ``Got it to the umpire on the last passedball. See, the pitcher's got it now. Boys, it's alloff but the fireworks! Now, break loose!''A peculiarity about the ``rabbit'' was the factthat though it felt as light as the regulation leagueball it could not be thrown with the same speedand to curve it was an impossibility.Bane hit the first delivery from our hoosierstumbling block. The ball struck the ground andbegan to bound toward short. With every boundit went swifter, longer and higher, and it bouncedclear over the shortstop's head. Lake choppedone in front of the plate, and it rebounded fromthe ground straight up so high that both runnerswere safe before it came down.Doran hit to the pitcher. The ball caromedhis leg, scooted fiendishly at the second baseman,and tried to run up all over him like a tamesquirrel. Bases full!Hathaway got a safe fly over the infield and tworuns tallied. The pitcher, in spite of the help ofthe umpire, could not locate the plate for Balknap,and gave him a base on balls. Bases fullagain!Deerfoot slammed a hot liner straight at thesecond baseman, which, striking squarely in hishands, recoiled as sharply as if it had struck awall. Doran scored, and still the bases were filled.The laboring pitcher began to get rattled; hecould not find his usual speed; he knew it, butevidently could not account for it.When I came to bat, indications were not wantingthat the Canadian team would soon be up inthe air. The long pitcher delivered the ``rabbit,''and got it low down by my knees, whichwas an unfortunate thing for him. I swung onthat one, and trotted round the bases behind therunners while the center and left fielders chasedthe ball.Gillinger weighed nearly two hundred pounds,and he got all his weight under the ``rabbit.'' Itwent so high that we could scarcely see it. Allthe infielders rushed in, and after staggeringaround, with heads bent back, one of them, theshortstop, managed to get under it. The ``rabbit''bounded forty feet out of his hands!When Snead's grounder nearly tore the thirdbaseman's leg off; when Bane's hit proved aselusive as a flitting shadow; when Lake's linerknocked the pitcher flat, and Doran's fly leapedhigh out of the center fielder's glove--then thoseearnest, simple, country ballplayers realizedsomething was wrong. But they imagined it wasin themselves, and after a short spell of rattles,they steadied up and tried harder than ever. Themotions they went through trying to stop thatjumping jackrabbit of a ball were ludicrous inthe extreme.Finally, through a foul, a short fly, and a scratchhit to first, they retired the side and we went intothe field with the score 14 to 2 in our favor.But Merritt had not found it possible to get the``rabbit'' out of play!We spent a fatefully anxious few momentssquabbling with the umpire and captain over the``rabbit.'' At the idea of letting those herculeanrailsplitters have a chance to hit the rubber ballwe felt our blood run cold.``But this ball has a rip in it,'' blusteredGillinger. He lied atrociously. A microscope couldnot have discovered as much as a scratch in thatsmooth leather.``Sure it has,'' supplemented Merritt, in thesuave tones of a stage villain. ``We're used toplaying with good balls.''``Why did you ring this one in on us?'' askedthe captain. ``We never threw out this ball. Wewant a chance to hit it.''That was just the one thing we did not wantthem to have. But fate played against us.``Get up on your toes, now an' dust,'' saidMerritt. ``Take your medicine, you lazy sit-in-front-of-the-hotel stiffs! Think of pay day!''Not improbably we all entertained the identicalthought that old man Hathaway was the lastpitcher under the sun calculated to be effectivewith the ``rabbit.'' He never relied on speed;in fact, Merritt often scornfully accused him ofbeing unable to break a pane of glass; he usedprincipally what we called floaters and a changeof pace. Both styles were absolutely impracticalwith the ``rabbit.''``It's comin' to us, all right, all right!'' yelledDeerfoot to me, across the intervening grass. Iwas of the opinion that it did not take any geniusto make Deerfoot's ominous prophecy.Old man Hathaway gazed at Merritt on thebench as if he wished the manager could hearwhat he was calling him and then at his fellow-players as if both to warn and beseech them.Then he pitched the ``rabbit.''Crack!The big lumbering Canadian rapped the ballat Crab Bane. I did not see it, because it wentso fast, but I gathered from Crab's actions thatit must have been hit in his direction. At anyrate, one of his legs flopped out sidewise as ifit had been suddenly jerked, and he fell in a heap.The ball, a veritable ``rabbit'' in its wild jumps,headed on for Deerfoot, who contrived to stop itwith his knees.The next batter resembled the first one, andthe hit likewise, only it leaped wickedly at Doranand went through his hands as if they had beenpaper. The third man batted up a very high flyto Gillinger. He clutched at it with his hugeshovel hands, but he could not hold it. The wayhe pounced upon the ball, dug it out of the grass,and hurled it at Hathaway, showed his anger.Obviously Hathaway had to stop the throw,for he could not get out of the road, and he spoketo his captain in what I knew were no complimentaryterms.Thus began retribution. Those husky ladscontinued to hammer the ``rabbit'' at the infieldersand as it bounced harder at every bounce so theybatted harder at every bat.Another singular feature about the ``rabbit''was the seeming impossibility for professionalsto hold it. Their familiarity with it, theirunderstanding of its vagaries and inconsistencies, theirmortal dread made fielding it a much more difficultthing than for their opponents.By way of variety, the lambasting Canadianscommenced to lambast a few over the hills andfar away, which chased Deerfoot and me untilour tongues lolled out.Every time a run crossed the plate the motleycrowd howled, roared, danced and threw up theirhats. The members of the batting team prancedup and down the side lines, giving a splendidimitation of cannibals celebrating the occasion of afeast.Once Snead stooped down to trap the ``rabbit,''and it slipped through his legs, for whichhis comrades jeered him unmercifully. Then abrawny batter sent up a tremendously high flybetween short and third.``You take it!'' yelled Gillinger to Bane.``You take it!'' replied the Crab, and actuallywalked backward. That ball went a mile high.The sky was hazy, gray, the most perplexing inwhich to judge a fly ball. An ordinary fly gavetrouble enough in the gauging.Gillinger wandered around under the ball forwhat seemed an age. It dropped as swiftly as arocket shoots upward. Gillinger went forwardin a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up hisbroad hands. He misjudged the ball, and it hithim fairly on the head and bounced almost towhere Doran stood at second.Our big captain wilted. Time was called. ButGillinger, when he came to, refused to leave thegame and went back to third with a lump on hishead as large as a goose egg.Every one of his teammates was sorry, yetevery one howled in glee. To be hit on the headwas the unpardonable sin for a professional.Old man Hathaway gradually lost what littlespeed he had, and with it his nerve. Every timehe pitched the ``rabbit'' he dodged. That wasabout the funniest and strangest thing ever seenon a ball field. Yet it had an element of tragedy.Hathaway's expert contortions saved his headand body on divers occasions, but presently a lowbounder glanced off the grass and manifested anaffinity for his leg.We all knew from the crack and the way thepitcher went down that the ``rabbit'' had put himout of the game. The umpire called time, andMerritt came running on the diamond.``Hard luck, old man,'' said the manager.``That'll make a green and yellow spot all right.Boys, we're still two runs to the good. There'sone out, an' we can win yet. Deerfoot, you're asbadly crippled as Hathaway. The bench foryours. Hooker will go to center, an' I'll pitch.''Merritt's idea did not strike us as a bad one.He could pitch, and he always kept his arm inprime condition. We welcomed him into the frayfor two reasons--because he might win the game,and because he might be overtaken by the baseballNemesis.While Merritt was putting on Hathaway's baseballshoes, some of us endeavored to get the ``rabbit''away from the umpire, but he was too wise.Merritt received the innocent-looking ball witha look of mingled disgust and fear, and he summarilyordered us to our positions.Not far had we gone, however, when we wereelectrified by the umpire's sharp words:``Naw! Naw, you don't. I saw you change theball I gave you fer one in your pocket! Naw!You don't come enny of your American dodgeson us! Gimmee thet ball, an' you use the other,or I'll stop the game.''Wherewith the shrewd umpire took the ball fromMerritt's hand and fished the ``rabbit'' from hispocket. Our thwarted manager stuttered hiswrath. ``Y-you be-be-wh-whiskered y-yap! I'llg-g-give----''What dire threat he had in mind nevermaterialized, for he became speechless. He gloweredupon the cool little umpire, and then turnedgrandly toward the plate.It may have been imagination, yet I made sureMerritt seemed to shrink and grow smaller beforehe pitched a ball. For one thing the plate wasuphill from the pitcher's box, and then the fellowstanding there loomed up like a hill and swunga bat that would have served as a wagon tongue.No wonder Merritt evinced nervousness. Presentlyhe whirled and delivered the ball.Bing!A dark streak and a white puff of dust oversecond base showed how safe that hit was. Bydint of manful body work, Hooker contrived tostop the ``rabbit'' in mid-center. Another runscored. Human nature was proof against thistemptation, and Merritt's players tendered himmanifold congratulations and dissertations.``Grand, you old skinflint, grand!''``There was a two-dollar bill stickin' on thethit. Why didn't you stop it?''``Say, Merritt, what little brains you've got willpresently be ridin' on the `rabbit.' ''``You will chase up these exhibition games!''``Take your medicine now. Ha! Ha! Ha!''After these merciless taunts, and particularlyafter the next slashing hit that tied the score,Merritt looked appreciably smaller and humbler.He threw up another ball, and actually shied asit neared the plate.The giant who was waiting to slug it evidentlythought better of his eagerness as far as that pitchwas concerned, for he let it go by.Merritt got the next ball higher. With a mightyswing, the batsman hit a terrific liner right at thepitcher.Quick as lightning, Merritt wheeled, and theball struck him with the sound of two boardsbrought heavily together with a smack.Merritt did not fall; he melted to the groundand writhed while the runners scored with moretallies than they needed to win.What did we care! Justice had been done us,and we were unutterably happy. Crabe Banestood on his head; Gillinger began a war dance;old man Hathaway hobbled out to the side linesand whooped like an Indian; Snead rolled overand over in the grass. All of us broke out intotypical expressions of baseball frenzy, andindividual ones illustrating our particular moods.Merritt got up and made a dive for the ball.With face positively flaming he flung it far beyondthe merry crowd, over into a swamp. Then helimped for the bench. Which throw ended themost memorable game ever recorded to the creditof the ``rabbit.''