CHAPTER XI

SNATCHED FROM THE FIRE

Not a bit dismayed by their unpromising beginning, the Red Sox took the field, and speedily showed that they too could uncork a brand of pitching that was not to be despised.

The best that Burkett could do was to raise a “Texas Leaguer” that Berry gobbled in without any trouble. Larry chopped an easy one to Girdner, who got him at first with plenty to spare. Denton dribbled a slow roller that Fraser gathered in on the first base line, tagging the runner as he passed.

And now it was the turn of the Boston enthusiasts, of whom thousands had made the trip to see their favorites play, to yell frantically for the Red Sox.

Joe realized at once that he had a foeman in Fraser who was worthy of his steel, and knew that all his skill and cunning would be required to win.

For the next two innings the sides were mowed down with unfailing regularity, and not a man on either side reached first base. It looked as though the game were going to resolve itself into a pitchers’ duel, and the crowds were breathless with excitement as batter after batter was sent to the bench.

The Giants broke the ice in the fourth. Burkett scorched a single to right, and by daring base-running stretched it to a double, as Cooper was slow in making the return. Barrett sacrificed him to third. Fraser put on steam and fanned Denton on strikes. Then Willis came to the rescue with a sizzling hit just inside the third base line, and Burkett came galloping over the plate with the first run of the game.

The crowd rose and cheered wildly, and the Giants from their dugout threw their caps in the air and gathered around Burkett in jubilation. It was only one run, but the way the game was going that run looked as big as a mountain.

Willis was caught napping off first by a snap throw from Thompson to Hobbs, and the inning ended.

The fifth was devoid of scoring, but in the sixth the Bostons not only tied the Giants but passed them.

Loomis, the crack left fielder of the visitors, started the trouble with a sharp hit to Larry, who “booted” the ball, letting Loomis get to first. Hobbs lay down a bunt on which Joe had no time to get Loomis at second, though he tossed out Hobbs at first. Walters lined out the first clean hit that the Red Sox had made so far in the game. If it had been properly played and taken on the bound, it could have been held to a single. But Becker made a mistake in thinking that he could make a fly catch. The ball struck the ground in front of him, bounded over his head and rolled to the further corner of the field. Before it could be recovered, Walters had made the circuit of the bases, following Loomis over the plate, and the Red Sox were in the lead by two runs to one.

The Boston rooters started their marching song of “Tessie,” while the New Yorkers sat glum and silent.

Joe tightened up and struck out the two following batters in jig time, but it looked as though the mischief had been done.

“Don’t let that worry you, Joe,” counseled McRae, as he came in to the bench. “You’re pitching like a Gatling gun. That’s the first hit they’ve got off you in six innings and it ought to have been a single only. We’ll beat ’em yet.”

“Sure we will,” answered Joe, cheerfully. “We’ve only begun to fight.”

At the beginning of the “lucky seventh,” the crowd rose and stretched in the fond hope that it would bring the necessary luck for their favorites.

The omen might have worked, had it not been for a dazzling bit of play on the part of the Bostons.

Their own half had been fruitless. Joe was pitching now like a man inspired, and his bewildering curves and slants had made the Boston sluggers look like “bushers.”

In the Giants’ half, Joe was the first man up and he laced out a hot liner between second and short that carried him easily to first. Mylert hit to short and Joe was forced at second, though Berry relayed the ball to Hobbs too late for a double play. A wild pitch, the only one of the game, advanced Mylert a base. Burkett received a pass. Now there was a man on first, another on second, and rousing cheers came from the stands. There was only one man out, Fraser was evidently getting wild, and it looked as though New York might score.

The Boston infield moved in for a double play. And it looked for a moment as though they would make it. Larry hit to short, and a groan went up. But the hit was so sharp that Stock could not handle it cleanly, and, though he succeeded in getting Burkett at second Larry reached first safely while Mylert raced to third.

It was a time for desperate measures, and McRae gave the signal for a double steal. The moment Fraser wound up, Larry started for second, not with a design of reaching it, but hoping to draw a throw from the catcher, under cover of which Mylert might scamper home from third. If he could touch the plate before Larry was put out, the run would count and the score be tied.

Thompson threw like a shot to Berry at second. But instead of chasing Larry, who had stopped midway between first and second, he kept threatening to throw to third and catch Mylert, who was taking as big a lead toward home as he dared. After playing hide and seek for a moment, Berry thought he saw a chance to nip Mylert and threw to Girdner at third. But the ball touched the tips of his fingers and got past him, and Mylert started for home.

A howl of exultation went up from the throng. Then it died away as suddenly as it had risen.

Girdner, chasing the ball, slipped as he went to pick it up. Lying on the grass, he made a desperate throw in the direction of the plate. It went high, but Thompson made a tremendous jump, pulled it down and clapped it on Mylert just as he slid into the rubber.

“Out,” yelled the umpire.

It was as classy a play as any of the spectators had ever seen, and even the New Yorkers, sore as they were at losing the run, joined generously in the applause that greeted it.

“That fellow Girdner must have a rabbit’s foot about him somewhere,” remarked Robson to McRae with a twisted smile. “He couldn’t do that thing again in a thousand years.”

“A few more things like that and the crowd will die of heart disease or nervous prostration,” answered McRae. “But they can’t have all the breaks. Just watch. Our turn will be coming next.”

But nothing happened in the eighth to change the score, and the ninth opened with the Red Sox still in the lead.

That the Red Sox would not score again was as nearly certain as anything can be in baseball. Joe, as cool as an icicle, was going at top speed. They simply could not touch his offerings.

But as the visitors went back in one, two, three order, they consoled themselves with the thought that they did not have to do any more scoring. They were already ahead, and if Fraser could hold their opponents down for one more inning, the game was theirs.

But Fraser had about reached his limit. He could not stand the gaff as sturdily as Joe. With the exception of that one wild spell, he had pitched superbly, but the terrific strain was beginning to tell.

His first two pitches went as balls, and McRae, whose eagle eyes saw signs of wavering, signaled Becker, who was at the bat, to “wait him out.”

The advice proved good, and Becker trotted down to first where he immediately began to dance about and yell, hoping to draw a throw which in the pitcher’s nervous condition might go wild.

The Red Sox players shouted encouragement to their pitcher, and the catcher walked down to the box on the pretense of advice but really to give him time to recover himself.

No doubt this helped, for Fraser braced up and made Iredell put up a towering foul, which Thompson caught after a long run.

Joe came next and cracked out a pretty single between short and second. Becker tried to make third on it, but a magnificent throw by Walters nipped him at the bag. But in the mix-up, Joe, by daring running, got to second.

With two out, a long hit would tie the game, anyway, and carry it into extra innings.

Fraser seemed to waver again and gave Mylert his base on balls. Then big Burkett, the head of the batting order, strode to the plate.

Amid frantic adjurations from the crowd to “kill the ball,” he caught the second one pitched and sent a screaming liner far out toward the right field wall.

Cooper, the fleet Red Sox right fielder, had started for it at the crack of the bat. On, on he went, running like a deer.

Thirty-five thousand people were on their feet, yelling like maniacs, while Joe, Mylert and Burkett raced round the bases.

Ball and man reached the wall at the same instant. The gallant player leaped high in the air. But the ball just touched the tips of his fingers and rolled away, while Joe and Mylert dented the rubber, Burkett halting when he reached second.

Then the crowd went crazy.

The game was over. It had been a battle royal, but the Giants had vanquished the Red Sox, and had taken their first stride toward the championship of the world.