CHAPTER X

THE OPENING GUN

The practice games of the next few days were by no means tame affairs, even though there was nothing especially at stake.

The All-National team was, as has been seen, chosen from among the stars of the profession, and though they lacked, of course, the team work of the Giants, they gave the latter all they could do to hold their own. They had been ordered to “tear things wide open” and play the game for all it was worth.

This they proceeded to do with such effect that when the time for the great Series arrived the Giants had been put on their mettle and were at the very top of their form.

It had been an especially busy week for Joe. He had spent one day in Boston, to which city he had run over on the midnight train at the direction of McRae, in order that he might observe the practice of the Red Sox and get a line on their batters. He had been impressed but not dismayed by their show of strength, and had come back knowing that his work was cut out for him.

He had taken advantage, too, of his presence in Boston to arrange for rooms for his family, as well as for Reggie and Mabel, as they expected to go back and forth during the fateful week the Series lasted on the same trains taken by the two teams.

Thursday was made memorable to the New Yorks by the appearance of Hughson. There was an affectionate roar and rush for the veteran as he came into the clubhouse among his adoring mates.

To the torrent of questions poured out on him as to his condition, he responded that he was feeling fine physically, but was not yet sure of his arm. His shoulder was still somewhat lame and tender, but he hoped to get into some of the games later on. He tossed the ball about for a little while, but made no attempt to cut loose with any curves or fast ones. But the very sight of their crack pitcher once more in uniform was a tonic and inspiration to his mates, and they put an amount of “ginger” into their practice game that afternoon that was full of promise to McRae and Robson, as they watched their men from the side lines.

“I think we’re going to cop the Series, Robbie,” declared the former when the practice was over. “The men are as full of pep as so many colts.”

“They certainly look good to-day, John,” was the response. “But I’d give a thousand dollars out of my pocket at this minute if Hughson was in shape.”

That evening Joe’s parents and sister reached New York. Joe had received a wire telling him on what train they were coming and was at the station to meet them, full of affection and impatience.

He scanned eagerly the long train as it rolled into the station. Then he detected the familiar figures descending the steps of a Pullman coach, and in a moment more there was a joyful family reunion.

“Momsey--Dad!” he cried, grasping his father’s hand and kissing his mother, who had all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around his neck then and there. “And Sis, you darling! Sweet and pretty as a picture!” he exclaimed, holding her out at arms’ length so that he could look at her sparkling face. “Poor, poor Jim!” he teased. “I see his finish!”

Clara’s color deepened, but before she could retort, Joe was hurrying the little party through the crowd to the street, where he hailed a taxicab and had them whirled away to their rooms at the Marlborough.

He had arranged to have a nice supper served in their suite that night, as he knew that they would be tired and excited after their long journey. So they dined cosily and happily, and the hour or two of dear familiar talk that followed marked one of the happiest experiences the united little family had ever known.

But Joe could not stay nearly as long as he wanted to, for to-morrow was the day of the first game and he had to retire early so as to be in perfect condition.

McRae had told Joe that afternoon that he was slated to pitch the opening game.

“I’m banking on you, Joe,” the manager told him. “You’ve never failed me yet, and I don’t think you’ll do it now. If you fall down, we’re dead ones.”

“I’ll do my very best,” declared Joe earnestly.

“Your best is good enough for any one,” replied McRae. “Just show them the same stuff you did the Chicagos in that last game and I won’t ask for anything more.”

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and the city was agog with expectation. New York, usually so indifferent to most things, had gone wild over the Series. The morning papers bore the flaring headlines: “_Matson Pitches the First Game._” Crowds gathered early about the bulletin boards. Long before the time set for the game, cars and trains disgorged their living loads at the gates of the Polo Grounds, and before the teams came out for practice the grandstands and bleachers were black with swarming, jostling humanity. The metropolis was simply baseball mad.

Within the gates, hundreds of special officers lined the field to keep order and prevent the overflow back of centerfield from encroaching on the playing space. The Seventh Regiment Band played popular airs. Movie men were here, there and everywhere, getting snapshots of the scene. The diamond lay like so much green velvet under the bright sun, and the freshly marked white base lines stood out in dazzling contrast. It was a scene to stir to the depths any lover of the great national game.

There was a thunderous roar as the teams marched down from the clubhouse, and there were bursts of applause for the sparkling plays that marked the preliminary practice. Then the field was cleared, the gong rang and the umpire, taking off his hat and facing the stands, bellowed in stentorian tones:

“Ladies and gentlemen: The batteries for to-day’s game are Fraser and Thompson for Boston, Matson and Mylert for New York.”

Loud applause followed, and this grew into a cyclone when Joe took the ball tossed to him and walked toward the pitcher’s box.

“Matson! Matson! Matson!” yelled the crowd.

Joe cast a swift look at the box where his family were seated with Mabel and Reggie. Then he touched a little glove that rested in a pocket of his uniform.

The head of the Red Sox batting order had taken up his position at the plate.

“Play ball!” called the umpire.

Joe straightened up to his full height, wound up deliberately, and the ball shot over the corner of the plate like a bullet. The batter lunged at it savagely, but only hit the air.

The crowd yelled its delight at the auspicious beginning.

“That’s the way, Joe!”

“He can’t touch you!”

“Missed it by a mile!”

A ball followed, then a foul, then another ball, and a final strike that sent the batter discomfited to the bench.

The next man up raised a towering skyscraper, which Larry gathered in without moving from his tracks, and the third man died, as had the first, on strikes.

The half inning had been short and sharp, and Joe met a tempest of encouraging cheers as he walked in to the bench.

“You’ve got their number, old man!”

“They’ll break their backs trying to hit you!”

“Some bad pitching, I don’t think!”

But Joe had had too much experience to be betrayed into any undue elation. There were eight innings more to come and in that time many things might happen.