The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  As the players, one after another, faced the box, the coach kept saying to Ken: “Drive that fellow away from the plate… give this one a low ball… now straight over the pan. Say, Peg, you’ve got a nice ball there… put a fast one under this fellow’s chin.”

  “Another turn, now, boys!” he yelled. “I tell you—stand up to the plate!” Then he whispered to Ken. “Hit every one of ’em! Peg ’em now, any place.”

  “Hit them?” asked Ken, amazed.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “But—Mr. Arthurs—”

  “See here, Peg. Don’t talk back to me. Do as I say. We’ll peg a little nerve into this bunch. Now I’ll go back of the plate and make a bluff.”

  Arthurs went near to the catcher’s position. Then he said: “Now, fellows, Ward’s pretty wild and I’ve told him to speed up a few. Stand right up and step into ’em.”

  The first batter was Weir. Ken swung easily and let drive. Straight as a string the ball sped for the batter. Like a flash he dropped flat in the dust and the ball just grazed him. It was a narrow escape. Weir jumped up, his face flaring, his hair on end, and he gazed hard at Ken before picking up the bat.

  “Batter up!” ordered the coach. “Do you think this’s a tea-party?”

  Weir managed by quick contortions to get through his time at bat without being hit. Three players following him were not so lucky.

  “Didn’t I say he was wild?” yelled the coach. “Batter up, now!”

  The next was little Raymond. He came forward cautiously, eying Ken with disapproval. Ken could not resist putting on a little more steam, and the wind of the first ball whipped off Raymond’s green cap. Raymond looked scared and edged away from the plate, and as the second ball came up he stepped wide with his left foot.

  “Step into the ball,” said the coach. “Don’t pull away. Step in or you’ll never hit.”

  The third ball cracked low down on Raymond’s leg.

  “Oh!—Oh!—Oh!” he howled, beginning to hop and hobble about the cage.

  “Next batter!” called out Arthurs.

  And so it went on until the most promising player in the cage came to bat. This was Graves, a light-haired fellow, tall, built like a wedge. He had more confidence than any player in the squad and showed up well in all departments of the game. Moreover, he was talky, aggressive, and more inclined to be heard and felt. He stepped up and swung his bat at Ken.

  “You wild freshman! If you hit me!” he cried.

  Ken Ward had not fallen in love with any of his rivals for places on the team, but he especially did not like Graves. He did not stop to consider the reason of it at the moment, still he remembered several tricks Graves had played, and he was not altogether sorry for the coach’s order. Swinging a little harder, Ken threw straight at Graves.

  “Wham!” The ball struck him fair on the hip. Limping away from the plate he shook his fist at Ken.

  “Batter up!” yelled Arthurs. “A little more speed now, Peg. You see it ain’t nothin’ to get hit. Why, that’s in the game. It don’t hurt much. I never cared when I used to get hit. Batter up!”

  Ken sent up a very fast ball, on the outside of the plate. The batter swung wide, and the ball, tipping the bat, glanced to one side and struck Arthurs in the stomach with a deep sound.

  Arthurs’ round face went red; he gurgled and gasped for breath; he was sinking to his knees when the yelling and crowing of the students on the platform straightened him up. He walked about a few minutes, then ordered sliding practice.

  The sliding-board was brought out. It was almost four feet wide and twenty long and covered with carpet.

  “Run hard, boys, and don’t let up just before you slide. Keep your speed and dive. Now at it!”

  A line of players formed down the cage. The first one dashed forward and plunged at the board, hitting it with a bang. The carpet was slippery and he slid off and rolled in the dust. The second player leaped forward and, sliding too soon, barely reached the board. One by one the others followed.

  “Run fast now!” yelled the coach. “Don’t flinch.… Go down hard and slide… light on your hands… keep your heads up… slide!”

  This feature of cage-work caused merriment among the onlookers. That sliding-board was a wonderful and treacherous thing. Most players slid off it as swift as a rocket. Arthurs kept them running so fast and so close together that at times one would shoot off the board just as the next would strike it. They sprawled on the ground, rolled over, and rooted in the dust. One skinned his nose on the carpet; another slid the length of the board on his ear. All the time they kept running and sliding, the coach shouted to them, and the audience roared with laughter. But it was no fun for the sliders. Raymond made a beautiful slide, and Graves was good, but all the others were ludicrous.

  It was a happy day for Ken, and for all the candidates, when the coach ordered them out on the field. This was early in March. The sun was bright, the frost all out of the ground, and a breath of spring was in the air. How different it was from the cold, gloomy cage! Then the mocking students, although more in evidence than before, were confined to the stands and bleachers, and could not so easily be heard. But the presence of the regular varsity team, practising at the far end of Grant Field, had its effect on the untried players.

  The coach divided his players into two nines and had them practise batting first, then fielding, and finally started them in a game, with each candidate playing the position he hoped to make on the varsity.

  It was a weird game. The majority of the twenty candidates displayed little knowledge of baseball. School-boys on the commons could have beaten them. They were hooted and hissed by the students, and before half the innings were played the bleachers and stands were empty. That was what old Wayne’s students thought of Arthurs’ candidates.

  In sharp contrast to most of them, Weir, Raymond, and Graves showed they had played the game somewhere. Weir at short-stop covered ground well, but he could not locate first base. Raymond darted here and there quick as a flash, and pounced upon the ball like a huge frog. Nothing got past him, but he juggled the ball. Graves was a finished and beautiful fielder; he was easy, sure, yet fast, and his throw from third to first went true as a line.

  Graves’s fine work accounted for Ken Ward’s poor showing. Both were trying for third base, and when Ken once saw his rival play out on the field he not only lost heart and became confused, but he instinctively acknowledged that Graves was far his superior. After all his hopes and the kind interest of the coach it was a most bitter blow. Ken had never played so poor a game. The ball blurred in his tear-wet eyes and looked double. He did not field a grounder. He muffed foul flies and missed thrown balls. It did not occur to him that almost all of the players around him were in the same boat. He could think of nothing but the dashing away of his hopes. What was the use of trying? But he kept trying, and the harder he tried the worse he played. At the bat he struck out, fouled out, never hit the ball square at all. Graves got two well-placed hits to right field. Then when Ken was in the field Graves would come down the coaching line and talk to him in a voice no one else could hear.

  “You’ve got a swell chance to make this team, you have, not! Third base is my job, Freshie. Why, you tow-head, you couldn’t play marbles. You butter-finger, can’t you stop anything? You can’t even play sub on this team. Remember, Ward, I said I’d get you for hitting me that day. You hit me with a potato once, too. I’ll chase you off this team.”

  For once Ken’s spirit was so crushed and humbled that he could not say a word to his rival. He even felt he deserved it all. When the practice ended, and he was walking off the field with hanging head, trying to bear up under the blow, he met Arthurs.

  “Hello! Peg,” said the coach, “I’m going your way.”

  Ken walked along feeling Arthurs’ glance upon him, but he was ashamed to raise his head.

  “Peg, you were up in the air today—way off—you lost your nut.”

  He spoke kindly and put his
hand on Ken’s arm. Ken looked up to see that the coach’s face was pale and tired, with the characteristic worried look more marked than usual.

  “Yes, I was,” replied Ken, impulsively. “I can play better than I did today—but—Mr. Arthurs, I’m not in Graves’s class as a third-baseman. I know it.”

  Ken said it bravely, though there was a catch in his voice. The coach looked closely at him.

  “So you’re sayin’ a good word for Graves, pluggin’ his game.”

  “I’d love to make the team, but old Wayne must have the best players you can get.”

  “Peg, I said once you and me were goin’ to get along. I said also that college baseball is played with the heart. You lost your heart. So did most of the kids. Well, it ain’t no wonder. This’s a tryin’ time. I’m playin’ them against each other, and no fellow knows where he’s at. Now, I’ve seen all along that you weren’t a natural infielder. I played you at third today to get that idea out of your head. Tomorrow I’ll try you in the outfield. You ain’t no quitter, Peg.”

  Ken hurried to his room under the stress of a complete revulsion of feeling. His liking for the coach began to grow into something more. It was strange to Ken what power a few words from Arthurs had to renew his will and hope and daring. How different Arthurs was when not on the field. There he was stern and sharp. Ken could not study that night, and he slept poorly. His revival of hope did not dispel his nervous excitement.

  He went out into Grant Field next day fighting himself. When in the practice Arthurs assigned him to a right-field position, he had scarcely taken his place when he became conscious of a queer inclination to swallow often, of a numbing tight band round his chest. He could not stand still; his hands trembled; there was a mist before his eyes. His mind was fixed upon himself and upon the other five outfielders trying to make the team. He saw the players in the infield pace their positions restlessly, run without aim when the ball was hit or thrown, collide with each other, let the ball go between their hands and legs, throw wildly, and sometimes stand as if transfixed when they ought to have been in action. But all this was not significant to Ken. He saw everything that happened, but he thought only that he must make a good showing; he must not miss any flies, or let a ball go beyond him. He absolutely must do the right thing. The air of Grant Field was charged with intensity of feeling, and Ken thought it was all his own. His baseball fortune was at stake, and he worked himself in such a frenzy that if a ball had been batted in his direction he might not have seen it at all. Fortunately none came his way.

  The first time at bat he struck out ignominiously, poking weakly at the pitcher’s out-curves. The second time he popped up a little fly. On the next trial the umpire called him out on strikes. At his last chance Ken was desperate. He knew the coach placed batting before any other department of the game. Almost sick with the torture of the conflicting feelings, Ken went up to the plate and swung blindly. To his amaze he cracked a hard fly to left-centre, far between the fielders. Like a startled deer Ken broke into a run. He turned first base and saw that he might stretch the hit into a three-bagger. He knew he could run, and never had he so exerted himself. Second base sailed under him, and he turned in line for the third. Watching Graves, he saw him run for the base and stand ready to catch the throw-in.

  Without slacking his speed in the least Ken leaped into the air headlong for the base. He heard the crack of the ball as it hit Graves’s glove. Then with swift scrape on hands and breast he was sliding in the dust. He stopped suddenly as if blocked by a stone wall. Something hard struck him on the head. A blinding light within his brain seemed to explode into glittering slivers. A piercing pain shot through him. Then from darkness and a great distance sounded a voice:

  “Ward, I said I’d get you!”

  ANNIHILATION

  That incident put Ken out of the practice for three days. He had a bruise over his ear as large as a small apple. Ken did not mind the pain nor the players’ remarks that he had a swelled head anyway, but he remembered with slow-gathering wrath Graves’s words: “I said I’d get you!”

  He remembered also Graves’s reply to a question put by the coach. “I was only tagging him. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” That rankled inside Ken. He kept his counsel, however, even evading a sharp query put by Arthurs, and as much as it was possible he avoided the third-baseman.

  Hard practice was the order of every day, and most of it was batting. The coach kept at the candidates everlastingly, and always his cry was: “Toe the plate, left foot a little forward, step into the ball and swing!” At the bat Ken made favorable progress because the coach was always there behind him with encouraging words; in the field, however, he made a mess of it, and grew steadily worse.

  The directors of the Athletic Association had called upon the old varsity to go out and coach the new aspirants for college fame. The varsity had refused. Even the players of preceding years, what few were in or near the city, had declined to help develop Wayne’s stripling team. But some of the older graduates, among them several of the athletic directors, appeared on the field. When Arthurs saw them he threw up his hands in rage and despair. That afternoon Ken had three well-meaning but old-fashioned ball-players coach him in the outfield. He had them one at a time, which was all that saved him from utter distraction. One told him to judge a fly by the sound when the ball was hit. Another told him to play in close, and when the ball was batted to turn and run with it. The third said he must play deep and sprint in for the fly. Then each had different ideas as to how batters should be judged, about throwing to bases, about backing up the other fielders. Ken’s bewilderment grew greater and greater. He had never heard of things they advocated, and he began to think he did not know anything about the game. And what made his condition of mind border on imbecility was a hurried whisper from Arthurs between innings: “Peg, don’t pay the slightest attention to ’em fat-head grad. coaches.”

  Practice days succeeding that were worse nightmares to Ken Ward than the days he had spent in constant fear of the sophomores. It was a terribly feverish time of batting balls, chasing balls, and of having dinned into his ears thousands of orders, rules of play, talks on college spirit in athletics—all of which conflicted so that it was meaningless to him. During this dark time one ray of light was the fact that Arthurs never spoke a sharp word to him. Ken felt vaguely that he was whirling in some kind of a college athletic chaos, out of which he would presently emerge.

  Toward the close of March the weather grew warm, the practice field dried up, and baseball should have been a joy to Ken. But it was not. At times he had a shameful wish to quit the field for good, but he had not the courage to tell the coach. The twenty-fifth, the day scheduled for the game with the disgraced varsity team, loomed closer and closer. Its approach was a fearful thing for Ken. Every day he cast furtive glances down the field to where the varsity held practice. Ken had nothing to say; he was as glum as most of the other candidates, but he had heard gossip in the lecture-rooms, in the halls, on the street, everywhere, and it concerned this game. What would the old varsity do to Arthurs’ new team? Curiosity ran as high as the feeling toward the athletic directors. Resentment flowed from every source. Ken somehow got the impression that he was blamable for being a member of the coach’s green squad. So Ken Ward fluctuated between two fears, one as bad as the other—that he would not be selected to play, and the other that he would be selected. It made no difference. He would be miserable if not chosen, and if he was—how on earth would he be able to keep his knees from wobbling? Then the awful day dawned.

  Coach Arthurs met all his candidates at the cage. He came late, he explained, because he wanted to keep them off the field until time for practice. Today he appeared more grave than worried, and where the boys expected a severe lecture, he simply said: “I’ll play as many of you as I can. Do your best, that’s all. Don’t mind what these old players say. They were kids once, though they seem to have forgotten it. Try to learn from them.”

  It was the first
time the candidates had been taken upon the regular diamond of Grant Field. Ken had peeped in there once to be impressed by the beautiful level playground, and especially the magnificent turreted grand-stand and the great sweeping stretches of bleachers. Then they had been empty; now, with four thousand noisy students and thousands of other spectators besides, they stunned him. He had never imagined a crowd coming to see the game.

  Perhaps Arthurs had not expected it either, for Ken heard him mutter grimly to himself. He ordered practice at once, and called off the names of those he had chosen to start the game. As one in a trance Ken Ward found himself trotting out to right field.

  A long-rolling murmur that was half laugh, half taunt, rose from the stands. Then it quickly subsided. From his position Ken looked for the players of the old varsity, but they had not yet come upon the field. Of the few balls batted to Ken in practice he muffed only one, and he was just beginning to feel that he might acquit himself creditably when the coach called the team in. Arthurs had hardly given his new players time enough to warm up, but likewise they had not had time to make any fumbles.

  All at once a hoarse roar rose from the stands, then a thundering clatter of thousands of feet as the students greeted the appearance of the old varsity. It was applause that had in it all the feeling of the undergraduates for the championship team, many of whom they considered had been unjustly barred by the directors. Love, loyalty, sympathy, resentment—all pealed up to the skies in that acclaim. It rolled out over the heads of Arthurs’ shrinking boys as they huddled together on the bench.

  Ken Ward, for one, was flushing and thrilling. In that moment he lost his gloom. He watched the varsity come trotting across the field, a doughty band of baseball warriors. Each wore a sweater with the huge white “W” shining like a star. Many of those players had worn that honored varsity letter for three years. It did seem a shame to bar them from this season’s team. Ken found himself thinking of the matter from their point of view, and his sympathy was theirs.