Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball

by Mrs. Molesworth

  CHAPTER II

  "MAKING THE TEAM"

  The Fall and Winter passed quickly. Bert and Dick roomed together inone of the dormitories close to the main buildings, while Tom had hisquarters on the floor below. The feeling of strangeness, inevitable atthe start, soon wore off, and they quickly became a part of the swarminglife that made the college a little world of its own.

  Here, too, as in the greater world outside, Bert found all sorts andconditions. There were the rich and the poor, the polished and theuncouth, the lazy and the energetic, good fellows and bad. But the goodpredominated. The great majority were fine, manly fellows, sound to thecore. Dick's wide acquaintanceship with them and his familiarity withcollege customs were immensely helpful to Bert from the beginning, andhe was soon a general favorite.

  The football season had been a triumphant one, and another gridironchampionship had been added to the many that had preceded it. There hadbeen a surplus of good material left over from the year before, and thetime was so short that Bert had not tried for the team. At the outset,too, his studies taxed him so heavily that he did not feel justifiedin giving the necessary attention to the great game, that, in hisestimation, almost divided honors with baseball. He had done a littleplaying with the scrubs, however, and on his class team, and thequalities he displayed in "bucking the line" had marked him out to thecoaches, as a factor to be reckoned with in the following seasons.

  The Christmas holidays had come and gone almost before he knew it, andwhen he returned for his second term, he buckled down to work with allhis might. His chosen field of electricity held constant surprises forhim, as it became more familiar. If he had any specialty, it waswireless telegraphy. There was an irresistible attraction in themysterious force that bound the ends of the earth together by anelectric spark, that leaped over oceans with no conductor but the air,that summoned help for sinking vessels when all other hope was gone. Hefelt that the science was as yet only in its infancy, and that itheld untold possibilities for the future. The splendidly equippedlaboratories gave him every opportunity and encouragement for originalwork, and his professors foresaw a brilliant future for the enthusiasticyoung student.

  Spring came early that year. A soft wind blew up from the south, the sunshone warmly on the tender grass, the sap stirred blindly in the trees.It stirred also in the veins of the lusty college youth and called themto the outdoor life.

  Going down the hall, one morning, to his recitation room, Bert cameacross an eager group surrounding the bulletin board. He crowded nearerand saw that it was the call of the coach to baseball candidates toreport on the following day. His heart leaped in response and the morrowseemed long in coming.

  Dressed in the old baseball togs that had done yeoman service on many ahard-fought field, he with Dick and Tom, who were quite as eager ashimself, reported for the tryout. Perhaps a hundred ambitious youngsterswere on hand, all aflame with desire to make the team and fight for theglory of Alma Mater. It was apparent at a glance, however, that many hadambition but nothing else. The qualities that had made them heroes onsome village nine were plainly inadequate, when it came to shaping upfor a college team. The hopes of many faded away when they saw the playsmade by the seasoned veterans, who nonchalantly "ate up" balls and didstunts in practice that would have called out shouts of applause in aregular game. But whether marked for acceptance or rejection, all wereas frolicsome as colts turned out to pasture. It was good to be youngand to be alive.

  The coach threaded his way through the groups with an eye that apparentlysaw nothing, but, in reality, saw everything. He was a famous pitcher,known from one end of the country to the other. Himself an old-timegraduate, he had the confidence of the faculty and the unbounded respectand admiration of the students. He had been given full charge and was anabsolute autocrat. Whatever he said "went," and from his decision therewas no appeal. He played no favorites, was not identified with anyclique, and his sole desire was to duplicate the success of the precedingseason and turn out a winner.

  To do this, he realized, would be no easy task. While his two chiefrivals had maintained their strong teams almost intact, his own was"shot to pieces." Three had graduated, and they were among his heaviesthitters. Good old Pendleton, who had been a tower of strength at firstbase, who could take them with equal ease to right or left and "dig themout of the dirt," and whose hard slugging had many a time turned defeatinto victory, would be hard to replace. His pitching staff was nonetoo good. Winters lacked control, and Benson's arm was apt to giveout about the seventh inning. Hinsdale was a good backstop, but histhrowing to second was erratic. They had done too much stealing on himlast year. Barry would be sadly missed at third, and it would be mightyhard to find a capable guardian for the "difficult corner." It was clearthat he faced a tough problem, and the only solution was to be found, ifat all, in the new material.

  As he glanced musingly around his eyes fell on Bert. They rested there.He knew a thoroughbred when he saw one, and this was undeniably athoroughbred. The lithe form, supple as a leopard's, the fine play ofshoulder muscles that the uniform could not conceal, the graceful butpowerful swing, the snap with which the ball shot from his fingers asthough released by a spring--all these he noticed in one practisedglance. He sauntered over to where Bert was pitching.

  "Done much in the pitching line?" he asked carelessly.

  "A little," answered Bert modestly, "only on high school nines though."

  "What have you got in stock?" asked the coach.

  "Not much besides the old 'roundhouse' curve," replied Bert. "I don'tthink so much of my incurve, though I'm trying to make it break a littlemore sharply. I can do a little 'moist' flinging, too, though I haven'tpractised that much."

  "Don't," said the coach. "Cut out the spitball. It's bound to hurt yourarm in the long run. Trot out your curve and let's have a look at it.Easy now," he said as Bert wound up, "don't put too much speed in it.You'll have plenty of chances to do that later on."

  The ball left Bert's hand with a jerk, and, just before it reached thecenter of the plate, swept in a sharp, tremendous curve to the outside,so that the catcher just touched it with the end of his fingers.

  "Not so bad," commented the coach carelessly, though his eyes lightedup. "Here, Drake," he called to a burly veteran who was looking on withinterest, "take your wagon tongue and straighten out this youngster'scurves."

  The good-natured giant, thus addressed, picked up his bat and came tothe plate.

  "Get it over the plate now, kid, and I'll kill it," he grinned.

  A little flustered by this confidence, Bert sent one in waist high, justcutting the corner. Drake swung at it and missed it by six inches.

  "One strike," laughed the coach, and Drake, looking a little sheepish,set himself for the next.

  "Give him a fast one now, shoulder high," ordered the coach. Again theball sped toward the plate and Drake struck at it after it had passedhim and thudded into the catcher's glove.

  "Gee, I can't hit them if I can't see them," he protested, and the coachchuckled.

  "No," he said, as Bert poised himself for a third pitch, "no more justnow. I don't want you to throw your arm out at practice. There are otherdays coming, and you won't complain of lack of work. Come out againto-morrow," and he walked away indifferently, while his heart was filledwith exultation. If he had not unearthed a natural-born pitcher, he knewnothing about ball players.

  Drake was more demonstrative. While Bert was putting on his sweater, hecame up and clapped him on the shoulder.

  "Say, Freshie," he broke out, "that was a dandy ball you whiffed mewith. You certainly had me guessing. If that swift one you curled aroundmy neck had hit me, I would have been seeing stars and hearing thebirdies sing. And I nearly broke my back reaching for that curve. You'vesurely got something on the ball."

  "Oh, you'd have got me all right, if I'd kept on," answered Bert. "Thatwas probably just a fluke, and I was lucky enough to get away with it."

  "Well, you can call it a fluke if you like,
" rejoined Drake, "but to meit looked suspiciously like big league pitching. Go to it, my boy, andI'll root for you to make the team."

  Bert flushed with pleasure at this generous meed of praise, doublygrateful as coming from an upper class man and hero of the collegediamond. Dick coming up just then, they said good-by to Drake andstarted toward their dormitory.

  "What's this I hear about you, Bert?" asked Dick; "you've certainly madeyourself solid with Ainslee. I accidentally heard him telling one of theassistant coaches that, while of course he couldn't be sure until he'dtried you out a little more, he thought he'd made a find."

  "One swallow doesn't make a summer," answered Bert. "I had Drakebuffaloed all right, but I only pitched two balls. He might knock meall over the lot to-morrow."

  "Sufficient unto the day are the hits thereof," rejoined Dick; "the factis that he _didn't_ hit you, and he has the surest eye in college. If hehad fouled them, even, it would have been different, but Ainslee said hemissed them by a mile. And even at that you weren't at full speed, as hetold you not to cut loose to-day."

  "Well," said Bert, "if the lightning strikes my way, all right. But nowI've got to get busy on my 'Sci' work, or I'll surely flunk to-morrow."

  The next day Bert was conscious of sundry curious glances when he wentout for practice. News travels fast in a college community and Drake hadpassed the word that Ainslee had uncovered a "phenom." But the coach hadother views and was in no mood to satisfy their curiosity. He had turnedthe matter over in his mind the night before and resolved to bring Bertalong slowly. To begin with, while delighted at the boy's showing onthe first time out, he realized that this one test was by no meansconclusive. He was naturally cautious. He was "from Missouri" and had tobe "shown." A dozen questions had to be answered, and, until they were,he couldn't reach any definite decision. Did the boy have stamina enoughto last a full game? Was that wonderful curve of his under full control?Was his heart in the right place, or, under the tremendous strain of acritical game, would he go to pieces? Above all, was he teachable,willing to acknowledge that he did not "know it all," and eager toprofit by the instruction that would be handed out in the course ofthe training season? If all these questions could be answered to hissatisfaction, he knew that the most important of all his problems--thatof the pitcher's box--was already solved, and that he could devote hisattention to the remaining positions on the team.

  Pursuing this plan of "hastening slowly," he cut out all "circus"stunts in this second day's practice. Bert was instructed to take iteasy, and confine himself only to moderately fast straight balls, inorder to get the kinks out of his throwing arm. Curves were forbiddenuntil the newness wore off and his arm was better able to stand thestrain. The coach had seen too many promising young players ruined intrying to rush the season, and he did not propose to take any suchchances with his new find.

  His keen eyes sparkled, as from his position behind the pitcher, henoted the mastery that Bert had over the ball. He seemed to be able toput it just where he wished. Whether the coach called for a high or alow ball, straight over the center of the plate or just cutting thecorners, the ball obeyed almost as though it were a living thing.Occasionally it swerved a little from the exact "groove" that it wasmeant to follow, but in the main, as Ainslee afterward confided to hisassistant, "the ball was so tame that it ate out of his hand."

  He was far too cautious to say as much to Bert. Of all the dangers thatcame to budding pitchers, the "swelled head" was the one he most hatedand detested.

  "Well," he said as he pretended to suppress a yawn, "your control isfairly good for a beginner. Of course I don't know how it will be onthe curves, but we'll try them out too before long."

  "That," he went on warming to his subject, "is the one thing beyond allothers you want to work for. No matter how much speed you've got or howwide your curve or how sharp your break, it doesn't amount to much,unless you can put the ball where you want it to go. Of course, youdon't want to put every ball over the plate. You want to make them'bite' at the wide ones. But when you are 'in the hole,' when there aretwo strikes and three balls, the winning pitcher is the one that ninetimes out of ten can cut the plate, and do it so surely that the umpirewill have no chance to call it a ball. One of the greatest pitchers Iever knew was called the 'Curveless Wonder.' He didn't have either anincurve or an outcurve that was worth mentioning. But he had terrificspeed, and such absolute ability to put the ball just where he wantedit, that for years he stood right among the headliners in the majorleagues. Take my word for it, Wilson, a pitcher without control is likethe play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out. Don't forget that."

  The respect with which Bert listened was deepened by his knowledge thatAinslee was himself famous, the country over, in this same matter ofcontrol. A few more comments on minor points, and the coach walked awayto watch the practice of his infield candidates.

  Now that Pendleton had graduated, the logical successor of the greatfirst baseman seemed to be Dick Trent, who had held the same position onthe scrubs the year before, and who had pressed Pendleton hard for theplace. The first base tradition demands that it be occupied by a heavybatter, and there was no doubt that in this particular Dick filled thebill. His average had been well above the magic .300 figures that allplayers covet, and now that he had conquered his propensity to excessiveswinging, he might fairly be expected to better these figures this year.As a fielder, he was a sure catch on thrown balls either to right orleft, and his height and reach were a safe guarantee that not many wildones would get by him. He was lightning quick on double plays, andalways kept his head, even in the most exciting moments of the game. Ifhe had any weakness, it was, perhaps, that he did not cover quite asdeep a field as Pendleton used to, but that was something that carefulcoaching could correct. None of the other candidates seemed at all abovethe average, and, while yet keeping an open mind, the coach mentallyslated Dick for the initial bag.

  Second and short, as he said to himself with a sigh of relief, werepractically provided for. Sterling at the keystone bag and White atshortfield were among the brightest stars of the college diamond, andtogether with Barry and Pendleton had formed the famous "stonewall"infield that last year had turned so many sizzling hits to outs.

  Barry--ah, there was a player! A perfect terror on hard hit balls, afielder of bunts that he had never seen excelled, even among professionalplayers. He remembered the screeching liner that he had leaped into theair and pulled down with one hand, shooting it down to first for a doubleplay in the last game of the season. It had broken up a batting rally andsaved the game when it seemed lost beyond redemption.

  Well, there were as good fish in the sea as ever were caught, and no manwas so good but what another just as good could be found to take hisplace. But where to find him? There was the rub. That cub trying out nowat third--what was his name?--he consulted the list in his hand--oh,yes, Henderson--he rather fancied his style. He certainly handledhimself like a ball player. But there--you never could tell. He mightsimply be another "false alarm."

  At this moment the batter sent a scorching grounder toward third, but alittle to the left of the base. Tom flung himself toward it, knockedit down with his left hand, picked it up with the right and scarcelywaiting to get "set" shot it like a flash to first. The coach gasped atthe scintillating play, and White called out:

  "Classy stuff, kid, classy stuff. That one certainly had whiskers onit."

  "Hey, there, Henderson," yelled the coach, "go easy there. Float themdown. Do you want to kill your arm with that kind of throwing?"

  But to himself he said: "By George, what a 'whip' that fellow's got.That ball didn't rise three inches on the way to first. And it went intoDrake knee high. That youngster will certainly bear watching."

  And watch him he did with the eye of a hawk, not only that afternoon,but for several weeks thereafter until the hope became a certainty thathe had found a worthy successor to the redoubtable Barry, and hisinfield would be as much of a "stonewall" that season as the yearbefore. With Ho
dge in right, Flynn in center and Drake in left, hisoutfield left nothing to be desired, either from a fielding or battingpoint of view, and he could now devote himself entirely to thedevelopment of his batteries.

  Under his masterly coaching, Bert advanced with great rapidity. He hadnever imagined that there was so much in the game. He learned from thispast-master in the art how to keep the batter "hugging first"; thesurest way of handling bunts; the quick return of the ball for thethird strike before the unsuspecting batter can get "set," and a dozenother features of "inside stuff" that in a close game might easily turnthe scale. Ainslee himself often toed the plate and told Bert to sendin the best he had. His arm had attained its full strength, undersystematic training, and he was allowed to use his curves, his drop, hisrise ball and the swift, straight one that, as Flynn once said, "lookedas big as a balloon when it left his hand, but the size of a pea when itcrossed the plate."

  One afternoon, when Ainslee had taken a hand in the batting practice,Bert fed him an outcurve, and the coach smashed it to the back fence.A straight high one that followed it met with no better fate. It wasevident that Ainslee had his "batting eye" with him that afternoon, andcould not be easily fooled.

  "Send in the next," he taunted, good-naturedly, "I don't think you canoutguess me to-day."

  A little nettled at his discomfiture, Bert wound up slowly. For sometime past he had been quietly trying out a new delivery that he hadstumbled upon almost by accident. He called it his "freak" ball. He hadthrown it one day to Dick, when, after the regular practice, they werelazily tossing the ball to and fro. It had come in way below whereDick's hands were waiting for it, and the latter was startled. It was a"lulu," he said emphatically. It could not be classed with any of theregulation curves. Bert had kept it under cover until he could getperfect control of it. Now he had got it to the point where he could putit just where he wanted it, and as he looked at the smiling face of thecoach he resolved to "uncork" it.

  He took a long swing and let it go. It came to the plate like a bullet,hesitated, slowed, then dropped down and in, a foot below the wild lungethat the coach made for it. His eyes bulged, and he almost dropped thebat.

  "What was that?" he asked. "How did you do it? Put over another one."

  A second one proved just as puzzling, and the coach, throwing his bataside, came down to the pitcher's box. He was clearly excited.

  "Now, what was it?" he asked; "it wasn't an incurve, a drop, or astraight, but a sort of combination of them all. It was a new one on me.How do you hold your hand when you throw it?"

  "Why," replied Bert, "when I throw it, the palm is held toward theground instead of toward the sky, as it is when I pitch an outcurve.The wrist is turned over and the hand held down with the thumb towardthe body, so that when the ball slips off the thumb with a twistingmotion it curves in toward the batter. I grip it in the same way as anoutcurve. Just as it twists off the thumb I give it a sharp snap of thewrist. It spins up to the plate, goes dead, then curves sharply down andin."

  "Well," said the coach, "it's certainly a dandy. We must develop itthoroughly, but we'll do it on the quiet. I rather think we'll have asurprise for 'our friends the enemy,' when the race begins. It's just aswell to have an ace up our sleeve. That ball is in a class by itself. Itjust seems to melt while you are trying to locate it. If I were to giveit a name at all, I'd call it a 'fadeaway.'"

  And so Bert's new delivery was christened. As they walked back to thecollege both were exultant. They would have been still more so, if atthat moment they had begun to realize the havoc and dismay that would bespread among their opponents before the season ended by Bert's fadeawayball.