CHAPTER XI

WINGING THEM OVER

“So ’tis your birthday, I do be hearin’, Joe,” remarked Larry Barrett, the jovial second baseman of the team, as the Giants were getting into their uniforms preparatory to going out on the field.

“That’s what,” laughed Joe, as he finished tying his shoe laces.

“I’ll bet you were a ball player from the cradle,” grinned Larry.

“I guess I bawled all right,” Joe replied. “And once, my mother tells me, I pitched headlong from my baby carriage.”

“What would you like for a birthday present?” queried Wheeler.

“Ten runs,” replied Joe, promptly. “Give me those to-day and I won’t ask for anything else.”

“Pretty big order,” remarked Wheeler, dubiously. “Ten runs are a lot to make against those Brooklyn birds. I hear they’re going to put in Dizzy Rance to-day, and he’s a lulu. Won his last eight games and has started in to make a record. Have a heart, Joe, and make it five.”

“Five’s plenty,” asserted Jim, confidently. “I’m willing to bet that’s more than the Dodgers will get, with Joe in the box.”

“We’ll know more about that when the game’s over,” said Joe, as he moved toward the door.

“Gee! Look at those stands and bleachers,” remarked Jim, as he and his chum came out on the field. “Seems as though all New York and Brooklyn had turned out. And it’s nearly an hour before the game begins. They’ll be turning them away from the gates.”

“Almost like a World Series crowd,” agreed Joe, as they made their way across the green velvet turf of the outfield toward the Giants’ dugout.

It was a phenomenal throng for that stage of the playing season, and was accounted for by the traditional rivalry between the two teams, which, while hailing from different boroughs, were both included within the limits of Greater New York. They fought each other like Kilkenny cats whenever they came together. No matter how indifferently they might have been going with other teams, they always braced when they had each other as opponents. It was not an uncommon thing, even in the seasons when the Giants had taken the series from every other team in the League, to lose the majority of the games with the Brooklyns, even though the latter might be tagging along in the rear of the second division.

But this year the Brooklyns were going strong, and it was generally admitted that they had a look-in for the pennant. Several trades during the previous winter had strengthened the weak places in the line-up, and their pitching staff was recognized as one of the best in either League.

“Going to pick the feathers off those birds to-day, Joe?” asked McRae, as Joe came up to the Giants’ bench, where the manager was sitting.

“I sure am going to try,” replied Joe. “It’s about time we put a crimp in their winning streak.”

Joe beckoned to Mylert, and they went out to warm up. He was feeling in excellent fettle, and he soon found that he had all his “stuff” with him. His curve had a sharp break, his slow ball floated up so that it seemed to be drifting, and his fast ones whizzed over like a bullet.

“You’ve got the goods to-day, Joe,” pronounced Mylert, and he fairly winced at the way the ball shot into his hands. “You’ve got speed to burn. Those balls just smoke. With that control of yours you could hit a coin. They can’t touch you. They’ll be rolling over and playing dead.”

“That listens good,” laughed Joe. “At that, I’ll need all I’ve got to make those fellows be good.”

The preliminary practice gave evidence that the game would be for blood. Both teams were on their toes, and the dazzling plays that featured their work brought frequent roars of applause from the Giant and Brooklyn rooters. Then the bell rang, the umpire dusted off the plate and the vast throng settled down with delighted anticipation to watch the game.

The Brooklyns, as the visiting team, went first to bat. A roar went up from the stands as Joe walked out to the mound. The Giant rooters promptly put the game down as won. But the Brooklyns pinned their faith to their phenomenal pitcher, Dizzy Rance, and had different ideas about the outcome of the game.

The first inning was short and sweet. Leete, the leftfielder of the Dodgers, who, year in and year out, had a batting average of .300 or better, swung savagely at the first ball pitched and raised a skyscraping fly that Jackwell at third promptly gathered in. Mornier, with the count at three balls and two strikes, sent up a foul that Mylert caught close to the stands after a long run. Tonsten lunged at the first ball and missed. The second was a beauty that cut the outer corner of the plate at which he did not offer and which went for a strike. Then Joe shot over a high fast one and struck him out.

“Atta boy, Joe!” and similar shouts of encouragement came from stands and bleachers, as Joe pulled off his glove and went in to the bench.

Rance, the Brooklyn pitcher, did not lack a generous round of applause as he took up his position in the box. He had already pitched two games against the Giants and won them both. But he had never happened to be pitted against Joe, and despite his air of confidence he knew he had his work cut out for him.

Curry made a good try on the second ball pitched and sent a long fly to center that was caught by Maley after a long run. Iredell sent a sharp single to left. Burkett slammed one off Rance’s shins, and the ball rolled between short and second. Before it could be recovered, Burkett had reached first and Iredell was safe at second. Wheeler tried to wait Rance out, but when the count had reached three and two he sent a single to center that scored Iredell from second and carried Burkett to third. A moment later the latter was caught napping by a snap throw from catcher to third and came in sheepishly to the bench. Rance then put on steam and set Jackwell down on three successive strikes.

“There’s one of the runs we promised you, Joe,” sang out Larry, as the Giants took the field.

“That’s good as far as it goes,” laughed Joe. “But don’t forget I’m looking for more.”

For the Brooklyns, Trench was an easy out on a roller to Joe, who ran over and tagged him on the base line. Naylor dribbled one to Jackwell that rolled so slowly that the batter reached first. But no damage was done, for Joe pitched an outcurve to Maley and made him hit into a fast double play, Iredell to Barrett to Burkett.

It was snappy pitching, backed up by good support, and that it was appreciated was shown by the shouts that came from the Giant rooters, who cheered until Joe had to remove his cap.

But Rance, although the Giants had got to him for three hits in the first inning, showed strength in the second that delighted his supporters. He mowed the Giants down as fast as they came to the bat.

The best that Larry could do was to lift a towering fly to center that was taken care of by Maley. Bowen lifted a twisting foul that the Brooklyn catcher did not have to stir out of his tracks to get. Joe hit a smoking liner that was superbly caught by Tonsten, who had to go up in the air for it, but held on.

In the Brooklyns’ third, Joe made a great play on a well-placed bunt by Reis that rolled between the box and third base. Joe slipped and fell as he grasped it, but while in a sitting position he shot it over to first in time to nail the runner. Rance hit a sharp bounder to the box that Joe fielded in plenty of time. Tighe went out on a Texas leaguer that was gathered in by Larry.

“That boy’s got ’em eating out of his hand,” exulted Robbie, his red face beaming with satisfaction.

“Yes, now,” agreed the more cautious McRae. “But at any time they may turn and bite the hand that’s feeding them. They’re an ungrateful lot.”

In their half of the inning, the Giants failed to score. Rance was pitching like a house afire. Mylert went back to the bench after three futile offers at the elusive sphere. Curry popped a weak fly to Trench, and, Iredell, after fouling the ball off half a dozen times, grounded to Mornier at first, who only had to step on the bag to register an out.

It was Larry’s turn to be in the limelight in the Brooklyns’ half of the fourth. Leete raised a fly that seemed destined to fall between second and left. It was certain that Wheeler at left could not get to it in time, though he came in racing like an express train. But Larry had started at the crack of the bat, running in the direction of the ball. He reached it just as it was going over his head, and with a wild leap grasped it with one hand and held on to it.

It was one of the finest catches ever made on the Polo Grounds. For a moment the crowd sat stupefied. Then, when they realized that a baseball “miracle” had occurred, they raised a din that could have been heard a mile away.

“Great stuff, Larry, old boy!” congratulated Joe, as the second baseman resumed his position. “No pitcher could ask for any better support than that.”

“Let that go for my share of your birthday present,” returned the grinning Larry.

The next two went out in jig time, one on a grounder and the other on strikes.

The Giants added one more run in their half of the fourth by a clever combination of bunts and singles. Joe knew that Rance was weak on fielding bunts, and he directed his men to play on that weakness. The Brooklyn pitcher fell all over himself in trying to handle them, and this had a double advantage, for it not only let men get on bases but it shook for a moment the morale of the boxman and made it easier for the succeeding batsman. It was only by virtue of a lucky double play that Rance got by with only one run scored against him in that inning.

With two runs to the good, the Giants went out on the field in a cheerful mood. They were getting onto the redoubtable Rance, not heavily, but still they were hitting him. Joe, on the other hand, seemed to be invincible. He was not trying for strike-outs except when necessary. But his curves were working perfectly, his control was marvelous, and when a third strike was in order he called upon his hop ball or his fadeaway and it did the trick.

And the boys behind him were certainly backing him up in fine style. They were fairly “eating up” everything that came their way, digging them out of the dirt, spearing them out of the air, throwing with the precision of expert riflemen. None of them was playing that day for records. They were playing for the team. Already the new spirit that Joe had infused as captain was beginning to tell.

In the Giant’s half of the fifth, Joe was the first man up. Rance tried him on an outcurve, but Joe refused to bite. The next was a fast, straight one, and Joe caught it fairly for a terrific smash over the centerfielder’s head. The outfield had gone back when he first came to the bat, but they had not gone back far enough. It was a whale of a hit, and Joe trotted home easily, even then reaching the plate before Maley had laid his hand on the ball.

“Frozen hoptoads!” cried Robbie, fairly jumping up and down in exultation. “It’s a murderer he is. He isn’t satisfied with anything less than killing the ball.”

“He’s some killer, all right,” assented McRae. “With one other man like him on the team, the race would be over. The Giants would simply walk in with the flag.”

That mammoth hit should have been the beginning of a rally, but Rance tightened up and the next three went out in order, one on strikes and the other two on infield outs.

Joe still had control of the situation, and he seemed to grow more unhittable as the game went on. He simply toyed with his opponents, and their vain attempts to land on the ball made them at times seem ludicrous.

“Sure, Joe, ’tis a shame what you’re doin’ to those poor boobs,” chuckled Larry, as they came in to the bench together.

“But don’t forget that they’re always dangerous,” cautioned Joe. “Do you remember the fourteen runs they made in one of their games against the Phillies? They may stage a comeback any minute.”

“Not while you’re in the box, old boy,” declared Larry. “You’ll have to break a leg to lose this game.”

Burkett thought it was up to him to do something, and lammed out a terrific liner to left for three bases, sliding into third just a fraction of a second before the return of the ball. Wheeler tried to sacrifice, but Tonsten held Burkett at third by a threatening gesture before putting out Wheeler at first. With the infield pulled in for a play at the plate, Jackwell double-crossed them by a single over short that scored Burkett with the fourth run for the Giants. Barrett went out on a grounder to Mornier, Jackwell taking second. Bowen made a determined effort to bring him in, but his long fly to center was gathered in by Maley.

The “lucky seventh” was misnamed as far as the Brooklyns were concerned, for their luck was conspicuous by its absence. Although the heavy end of their batting order was up, they failed to get the ball out of the infield. Leete, their chief slugger, was utterly bewildered by Joe’s offerings and struck out among the jeers of the Giant fans. Mornier popped up a fly that Joe gobbled up, and Larry had no trouble in getting Tonsten’s grounder into the waiting hands of Burkett.

The Giants did a little better, and yet were unable to add to their score. Joe started off with a ripping single to left. Mylert tried to advance him by sacrificing, but after sending up two fouls was struck out by Rance. Curry sent a liner to the box that was too hot to handle, but Rance deflected it to Tonsten who got Curry at first, Joe in the meantime getting to second. Iredell was an easy victim, driving the ball straight into the hands of Mornier at first.

“Well, Joe,” chuckled Jim, as the eighth inning began, “we haven’t given you your present yet, but we’re in a fair way to put it over. Not to say that you’re not earning most of the present yourself.”

“I don’t care how it comes as long as we get it,” laughed Joe, as he slipped on his glove.

The time was now growing fearfully short in which the men from the other side of the bridge could make their final bid for the game. Those four runs that the Giants had scored were like so many mountains to be scaled, and with the airtight pitching that Joe was handing out, it seemed like an impossible task.

Still, they had pulled many a game out of the fire with even greater odds against them, and they came up to the plate determined to do it again, if it were at all possible.

Trench got a ball just where he liked it, and sent it whistling to left field for a single. Naylor followed with a fierce grasser that Iredell knocked down, but could not field in time to catch the runner. It looked like the beginning of a rally, and the Brooklyn bench was in commotion. Their coaches on the base lines jumped up and down, alternately shouting encouragement to their men and hurling gibes at Joe in the attempt to rattle him.

“We’ve got him going now,” yelled one.

“We’ve just been kidding him along so far,” shouted another. “All together now, boys! Send him to the showers!”

Maley came next, with orders to strike at the first ball pitched. He followed orders and missed. Again he swung several inches under Joe’s throw, which took a most tantalizing hop just before it reached the plate.

He set himself for the third and caught it fairly. The ball started as a screaming liner, going straight for the box. Joe leaped in the air and caught it in his gloved hand. Like a flash he turned and hurled it to Larry at second. Trench, who had started for third at the crack of the ball, tried frantically to scramble back to second, but was too late. Larry wheeled and shot down the ball to first, beating Naylor to the bag by an eyelash. Three men had been put out in the twinkling of an eye!

It was the first triple play that had been made that season, and the third that had been made on the Polo Grounds since that famous park had been opened. It had all occurred so quickly that half the spectators did not for the moment realize what had occurred. But they woke up, and roar after roar rose from the stands as the spectators saw the Giants running in gleefully, while the discomfited Brooklyns, with their rally nipped in the bud, went out gloomily to their positions.

“You’ll send him to the showers, will you?” yelled Larry to the Brooklyn coaches, as he threw his cap hilariously into the air.

Rance’s face was a study as he took his place in the box. He saw his winning streak going glimmering. It was a hard game for him to lose, for he had pitched in a way that would have won most games. But he had drawn a hard assignment in having to face pitching against which his teammates, fence breakers as they usually were, could make no headway.

Still, he was game, and there was still another inning, and nothing was impossible in baseball. If the Giants had expected him to crack, they were quickly undeceived. Burkett grounded out to Trench, who made a rattling stop and got him at first with feet to spare. Wheeler fouled out to Tighe. Jackwell went out on three successive strikes.

It was a plucky exhibition of pitching under discouraging conditions, and Rance well deserved the hand that he received as he went in to the bench.

“I say, Joe,” remarked Jim, as his chum was preparing to go out for the ninth Brooklyn inning. “Celebrate your birthday by showing those birds the three-men-to-a-game stunt. It will be a glorious wind-up.”

“I’ll see,” replied Joe, with a grin that was half a promise.

Thompson, the manager of the Brooklyns, who had been having a little run-in with the umpire, and was standing in a disgruntled mood near the batter’s box, overheard the dialogue and stared in wonderment at Jim.

“What’s that three-men-to-a-game stunt you’re talking about?” he asked.

“Haven’t you ever heard of it?” asked Jim.

“I never have,” replied Thompson. “And I was in the game before you were born.”

“Then you’ve got a treat in store for you,” Jim assured him. “Just you watch this inning, and you’ll see that only three men will be needed to turn your men back without a run, or even the smell of a hit. They’ll be the pitcher, the catcher and the first baseman. The rest of the Giants will have nothing to do and might as well be off the field. In fact, if it wasn’t against the regulations of the game, we would call them into the bench just now.”

Thompson looked at Jim as though he were crazy.

“Trying to kid me?” the Brooklyn manager asked, with a savage inflection in his voice.

“Not at all,” replied Jim, grinning cheerfully. “Just keep your eye on that pitcher of ours.”