Part 15

Roger Bresnahan is the same kind of a man. He thinks quickly, and is a brilliant player, but he never dodges anything. He is often hurt as a result. Once, when he was with the Giants, he was hit in the face with a pitched ball, and McGraw worried while he was laid up, for fear that it would make him bat shy. After he came back, he was just as friendly with the plate as ever. The injury of men like Chance and Bresnahan, whose services are of such vital importance to the "inside" play of a team, destroys the effectiveness of the club.

Once, in 1908, when we were fighting the Cubs for the pennant at every step, McGraw planned a bunting game against Overall, who is big and not very fast in covering the little rollers. Bresnahan and O'Day had been having a serial argument through two games, and Roger, whose nerves were worn to a frazzle, like those of the rest of us at that time, thought "Hank" had been shading his judgment slightly toward the Cubs. In another story I have pointed out that O'Day, the umpire, was stubborn and that nothing could be gained by continually picking on him. When the batteries were announced for that game, McGraw said as the team went to the field:

"We can beat this guy Overall by bunting."

Bresnahan went out to put on his chest protector and shin guards. O'Day happened to be adjusting his makeup near him. Roger could not resist the temptation.

"Why don't you put on a Chicago uniform, 'Hank', instead of those duds?" he asked. "Is it true, if the Cubs win the pennant, they've promised to elect you alderman in Chicago?"

"Get out of the game and off the field," said O'Day.

Bresnahan had to obey the injunction and Needham, the only other available catcher, went behind the mat. "Tom" Needham never beat out a bunt in his life, and he destroyed all McGraw's plans because, with him in the game instead of Bresnahan, the style had to be switched. We lost. Bresnahan, a fast man and a good bunter batted third and would have been valuable in the attack best adapted to beat Overall. But his sudden demise and the enforced substitution of the plodding Needham ruined the whole plan of campaign. Therefore, frequently umpires upset a team's "inside" game.

One of McGraw's schemes back-fired on him when Luderus, the hard-hitting Philadelphia first baseman, broke into the League. Some one had tipped "Mac" off, and tipped him wrong, that this youngster could be disconcerted in a pinch by the catcher discussing signs and what-not with him, thus distracting his attention.

"Chief," said McGraw before the game, "if this Luderus gets up in a tight place, slip him a little talk."

The situation came, and Meyers obeyed instructions. The game was in Philadelphia, and three men were on the bases with two out. Ames was pitching.

"What are you bringing the bat up with you for?" asked the "Chief" as Luderus arranged himself at the plate.

No answer.

Then Meyers gave Ames his sign. Next he fixed his fingers in a fake signal and addressed the young batter.

"The best hitters steal signs," said the "Chief." "Just look down in my glove and see the signals."

But Luderus was not caught and kept his eyes glued on Ames. He hit the next ball over the right field wall and won the game. As he crossed the plate, he said to the "Chief":

"It's too easy. I don't need your signs. They pulled that one on me in the bushes long ago."

"After this, when that fellow bats," said McGraw to Meyers later, "do as exact an imitation of the sphinx as you know how. The tip was no good."

The trick of talking to the hitter is an old one. The idea is for the catcher to give a wrong sign, for his benefit, after having flashed the right one, induce the batter, usually a youngster, to look down at it, and then have the pitcher shoot one over the plate while he is staring in the glove.

"Steve" Evans, the St. Louis right-fielder, tells a story of a fan who sat in the same box at the Cardinals' park every day and devoted most of his time to roasting him (S. Evans). His favorite expressions in connection with Evans were "bone dead," "wooden head," and so on. He loudly claimed that "Steve" had no knowledge of the game and spoiled every play that Bresnahan tried to put through. One day, when the Giants were playing in St. Louis, some one knocked up a high foul which landed in this orator's box. He saw it coming, tried to dodge, used poor judgment, and, realizing that the ball was going to strike him, snatched his hat off, and took it full on an immodestly bald head. "Steve" Evans was waiting to go to the bat. He shifted his chew to his other cheek and exclaimed in a voice that could not have been heard more than two miles away:

"That's the 'gink' who has been calling me a 'bone head.'"

"Steve" got a great laugh from the crowd, but right there the St. Louis club lost a patron, for the bald-headed one has never been seen at the grounds since, according to Evans, and his obituary has not been printed yet, either.

"Al" Bridwell, formerly the Giants' shortstop, was one of the cleverest men at the "inside" game that ever broke into the Big Leagues, and it was this that made him valuable. Then suddenly his legs went bad, and he slowed up. It was his speed and his ability to bunt and his tireless waiting at the plate to make all toilers in the box pitch that had made him a great player. He seldom swung at a bad ball. As soon as he slowed up, McGraw knew he would have to go if the Giants were to win the pennant. He deeply regretted letting the gritty, little shortstop, whose legs had grown stiff in his service, leave the club, but sentiment never won any pennants.

"Al," he said to Bridwell, "I'm going to let you go to Boston. Your legs will be all right eventually, but I've got to have a fast man now while you are getting back your old speed."

"That's all right, 'Mac,'" replied Bridwell. "It's all part of the game."

He did not rave and swear that he had been double-crossed, as many players do under the same circumstances. I never heard Bridwell swear, and I never found any one else who did. He had been playing for weeks, when every time he moved it pained him, because he thought he might have a share of the money that winning a pennant would mean. It was a staggering blow to him, this sending him from a pennant possibility to a hopeless tail-ender, but he took it gamely.

"I guess I was 'gumming' the inside stuff," he said.

And he did get some of the prize money. The boys voted him a share.

It will be seen that the "inside" game sometimes fails. Many a time I have passed a catcher or good batter to take a chance on a pitcher, and then have had him make a hit just when hits were not at all welcome. I walked a catcher once and had the pitcher shove the ball over first base for a single, when he closed his eyes and dodged back in an effort to get his head out of the line he thought it was pursuing before it curved. In ducking, he got his bat in front of the ball, a result he had never obtained with his eyes open.

Once I started to pass "Hans" Wagner in a pinch to take a chance on the next batter, and was a little careless in throwing the ball too close to the plate. He reached out and slapped it for a single. Again the "inside" game had failed.

Speaking pretty generally, most managers prefer to use this "inside" game, though, and there are few vacancies in the Big Leagues right now for the man who is liable to steal second with the bases full.

Transcriber's Notes:

Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.

Punctuation has been corrected without note.

The following misprints have been corrected: "Crounds" corrected to "Grounds" (page 65) "temperameut" corrected to "temperament" (page 69) "penant" corrected to "pennant" (page 205) "te ephone" corrected to "telephone" (page 263) "innnings" corrected to "innings" (page 282)

Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original.

End of Project Gutenberg's Pitching in a Pinch, by Christy Mathewson