At the Old Ballgame (18 page)

Mr. Jacob Dodson, interviewed by the Detroit “Weekly Rooter,” stated that his decision, arrived at after a close and careful study of the work of both teams, was that the Giants had rather less chance in the forthcoming tourney than a lone gumdrop in an Eskimo tea party. It was his carefully considered opinion that in a contest with the Avenue B juniors the Giants might, with an effort, scrape home. But when it was a question of meeting a live team like Detroit—Here Mr. Dodson, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, sank back in his chair, and watchful secretaries brought him round with oxygen.

Throughout the whole country nothing but the approaching series was discussed. Wherever civilization reigned, and in Jersey City, one question alone was on every lip; Who would win? Octogenarians mumbled it. Infants lisped it. Tired business men, trampled under foot in the rush for the West Farms express, asked it of the ambulance attendants who carried them to hospital.

And then, one bright, clear morning, when all Nature seemed to smile, Clarence Van Puyster developed mumps.

New York was in a ferment. I could have wished to go into details to describe in crisp, burning sentences the panic that swept like a tornado through a million homes. A little encouragement, the slightest softening of the editorial austerity, and the thing would have been done. But no. Brevity. That was the cry. Brevity. Let us on.

The Tigers met the Giants at the Polo Grounds, and for five days the sweat of agony trickled unceasingly down the corrugated foreheads of the patriots who sat on the bleachers. The men from Detroit, freed from the fear of Clarence, smiled grim smiles and proceeded to knock holes through the fence. It was in vain that the home fielders skimmed like swallows around the diamond. They could not keep the score down. From start to finish the Giants were a beaten side.

Broadway during that black week was a desert. Gloom gripped Lobster Square. In distant Harlem red-eyed wives faced silently scowling husbands at the evening meal, and the children were sent early to bed. Newsboys called the extras in a whisper.

Few took the tragedy more nearly to heart than Daniel Rackstraw. Each afternoon found him more deeply plunged in sorrow. On the last day, leaving the ground with the air of a father mourning over some prodigal son, he encountered Mr. Jacob Dodson of Detroit.

Now, Mr. Dodson was perhaps the slightest bit shy on the finer feelings. He should have respected the grief of a fallen foe. He should have abstained from exulting. But he was in too exhilarated a condition to be magnanimous. Sighting Mr. Rackstraw, he addressed himself joyously to the task of rubbing the thing in. Mr. Rackstraw listened in silent anguish.

“If we had had Brown—” he said at length.

“That's what they all say,” whooped Mr. Dodson. “Brown! Who's Brown?”

“If we had had Brown, we should have—” He paused. An idea had flashed upon his overwrought mind. “Dodson,” he said, “listen here. Wait till Brown is well again, and let us play this thing off again for anything you like a side in my private park.”

Mr. Dodson reflected.

“You're on,” he said. “What side bet? A million? Two million? Three”

Mr. Rackstraw shook his head scornfully.

“A million? Who wants a million? I'll put on my Neal Ball glove against your Hans Wagner bat. The best of three games. Does that go?”

“I should say it did,” said Mr. Dodson joyfully. “I've been wanting that glove for years. It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Rackstraw. “Then let's get it fixed up.”

Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the short-story writer. I particularly wished at this point to introduce a description of Mr. Rackstraw's country home and estate, featuring the private ballpark with its fringe of noble trees. It would have served a double purpose, not only charming the lover of nature, but acting as a fine stimulus to the youth of the country, showing them the sort of home they would be able to buy some day if they worked hard and saved their money. But no. You shall have three guesses as to what was the cry. You give it up? It was “Brevity! Brevity!” Let us on.

The two teams arrived at the Rackstraw house in time for lunch. Clarence, his features once more reduced to their customary finely chiseled proportions, alighted from the automobile with a swelling heart. He could see nothing of Isabel, but that did not disturb him. Letters had passed between the two. Clarence had warned her not to embrace him in public, as McGraw would not like it; and Isabel accordingly had arranged a tryst among the noble trees which fringed the ballpark.

I will pass lightly over the meeting of the two lovers. I will not describe the dewy softness of their eyes, the catching of their breath, their murmured endearments. I could, mind you. It is at just such descriptions that I am particularly happy. But I have grown discouraged. My spirit is broken. It is enough to say that Clarence had reached a level of emotional eloquence rarely met with among pitchers of the National League, when Isabel broke from him with a startled exclamation, and vanished behind a tree; and, looking over his shoulder, Clarence observed Mr. Daniel Rackstraw moving toward him.

It was evident from the millionaire's demeanor that he had seen nothing. The look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. He sighted Clarence, and hurried up to him.

“Say, Brown,” he said. “I've been looking for you. I want a word with you.”

“A thousand, if you wish it,” said Clarence courteously.

“Now, see here,” said Mr. Rackstraw. “I want to explain to you just what this ball game means to me. Don't run away with the idea I've had you fellows down to play an exhibition game just to keep me merry and bright. If the Giants win today, it means that I shall be able to hold up my head again and look my fellow man in the face, instead of crawling around on my stomach and feeling like thirty cents. Do you get that?”

“I am hep,” replied Clarence with simple dignity.

“And not only that,” went on the millionaire. “There's more to it. I have put up my Neal Ball glove against Mr. Dodson's Wagner bat as a side bet. You understand what that means? It means that either you win or my life is soured for keeps. See?”

“I have got you,” said Clarence.

“Good. Then what I wanted to say was this. Today is your day for pitching as you've never pitched before. Everything depends on whether you make good or not. With you pitching like mother used to make it, the Giants are some nine. Otherwise they are Nature's citrons. It's one thing or the other. It's all up to you. Win, and there's twenty thousand dollars waiting for you above what you share with the others.”

Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly.

“Mr. Rackstraw,” he said, “keep you dough. I care nothing for money.”

“You don't?” cried the millionaire. “Then you ought to exhibit yourself in a dime museum.”

“All I ask of you,” proceeded Clarence, “is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.”

Mr. Rackstraw looked sharply at him.

“Repeat that,” he said. “I don't think I quite got it.”

“All I ask is your consent to my engagement to your daughter.”

“Young man,” said Mr. Rackstraw, not without a touch of admiration, “you have gall.”

“My friends have sometimes said so,” said Clarence.

“And I admire gall. But there is a limit. That limit you have passed so far that you'd need to look for it with a telescope.”

“You refuse your consent.”

“I never said you weren't a clever guesser.”

“Why?”

Mr. Rackstraw laughed One of those nasty, sharp, metallic laughs that hit you like a bullet.

How would you support my daughter?”

“I was thinking that you would help to some extent.”

“You were, were you?”

“I was.”

“Oh?”

Mr. Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs.

“Well,” he said, “it's off. You can take that as coming from an authoritative source. No wedding-bells for you.”

Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bitter smile curving his expressive lips.

“And no Wagner bat for you!” he cried.

Mr. Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger into him.

“What!” he shouted.

Clarence shrugged his superbly modeled shoulders in silence.

“Say,” said Mr. Rackstraw, “you wouldn't let a little private difference like that influence you any in a really important thing like this ball game, would you?”

“I would.”

“You would hold up the father of the girl you love?”

“Every time.”

“Her white-haired old father?”

“The color of his hair would not affect me.”

“Nothing would move you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then, by George, you're just the son-in-law I want. You shall marry Isabel; and I'll take you into partnership this very day. I've been looking for a good, husky bandit like you for years. You make Dick Turpin look like a preliminary three-round bout. My boy, we'll be the greatest team, you and I, that ever hit Wall Street.”

“Papa!” cried Isabel, bounding happily from behind her tree.

Mr. Rackstraw joined their hands, deeply moved, and spoke in low vibrant tones:

“Play ball!”

Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I am at my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.

Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A lady is coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It is Isabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the same stately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail long ago if I had been given half a chance At the foot of the stairs the child stops and points at a small, wooden object in a glass case.

“Wah?” he said.

“That?” says Isabel. “That is the bat Mr. Wagner used to use when he was a little boy.”

She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to her lip.

“Hush!” she says. “We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy in there cornering wheat.”

And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden.

The Slide of Paul Revere

Grantland Rice

LISTEN,
fanatics, and you shall hear

Of the midnight slide of Paul Revere;

How he scored from first on an outfield drive

By a dashing spring and a headlong dive—

'Twas the greatest play pulled off that year.

 

Now the home of poets and potted beans,

Of Emersonian ways and means

In baseball epic has oft been sung

Since the days of Criger and old Cy Young;

But not even fleet, deer-footed Bay

Could have pulled off any such fancy play

As the slide of P. Revere, which won

The famous battle of Lexington.

 

The Yanks and the British were booked that trip

In a scrap for the New World championship;

But the British landed a bit too late,

So the game didn't open till half past eight,

And Paul Revere was dreaming away

When the umpire issued his call for play.

 

On, on they fought, 'neath the Boston moon,

As the British figured, “Not yet, but soon;”

For the odds were against the Yanks that night,

With Paul Revere blocked away from the fight

And the grandstand gathering groaned in woe,

While a sad wail bubbled from Rooters' Row.

 

But wait! Hist! Hearken! and likewise hark!

What means that galloping near the park?

What means that cry of a man dead sore?

“Am I too late? Say, what's the score?”

And echo answered both far and near,

As the rooters shouted: “There's Paul Revere!”

 

O how sweetly that moon did shine

When P. Revere took the coaching line!

He woke up the grandstand from its trance

And made the bleachers get up and dance;

He joshed the British with robust shout

Until they booted the ball about.

He whooped and he clamored all over the lot,

Till the score was tied in a Gordian knot.

 

Now, in this part of the “Dope Recooked”

Are the facts which history overlooked—

How Paul Revere came to bat that night

And suddenly ended the long-drawn fight;

How he singled to center, and then straightway

Dashed on to second like Harry Bay;

Kept traveling on, with the speed of a bird,

Till he whizzed like a meteor, rounding third.

“Hold back, you lobster!” but all in vain

The coachers shouted in tones of pain;

For Paul kept on with a swinging stride,

And he hit the ground when they hollered: “Slide!”

 

Spectacular players may come and go

In the hurry of Time's swift ebb and flow;

But never again will there be one

Like the first American “hit an run.”

And as long as the old game lasts you'll hear

Of the midnight slide of P. Revere.

S
OURCES

“Why Base Ball Has Become Our National Game” by Albert G. Spalding. From
America's National Game
(1911).

“The Model Base Ball Player” by Henry Chadwick. From
Ball Player's Chronicle
(1867).

“Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Lawrence Thayer. From
The San Francisco Examiner
(1888).

“Casey's Revenge” by Grantland Rice. From
Base-Ball Ballads
(1910).

“The Color Line” by Sol White. From
Sol White's Official Guide: History of Colored Baseball
(1907).

“A Whale of a Pastime” by Brig. Gen. Frederick Funston. From
Harper's Round Table
(1894).

“The Rube's Honeymoon” by Zane Grey. From
The Red-Headed Outfield
(1920).

“How I Pitched the First Curve” by William Arthur (Candy) Cummings (1908).

“Discovering Cy Young” by Alfred H. Spink. From
The National Game
(1911).

“Varsity Frank” by Burt L. Standish. From
Frank Merriwell at Yale
(1903).

“Baseball Joe's Winning Throw” by Lester Chadwick. From
Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars
(1912).

“Mr. Dooley on Baseball” by Finley Peter Dunne. From
Mr. Dooley on Making a Will and Other Necessary Evils
(1919).

“Jinxes and What They Mean to a Ball-Player” by Christy Mathewson.
From Pitching in a Pinch
(1912).

“One Down, 713 to Go” by Damon Runyon. From
The New York American
(1915).

“How I Lost the 1915 World Series” by Grover Cleveland Alexander. From
Baseball
(1915).

“The Crab” by Gerald Beaumont. From
Hearts and the Diamond
(1921).

“My Roomy” by Ring Lardner. From
The Saturday Evening Post
(1914).

“The Longest Game” by Ralph D. Blanpied. From
The New York Times
(1920).

“Fullerton Says Seven Members of the White Sox Will Be Missing Next Spring” by Hugh Fullerton. From
The Chicago Herald and Examiner
(1919).

“His Own Stuff” by Charles E. Van Loan. From
Score by Innings
(1919).

“The Pitcher and the Plutocrat” by P.G. Wodehouse. From
Colliers
(1910).

“The Slide of Paul Revere” by Grantland Rice. From
Base-Ball Ballads
(1910).