CHAPTER XIII

CLEVER STRATEGY

“Quit your kidding,” laughed Joe. “Let’s just say that the breaks of the game were with us and let it go at that. The main thing is that we’ve put another game on the right side of the ledger. We’ve turned the Brooklyns back, and now it’s up to us to give the same dose to the Bostons and the Phillies.”

“They’ll be easy,” prophesied Curry, as he finished fastening his shoe laces.

“Don’t fool yourself,” cautioned Joe. “They’re playing better now than they were earlier in the season, and they won’t be such cinches as they were in the last series. We’ll have to step lively to beat them, and keep trying every minute. Ginger’s the word from now on.”

“Ginger” had been his watchword ever since he had been made captain of the team. He had tried to inspire them with his own indomitable energy and vim, and was gratified to see that with the exception of Iredell he was succeeding. It was doubly necessary in the case of the Giants, for most of the team was composed of veterans. They were superb players, but some of them were letting up on their speed and needed prodding to keep them at the top of their form.

Still there had been an infusion of new blood, and McRae was constantly on the lookout for more. The Giants’ roster contained a number of promising rookies, such as Renton, Ledwith, Merton and others, and Joe was constantly coaching them in the fine points of the game.

In Merton, especially, he thought he had all the material of a promising pitcher. The youngster had been obtained from the Oakland Seals, and had won a high reputation in the Pacific Coast League. He had speed, a good assortment of curves, and a fair measure of control. But pitching against big leaguers was a very different matter from trying to outguess minor league batters, and Joe had not thought it advisable as yet to send him in for a full game.

One of his chief faults was that opponents could steal bases on him with comparative impunity. It was almost uncanny to note the ease with which a runner on the bases could detect whether Merton was going to pitch to the batter or throw the ball to first. Joe was not long in discovering the reason.

“Here’s your trouble, Merton,” he said. “You invariably lift your right heel from the ground when you are about to throw to the plate. You keep it on the ground when you’re planning to throw to first. So, by watching you, those fellows can get a long lead off first and easily make second. Just try now, and see.”

“You’re right,” admitted Merton, after practising a few minutes. “Funny that I never noticed that before. But none of the fellows in the Pacific Coast League noticed it, either. They didn’t steal much on me there.”

“That’s just because they were minor leaguers,” returned Joe. “But you’re in big-league company now, and the wise birds on the other teams get on to you at once.”

Merton was grateful for the tip, and practised assiduously until he had got rid of the mannerism. He was docile and willing to learn, and Joe could see his pitching ability increase from day to day.

Not only in pitching, but in batting, Joe was able to be of incalculable value to the younger members of the team. How to outguess the pitcher, when to wait him out, how to walk into the ball instead of drawing away from it, the best way of laying down bunts--these and a host of other things in which he was a past master were freely imparted to his charges and illustrated by object lessons that were even more effective than the spoken word.

McRae and Robbie were delighted with the results of the change of captains, and more and more they gave him a free hand, knowing that Joe would get out of the Giants all that was in them. And, knowing the power of the Giant machine when going at full speed, that was all that they asked.

The next series on the Giants’ schedule was with the Boston Braves on the latter’s grounds. As Joe had anticipated, the Braves put up a much stiffer fight than they had earlier in the season. They were going well, had already passed the Phillies and the Cardinals and were making a desperate attempt to get into the first division.

Markwith pitched the first game, and did very well until the last two frames. Then a veritable torrent of hits broke from the Bostons’ bats and drove the southpaw from the mound. Joe took his place, and the hitting suddenly ceased. But the damage had already been done, and the game was placed in the Boston column.

Jim pitched in the second game and chalked up a victory. Young Merton was given his chance in the third, and justified Joe’s confidence by also winning, although the score was close.

Joe himself went in for the fourth and won, thus getting three out of four in the series, which, for a team on the road, was not to be complained of.

With the Phillies, on the latter’s grounds, the Giants cleaned up the first three games right off the reel. In the fourth, the Phillies woke up and played like champions. They fielded and batted like demons, so well indeed that when the ninth inning began, the Phillies were ahead by a score of three to two.

In the Giants’ half, with one man on base, Joe cut loose with a homer that put his team a run to the good. Not daunted, however, the Phillies came in for their half. Two men were out, and a couple of Giant fumbles had permitted two to get on the bases.

Mallinson, the heaviest batter of the Phillies, was up. He shook his bat menacingly and glared at Joe. With the team behind him the least bit shaky on account of the fumbles, Joe tried a new stunt on Mallinson.

“I’m going to tell you exactly the kind of a ball I’m going to throw to you,” he remarked, with a disarming grin.

“Yes, you are,” sneered Mallinson, unbelievingly, while even Mylert, the Giant catcher, looked bewildered.

“Honest Injun,” declared Joe. “This first one is going to be a high fast one right over the plate and just below the shoulder.”

“G’wan and stop your kidding,” growled the burly Philadelphia batter.

He set himself for a curve, not believing for a moment that Joe would be crazy enough to tell him in advance what he was going to pitch. It was just on that disbelief that Joe had counted.

Joe wound up and hurled one over exactly as he had promised. Mallinson, all set for a curve, was so flustered that he struck at it hurriedly and missed.

Joe grinned tantalizingly, while Mallinson glowered at him.

“Didn’t believe me, did you?” Joe asked. “Why don’t you have more faith in your fellow men? I ought to be real peeved at you for your lack of confidence. But I’m of a forgiving nature and I’ll overlook it this time.”

“Cut it out,” snapped Mallinson savagely. “Go ahead and play the game.”

“No pleasing some fellows,” mourned Joe plaintively. “Now this time, I’m going to pitch an outcurve. Ready? Let’s go.”

Mallinson, sure that this time he was going to be double-crossed, got ready for a high fast one, and the outcurve that Joe pitched cut the corner of the plate and settled in Mylert’s glove for the second strike.

“You see!” complained Joe. “There you are again. What’s the use of my tipping you off if you don’t take advantage? Don’t you believe me? Doesn’t anybody ever tell the truth in Philadelphia?”

Mallinson tried to say something, but he was so mad that he could only stutter, while his face looked as though he were going to have a fit of apoplexy.

“Now,” said Joe, “this is your last chance. I’m going to give you my hop ball this time, and that’s just because it’s you. I wouldn’t do it for everybody. It’ll take a jump just as it comes to the plate.”

By this time Mallinson was in an almost pitiable state of bewilderment. Would the pitcher again keep his word? Or would Joe figure that now that he had twice tipped him off correctly, Mallinson would really get set for the hop ball and that now was the time to fool him with something else?

He was so up in the air by this time that he could not have hit a balloon, and he struck six inches below the hop ball that Joe sent whistling over the plate for an out. The game was over and the Giants had won.

“What was all that chatter that was going on between you and Mallinson?” asked McRae, as he and Robbie, with their faces all smiles, came up to Joe. “I couldn’t quite get what it was from the bench. But you seemed to get his goat for fair.”

Joe told them, and the pair went into paroxysms of laughter, Robbie choking until they had to pound him on the back.

“For the love of Pete, Mac!” he gurgled, as soon as he could speak, “you’ll have to do something with this fellow or he’ll be the death of me yet. To win a ball game just by telling the batsman what he was going to pitch to him! Did you ever hear anything like it before in your life?”

“I never did,” replied the grinning McRae.

At the clubhouse later, there were guffaws of laughter as Mylert described the way that Joe had stood Mallinson on his head.

“And me thinking Joe had simply gone nutty!” Mylert said. “When he pitched that first ball just as he said, I didn’t know where I was at. Then the second one got me going still more. But I saw that it had Mallinson going, too, and then I began to catch on. How on earth did you ever come to think of that, Joe?”

“Just a matter of psychology,” Jim answered for him. “And mighty good psychology, if you ask me. Baseball Joe’s a dabster at that.”

“Sike-sike what?” asked Larry, whose vocabulary was not very extensive.

“Psychology,” repeated Jim, with a grin. “No, it isn’t a new kind of breakfast food. Joe simply knew how Mallinson’s mind would work and he took advantage of it. Mallinson coppered everything Joe said to him. He figured that Joe was there to deceive him. He couldn’t conceive that Joe would tell him the truth. And so it was just by telling the truth that Joe got him.”

“It just got by because it was new,” laughed Joe. “I couldn’t do it often, for if I did they’d begin to take me at my word, and then they’d bat me all over the lot.”

By the time the Eastern inter-city games were over, the Giants had considerably bettered their team standing. They had passed the Brooklyns, who had let down a good deal and were now playing in-and-out ball. The Chicagos were still in the lead, with Pittsburgh three games behind them, but pressing them closely. Then came the Giants, two games in the rear of the men from the Smoky City. The Cincinnati Reds brought up the rear of the first division, but the conviction was strong in the minds of the Giants that it was either the Pirates or the Cubs they had to beat in order to win the pennant.

On the eve of the invasion of the East by the Western teams, McRae called his men together for a heart-to-heart talk in the clubhouse.

“You boys know that I can give you the rough edge of my tongue when you lay down on me,” he said, as he looked around on the group of earnest young athletes, who listened to him with respectful attention. “But you know, too, that I’m always ready to give a man credit when he deserves it. I’m glad to say that just now I’m proud of the men who wear the Giant uniform. You’ve done good work in cleaning up the Eastern teams. You’ve played ball right up to the end of the ninth inning, and many a game that looked lost you’ve pulled out of the fire.

“Now, that’s all right as far as it goes. But the Western clubs are coming, and they’re out for scalps. You remember what they did to us on our first trip out there. They gave us one of the most disgraceful beatings we’ve had for years. They took everything but our shirts, and they nearly got those. Are you going to let them do it again?”

There was a yell of dissent that warmed McRae’s heart.

“That’s the right spirit,” he declared approvingly. “Now, go in and show the same spirit on the field that you’re showing in the clubhouse. Beat them to a frazzle. Show them that you’re yet the class of the League. Don’t be satisfied with an even break. That won’t get us anywhere. Take three out of four from every one of them. Make a clean sweep if you can. Keep on your toes every minute. You’ve got the pitching, you’ve got the fielding, you’ve got the batting, and you’ve got the best captain that ever wore baseball shoes. What more does any club want?”

“Nothing!” shouted Larry. “We’ll wipe up the earth with them!”

“That’s the stuff,” replied McRae. “Now go out and say it with your bats. I want another championship this year, and I want it so bad that it hurts. You’re the boys that can give it to me, and I’m counting on you to do it. Show them that you’re Giants not only in name, but in fact. That’s about all.”

“What’s the matter with McRae?” cried Curry, as the manager, having said his say, turned to leave.

“He’s all right!” came in a thundering chorus from all except Iredell, who maintained a moody silence.

McRae waved his hand and vanished through the door.

The Cincinnati Reds were the first of the invaders to make their appearance at the Polo Grounds. They always drew large crowds, not only because they usually played good ball against the Giants, but especially because of the popularity of Hughson, their manager, who for many years had been a mainstay of the Giants and the idol of New York fans.

Hughson was one of the straight, clean, upstanding men who are a credit to the national game. McRae had taken him when he was a raw rookie and given him his chance with the Giants to show what he could do. The result had been a sensation. In less than a year Hughson had leaped into fame as the greatest pitcher in the country. He had everything--courage, speed, curves and control--and with them all a baseball head that enabled him to outguess the craftiest of his opponents.

For a dozen years he had been the chief reliance of the Giants and one of the greatest drawing cards in the game. At the time that Joe had joined the Giants, however, Hughson’s arm was beginning to fail. The latter was quick to discover Joe’s phenomenal ability and, instead of showing any mean jealousy, had done his best to develop it. Between him and Joe a friendship had sprung up that had never diminished.

Hughson’s services were in demand as a manager and he was snapped up by the Cincinnati club to take charge of the Reds. With rather indifferent material to start with, he had built up a strong team that had several times given the Giants a hot race for the championship.

On the afternoon of the first game, Hughson, big and genial as ever, shook Joe’s hand warmly when the latter met him near the plate.

“We’re going to give you the same dose that we did when you were on our stamping ground the last time, Joe,” he remarked, with a laugh, after they had interchanged greetings. “I love the Giants, but, oh, you Reds!”

“If you’re so sure of it, why go through the trouble of playing the game?” retorted Joe.

“Oh, we’ll have to do that as a matter of form and to give the crowd their money’s worth,” joked Hughson. “But honestly, Joe, we’re going to put up the stiffest kind of a battle. My men have their fighting clothes on, and they’re going good just now.”

“I’ve noticed that,” replied Joe. “You took the Pirates neatly into camp in that last series. The return of Haskins has plugged up a weak point in your outfield. I see he didn’t lose his batting eye while he was a hold-out.”

“No,” said Hughson, “he’s as good as ever. I began to think we’d never come to terms on the question of salary. You see, after his phenomenal season last year he got a swelled head and demanded a salary that was out of all reason. Said he wouldn’t play this year unless he got it. But we got together on a compromise at last, and now he’s in uniform again and cavorting around like a two-year-old. Wait until you see him knock the ball out of the lot this afternoon.”

“I’ll wait,” retorted Joe with a grin, “and I’ll bet I’ll wait a good long while.”