The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “You’re a Molly!” yelled Meade. “Been makin’ up to the reporters, haven’t you? Fixin’ it all right for yourself, eh? Playin’ for the newspapers? Well you’ll last about a week with Findlay.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Chase.

  “Go wan!” shouted the first base man.

  “As if you hadn’t seen the Chronicle!”

  “I haven’t,” said Chase.

  “Flash it on him,” cried Meade.

  Someone threw a newspaper at Chase, and upon opening it to the baseball page, he discovered his name in large letters. And he read an account of yesterday’s game, which, excepting to mention Cas’s fine pitching, made it seem that Chase had played the whole game himself. It was extravagant praise. Chase felt himself grew warm under it, and then guilty at the absence of mention of other players who were worthy of credit. “I don’t deserve all that,” said he to Meade, “and I don’t know how it came to be there.”

  “You’ve been salvin’ the reporter, jollyin’ him.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  A hot flame leaped to life inside Chase. He had never been called that name. Quickly he sprang up, feeling the blood in his face. Then as he looked at Meade, he remembered the fellow’s condition, and what he owed to Mac, and others far away, with the quieting affect that he sat down without a word.

  A moment later, Benny swaggered up to him and shook a fist in his face.

  “I’m a-goin’ t’ take a bing at yer one skylight an’ shut ’t for ye.”

  Chase easily evaded the blow and arose to his feet. “Benny, you’re drunk.”

  Matters might have become serious then, for Chase, undecided for the moment what to do, would not have overlooked a blow, but the gong ringing for practice put an end to the trouble. The players filed out.

  Mittie-Maru plucked at Chase’s trousers and whispered, “You ought to’ve handed ’em one!”

  * * * *

  Chase’s work that afternoon was characterized by the same snap and dash which had won him the applause of the audience in the Kenton games. And he capped it with two timely hits that had much to do with Findlay’s victory. But three times during the game, to his consternation, Mac took him to task about certain plays. Chase ran hard back of second and knocked down a base-hit, but which he could not recover in time to throw the runner out. It was a splendid play, for which the stands gave him thundering applause. Nevertheless, as he came in to the bench Mac severely reprimanded him for not getting his man. “You’ve got to move faster ’n thet,” said the little manager testily. “You’re slow as an ice-wagon.”

  And after the game Mac came into the dressing-room, where Chase received a good share of his displeasure.

  “Didn’t you say you knew the game? Well, you’re very much on the pazaz today. Now the next time you hit up a fly-ball, don’t look to see where it’s goin’, but run! Keep on runnin’. Fielders muff flies occasionally, an’ someday runnin’ one out will win a game. An’ when you make a base-hit, don’t keep on runnin’ out to the foul-flag just because it’s a single. Always turn for second base, an’ take advantage of any little chance to get there. If you make any more dumb plays like thet, they’ll cost you five each. Got thet?”

  Chase was mystified, and in no happy frame of mind when he left the grounds. Evidently what the crowd thought good playing was quite removed from the manager’s consideration of such.

  “Hol’ on, Chase,” called Mittie-Maru from behind.

  Chase turned to see the little mascot trying to catch up with him. It suddenly dawned on Chase that the popular idol of the players had taken a fancy to him.

  “Say, Cas tol’ me to tell you to come to his room at the hotel after supper.”

  “I wonder what he wants. Did he say?”

  “No. But it’s to put you wise, all right, all right. Cas is a good feller. Me an’ him has been friends. I heard him say to Mac not to roast you the way he did. An’ I wants to put you wise to somethin’ myself. Mac’s stuck on you. He can’t keep a smile off his face when you walk up to the plate, an’ when you cut loose to peg one acrost, he just stutters. Oh! He’s stuck on you, all right, all right! ‘Boys, will you look at thet wing?’ he keeps sayin’. An’ when you come in he says you’re rotten to yer face. Don’t mind Mac’s roasts.”

  All of which bewildered Chase only the more. Mittie-Maru chattered about baseball and the players, but he was extremely reticent in regard to himself. This latter fact, in conjunction with his shabby appearance, made Chase think that all was not so well with the lad as it might have been. He found himself returning Mittie-Maru’s regard.

  “Good-bye,” said Mittie-Maru at a cross street. “I go down here. See you tomorrer.”

  * * * *

  After supper, Chase went to the hotel, and seeing that Cas was not among the players in the lobby, he found his room number and with no little curiosity mounted the stairs.

  “Come in,” said Cas, in answer to his knock.

  The big pitcher sat in his shirt sleeves blowing rings of smoke out of the open window.

  “Hello, Chase; was waiting for you. Have a cigar. Don’t smoke? Throw yourself ’round comfortable—but say, lock the door first. I don’t want anyone butting in.”

  Chase found considerable relief and pleasure in the friendly manner of Findlay’s star pitcher.

  “I want to have a talk with you, Chase. First, you won’t mind a couple of questions.”

  “Not at all. Fire away.”

  “You’re in dead earnest about this baseball business?”

  “I should say I am.”

  “You are dead set on making it a success?”

  “I’ve got to.”

  Chase told Cas briefly what depended on his efforts.

  “I thought as much. Well, you’ll find more than one fellow trying the same. Baseball is full of fellows taking care of mothers and fathers and orphans, too. People who pay to see the game and keep us fellows going don’t know just how much good they are doing. Well, Chase, it takes more than speed, a good eye, and a good arm and head to make success.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s learning how to get along with managers and players. I’ve been in the game ten years. Most every player who has been through the mill will let the youngster find out for himself, let him sink or swim. Even managers will not tell you everything. It’s baseball ethics. I’m overstepping it because—well, because I want to. I don’t mind saying that you’re the most promising youngster I ever saw. Mac is crazy about you. All the same, you won’t last two weeks on the Findlay team, or a season in fast company, unless you change.”

  “Change? How?”

  “Now, Chase, don’t get sore. You’re a little too soft for this business. You’re too nice. Lots of boys are that way, but they don’t keep so and stay in baseball. Do you understand me?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, baseball is a funny game. It’s like nothing else. You’ve noticed how different the players are off the field. They’ll treat you white away from the grounds, but once in uniform, lookout! When a professional puts on his uniform, he puts on his armor. And it’s got to be bulletproof and spike-proof. The players on your own team will get after you, abuse you, roast you, blame you for everything, make you miserable, and finally put you off the team. This may seem to you a mean thing. But it’s a way of the game. When a new player is signed, everybody gets after him, and if he makes a hit with the crowd, and particularly with the newspapers, the players get after him all the harder. In a way, that’s a kind of professional jealousy. But the main point I want to make clear to you is the aggressive spirit of the players who hold their own. On the field, ball-playing is a fight all the time. It’s good-natured and it’s bitter-earnest. Every man for himself! Survival of the fittest! Dog eat dog!”

  “Then I must talk back, strike back, fight back?”

  “Exactly. Else you will never succeed in this business. Now, don’t take a
bad view of it. Baseball is all right; so are the players. The best thing is that the game is square—absolutely square. Once on the inside, you’ll find it peculiar, and you’ve got to adapt yourself.”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “You must show your teeth, my boy, that’s all. The team is after your scalp. Apart from this peculiarity of the players to be eternally after someone, I’m sure they like you. Winters said you’d make a star if you had any sand. Thatcher said if you lasted you’d make his batting average look sick. One of them, I think, has it in for you just because he’s that sort of a guy. But I mention no names. I’m not a knocker, and let me tell you this—never knock any lad in the business. The thing for you to do, the sooner the better, is to walk into the dressing-room and take a punch at somebody. And then declare yourself strong. Say you’ll punch the block off who opens his trap to you again.”

  “And after that?”

  “You’ll find it different. They’ll all respect you; you’ll get on better for it. Then you’ll be one of us. Play hard, learn the game, keep sober—and return word for word, name for name, blow for blow. After a little, this chewing the rag becomes no more to you than the putting on of your uniform. It’s part of the game. It keeps the life and ginger in you.”

  “All right. If I must—I must,” replied Chase, and as he spoke the set of his jaw boded ill to someone.

  “Good. I knew you had the right stuff in you. Now, one thing more. Look out for the players on the other teams. They’ll spike you, knee you, put you out, if they can. Don’t ever slide to a base head first, as you did today. Some second-baseman will jump up and come down on you with both feet, and break something, or cut you all up. Don’t let any player think you are afraid of him, either.”

  “I’m much obliged to you, Cas. What you’ve told me explains a lot. I suppose every business has something about it a fellow don’t like. I’ll do the best I can, and hope I’ll make good, as Mittie-Maru says.”

  “There’s a kid with nerve!” exclaimed Cas, enthusiastically. “Best fan I ever knew. He knows the game, too. Poor little beggar!”

  “Tell me about him,” said Chase.

  “I don’t know much. He turned up here last season and cottoned to the team at once. Someone found out that he ran off from a poorhouse, or home for incurables or bad boys or something. There was a fellow here from Columbus looking for Mittie, but never found him. He has no home, and I don’t know where he lives. I’ll bet it’s in a garret somewhere. He sells papers and shines shoes. And he’s as proud as he’s game—you can’t give him anything. Baseball he’s crazy over.”

  “So is my brother, and he’s a cripple too.”

  “Every boy likes baseball, and if he doesn’t, he’s not a boy.”

  Chase left Castorious then and went downstairs, for he expected to meet several of the young men who boarded with him and who had invited him to spend the evening with them. They came presently and carried him off to an entertainment in one of the halls. Here his new friends, Harris, Drake, and Mandle, led him from one group of boys and girls to another, and introduced him with evident pride in their opportunity. It was a church fair and well attended. Chase had never seen so many pretty girls.

  Being rather backward, he did not very soon notice what was patent to all—that he was the young man of the hour—and when he did see, he felt as if he wanted to run away. Facing Mac and the players was easier than trying to talk to these gracious ladies and whispering, arch-eyed girls. Ice-cream was the order of the evening, and as long as Chase could eat, he managed to conceal his poverty of speech; but when he absolutely could not swallow another spoonful, he made certain he must get away.

  When four girls in white vivaciously appropriated him and whirled him off somewhere, his confusion knew no bounds. His young men friends basely deserted him and went to different parts of the hall. He was lost, and he gave up. From booth to booth they paraded with him, all chattering at once. He became vaguely aware that he was spending money, and attaching to himself various articles; he caught himself saying he would like very much to have this and that, which he did not want at all.

  The evening passed very quickly and like a dream. Chase found himself out of the bright lights in the cool darkness of the night. He walked two blocks past his corner. He reached his room at length, struck a light, and saw that he had an armful of small bundles and papers. He made the startling discovery that he had purchased four lace-fringed pincushions, a number of hand-painted doilies, one sewing-basket, one apron, two match-scratchers, one gorgeous necktie, and one other article that he could not name.

  Discomfited as he was, Chase had to laugh. It was too utterly ridiculous. Then more soberly he began to count the money he had, in order to find out what he had spent. The sum total of his rash expenditures amounted to a little over five dollars.

  “Five dollars!” ejaculated Chase. “For this truck and about a gallon of ice-cream. That’s how I save my money. Confound those girls!”

  But Chase did not mean that about the girls. He knew the evening had been the pleasantest one he would remember. He tried to recollect the names of the girls and how they looked. This was impossible. Nothing of that wonderful night stood out clearly: as a whole, it left a confused impression of music and laughter, bright eyes and golden hair, smiles and white dresses.

  * * * *

  Next morning he wrote to his mother and told her all about it, adding that she must not take the expenditure of his money so much as an instance of reckless extravagance as it was a case of highway robbery.

  In the afternoon on the way to the ball-park, he met Mittie-Maru and relating last night’s adventure, asked him if he could use a pincushion or two.

  “Not on yer life!” cried Mittie-Maru. “Sorry I didn’t put you wise to them church sociables. They jobbed you, Chase. Sold you a lot of bricks. You want to fight shy of thet bunch, all right, all right.”

  “Don’t you ever go to church?”

  “I went to Sunday school last fall. Miss Marjory, she was in the school, got me to come. She’s a peach. Sweeter ’n a basket of red monkeys. She was all right, all right, but I couldn’t stand fer the preacher, an’ some others, so I quit. An’ every time I see Miss Marjory, I dodge or hit it up out of sight.”

  “What was wrong with the preacher?”

  “He’s young, an’ I think preachers oughter be old. He fusses the wimmen folks too hard. He speaks soft an’ prays to beat the band, an’ everybody thinks he’s an angel. But—oh, I ain’t a knocker.”

  “Wait for me after the game.”

  “Sure. An’ say, Chase, are you goin’ to stand fer the things Meade calls you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stand it much longer.”

  * * * *

  If anything, Chase’s reception in the dressing-room was more violent than it had been the day before. Nevertheless, he dressed without exchanging a word with anyone. This time, however, he was keenly alert to all that was said and to who said it. All sense of personal affront or injustice, such as had pained him yesterday, was now absent. He felt himself immeasurably older; he coolly weighed this harangue at him with the stern necessity of his success and found it added up to nothing.

  And when he went out upon the field, he was conscious of a difference in his feelings. The mist that had bothered him did not now come to his eyes; nor did the contraction bind his throat; nor did the nameless uncertainty and dread oppress his breast. He felt a rigidity of muscle, a deadliness of determination, a sharp, cold confidence.

  The joy of playing the game, as he had played it ever since he was big enough to throw a ball, had gone. It was not fun, not play for him, but work—work that called for strength, courage, endurance.

  Chase gritted his teeth when the umpire called: “Play ball!” and he gritted them throughout the game. He staked himself and all he hoped to do for those he loved, against his own team, the opposing team, and the baseball world. He saw his one chance, a fighting chance, and he meant to fight.
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  When the ball got into action he ran all over the field like a flash. He was everywhere. He anticipated every hit near him, and scooped up the ball and shot it from him, with the speed of a bullet. He threw with a straight, powerful overhand motion, and the ball sailed low, with terrific swiftness, and held its speed. He grabbed up a hit that caromed off Winter’s leg, and though far back of third base, threw the runner out with time to spare. He caught a foul fly against the left-field bleachers. He threw two runners out at the plate, and that from deep short field.

  He beat out an infield hit; he got a clean single into right field; and for the third time in three days he sent out a liner that by fast running he stretched into a three-bagger. Findlay had clinched the game before this hit, which sent in two runners, but for all that, the stands and bleachers rose in a body and cheered. The day before Chase had doffed his cap in appreciation of their applause. Today he did not look at them. He put the audience out of his mind.

  But with all his effort, speed, and good luck he made an unfortunate play. It came at the close of the eighth inning. Wheeling got runners on second and third, with only one out. The next man hit a sharp bouncer to Chase. He fielded the ball, and expecting the runner on third to dash for home he made ready to throw him out. But this runner held his base. Chase turned to try to get the batter going down to first, when the runner on second ran right before him toward third. Chase closed in behind him, and as the fellow slowed up tried to catch him. Then the runner on third bolted for home. Chase saw him and threw to head him off, but was too late.

  In the dressing-room after the game the players howled about this one run that Chase’s stupidity had given Wheeling. They called him “wooden head,” “sap-head,” “sponge-head,” “dead-head.” Then Mac came in and delivered himself.

  “Put the ball in your pocket! Put the ball in your pocket, didn’t you? Countin’ your money, wasn’t you? Thinkin’ about the girls you was with last night, hey? Thet play costs you five. See! Got thet? You’re fined. After this, when you get the ball an’ some runner is hittin’ up the dust, throw it. Got thet? Throw the ball! Don’t keep it! Throw it!”