CHAPTER XIX

DRIVING THEM HARD

The next morning dawned soft and balmy. The air was full of the fragrance of flowers and musical with the singing of birds. To Joe who two days before had been in a region of snow and ice where winter still reigned supreme, it almost seemed as though he had been carried by the carpet of Solomon to some different clime and country.

“Great Scott, but this is regular baseball weather!” he cried, as he looked out of the window. “Get a move on, Jim, and let’s get outdoors as soon as possible. It’s a crime to waste any minute of a morning like this.”

Barclay, thus adjured, scrambled out of bed and they hurried into their clothes.

“What time was it that McRae wanted us to be ready to start for the park this morning?” asked Jim.

“Nine o’clock sharp, and it’s after seven now. We won’t have more than time to get our breakfast and get into our baseball togs.”

They went down to the dining room where a special section had been reserved for the team. Quite a number were already eating the excellent breakfast and others soon straggled in until all were accounted for. There was a general air of hilarity, especially among the older members of the team. The rookies, however, were on edge with nervousness in anticipation of the coming ordeal that meant so much to them. They gulped down their meal in a preoccupied way and conversation lagged in their corner.

By nine o’clock all had changed into their uniforms and had assembled in front of the hotel.

“Where’s the bus?” asked one of the drafted men.

There was a roar of laughter from the old timers.

“The only bus you’ll have will be those two legs of yours,” chuckled Curry. “You’ll start right in now, my bucko, to learn what they were made for.”

The abashed rookie subsided, and just then McRae put in his appearance.

“All here, eh?” he remarked, as his keen eye ran over the group. “Come along then and we’ll jog down to the Park.”

The “jog” proved to be a run of two miles or more. It did not inconvenience Joe to any extent because he was already in fine fettle, but many of the others were winded by the time they reached the gates. But pride kept them from falling behind and none of them cared to take a chance with the rasping tongue of McRae. Besides he was only asking them to do what he was willing to do himself and they soon learned that he worked just as hard to get into condition as any “busher” on the team.

Joe tingled clear to the finger tips as he passed through the entrance and his eye fell on the diamond. For months he had been hungry for baseball. The passion for the game was in his blood, as it has to be if one is going to be a star player. He longed for the music of bat meeting ball. He felt like a colt let out to pasture in the spring.

“Go easy now, boys,” warned McRae. “Don’t get up too much steam all at once. You pitchers, especially, cut out all curves for the first few days. Just straight ones and not too fast at that. You don’t want to do anything more now than just limber up.”

There were a number of bats and balls in the little clubhouse and these were brought quickly into service. The majority of the men scattered out into the field, while others, standing near the plate, batted up flies. Others took the infield positions and passed the ball around the bases. The pitchers paired off with the catchers and tossed up a few easy ones, seldom cutting loose a fast one except at times when the temptation became too hard to resist. McRae wandered around the field watching the action of the different players, putting in a word of criticism or advice here and there, but devoting himself especially to the new men from whom he hoped to cull a certain amount of “big league timber.” No one knew better than he how hard this was to get. He had thirty or more prospects on hand to develop, but if he really got two or three first-class men out of that number he would feel amply repaid for all the trouble and expense.

At noon they ran back to the hotel for dinner and returned for a two-hour session in the afternoon. They felt pretty tired when night came and they slept like logs. The next morning all were lame and sore and there were demands for arnica and a massage. But McRae believed that one is cured by “the hair of the dog that bites him,” and he insisted on the two sessions just the same although he limited the time for each. By the end of a week most of the soreness had disappeared and the men were as spry as kittens.

“Now,” McRae announced one morning, “we’re going to have some real practice. I’m going to split the squad into two teams. One will be called the Giants and the other the Yannigans. We’ll only play six inning games at the start, but I want them to be for blood. Most of the regulars will be on the Giant team, but I give you old timers fair warning that if any of the Yannigans play better ball than you do they’ll get your job.”

To equalize matters somewhat, he let the Yannigans have one of the first string pitchers, but for the rest they had to stand or fall on their merits. And the Yannigans soon proved that they were not to be despised. They wanted to show McRae what they could do, and they “worked their heads off” to defeat their rivals. More than once they had that satisfaction, although in the majority of games, as was to be expected, they came off second best.

The pitching staff too was now sent through its paces. Robson, the famous old time catcher of the Orioles and a warm friend of McRae’s, had special charge of this work. For developing young pitchers he had no equal in the country.

He had a tip from McRae to pay especial attention to young Barclay, of whom the manager had great hopes. Jim had a good fast ball and a fair variety of curves. But during his last year at Princeton he had been coached by one of the greatest spit ball pitchers in the country and had developed a very effective form of that puzzling delivery.

Neither McRae nor Robson favored the “moist” ball overmuch, as they thought it took too much out of the twirler and put too big a strain on his pitching arm. Chesebro, who discovered it and Ed Walsh of the Chicagos who perfected it, had both been worn out before their time. Still, as no other pitcher on the Giants used it and Barclay was willing to take the chance, they were not averse to letting him show what he could do. And Robson soon had to admit that what he could do was “plenty.” Before long, it had become clear that, whoever might be sent back to the bushes, Jim would not be among them.

As for Joe himself, he had never been in finer shape at the beginning of a season. He had “speed to burn.” The ball shot over the plate, like a bullet from a gun. His control was nearly perfect. He made the ball fairly “talk.” He won a game from the strong Houston team with comparative ease and saved another from Waco after Markwith had been batted out of the box.

“You’re playing like a house afire, Joe,” said Jim, after this last game. “I’ll bet you’ve got a rabbit’s foot concealed about you somewhere.”

“Rabbit’s foot be hanged,” laughed Joe. “I know a trick worth two of that.”

Could Joe have referred to a dainty little glove that nestled in his pocket?

In what estimation Joe was held by the “powers that be” may be inferred from a scrap of conversation that passed between McRae and Robson as the team was working its way north, after training days were over, to open the season at the Polo Grounds.

“What do you think of Matson, Robbie, old boy?” asked McRae.

“What do I think?” said Robson, emphatically. “I think he’s going to be a second Hughson.”