the Red Headed Outfield (1948)

by Grey, Zane

  The Cowboys blanked their opponents in the first half of the ninth, and trotted in for their turn needing one run to tie, two runs to win.

  There had scarcely been a breathing spell for the onlookers in this rapid-fire game. Every inning had held them, one moment breathless, the next wildly clamorous, and another waiting in numb fear. What did these last few moments hold in store? The only answer to that was the dogged plugging optimism of the Denver players.

  To listen to them, to watch them, was to gather the impression that baseball fortune always favored them in the end.

  ``Only three more, Dal. Steady boys, it's our game,'' rolled out Carroll's deep bass. How virile he was! What a tower of strength to the weakening pitcher!

  But valiantly as Dalgren tried to respond, he failed. The grind--the strain had been too severe.

  When he finally did locate the plate Bluett hit safely. Langley bunted along the base line and beat the ball.

  A blank, dead quiet settled down over the bleachers and stands. Something fearful threatened.

  What might not come to pass, even at the last moment of this nerve-racking game? There was a runner on first and a runner on second.

  That was bad. Exceedingly bad was it that these runners were on base with nobody out. Worst of all was the fact that Kane was up. Kane, the best bunter, the fastest man to first, the hardest hitter in the league! That he would fail to advance those two runners was scarcely worth consideration. Once advanced, a fly to the outfield, a scratch, anything almost, would tie the score.

  So this was the climax presaged so many times earlier in the game. Dalgren seemed to wilt under it.

  Kane swung his ash viciously and called on Dalgren to put one over. Dalgren looked in toward the bench as if he wanted and expected to be taken out. But Pat Donahue made no sign.

  Pat had trained many a pitcher by forcing him to take his medicine. Then Carroll, mask under his arm, rolling his big hand in his mitt, sauntered down to the pitcher's box. The sharp order of the umpire in no wise disconcerted him. He said something to Dalgren, vehemently nodding his head the while. Players and audience alike supposed he was trying to put a little heart into Dalgren, and liked him the better, notwithstanding the opposition to the umpire.

  Carroll sauntered back to his position. He adjusted his breast protector, and put on his mask, deliberately taking his time. Then he stepped behind the plate, and after signing for the pitch, he slowly moved his right hand up to his mask.

  Dalgren wound up, took his swing, and let drive.

  Even as he delivered the ball Carroll bounded away from his position, flinging off the mask as he jumped. For a single fleeting instant, the catcher's position was vacated. But that instant was long enough to make the audience gasp. Kane bunted beautifully down the third base line, and there Carroll stood, fifteen feet from the plate, agile as a huge monkey. He whipped the ball to Mahew at third. Mahew wheeled quick as thought and lined the ball to second. Sheldon came tearing for the bag, caught the ball on the run, and with a violent stop and wrench threw it like a bullet to first base. Fast as Kane was, the ball beat him ten feet. A triple play!

  The players of both teams cheered, but the audience, slower to grasp the complex and intricate points, needed a long moment to realize what had happened. They needed another to divine that Carroll had anticipated Kane's intention to bunt, had left his position as the ball was pitched, had planned all, risked all, played all on Kane's sure eye; and so he had retired the side and won the game by creating and executing the rarest play in baseball.

  Then the audience rose in a body to greet the great catcher. What a hoarse thundering roar shook the stands and waved in a blast over the field! Carroll stood bowing his acknowledgment, and then swaggered a little with the sun shining on his handsome heated face. Like a conqueror conscious of full blown power he stalked away to the clubhouse.

  Madge Ellston came out of her trance and viewed the ragged score-card, her torn parasol, her battered gloves and flying hair, her generally disheveled state with a little start of dismay, but when she got into the thick and press of the moving crowd she found all the women more or less disheveled. And they seemed all the prettier and friendlier for that. It was a happy crowd and voices were conspicuously hoarse.

  When Madge entered the hotel parlor that evening she found her uncle with guests and among them was Burns Carroll. The presence of the handsome giant affected Madge more impellingly than ever before, yet in some inexplicably different way. She found herself trembling; she sensed a crisis in her feelings for this man and it frightened her. She became conscious suddenly that she had always been afraid of him.

  Watching Carroll receive the congratulations of many of those present, she saw that he dominated them as he had her. His magnetism was over- powering; his great stature seemed to fill the room; his easy careless assurance emanated from superior strength. When he spoke lightly of the game, of Crane's marvelous catch, of Dalgren's pitching and of his own triple play, it seemed these looming features retreated in perspective--somehow lost their vital significance because he slighted them.

  In the light of Carroll's illuminating talk, in the remembrance of Sheldon's bitter denunciation, in the knowledge of Pat Donahue's estimate of a peculiar type of ball-player, Madge Ellston found herself judging the man--bravely trying to resist his charm, to be fair to him and to herself.

  Carroll soon made his way to her side and greeted her with his old familiar manner of possession. However irritating it might be to Madge when alone, now it held her bound.

  Carroll possessed the elemental attributes of a conqueror. When with him Madge whimsically feared that he would snatch her up in his arms and carry her bodily off, as the warriors of old did with the women they wanted. But she began to believe that the fascination he exercised upon her was merely physical. That gave her pause.

  Not only was Burns Carroll on trial, but also a very foolish fluttering little moth--herself. It was time enough, however, to be stern with herself after she had tried him.

  ``Wasn't that a splendid catch of Crane's today?'' she asked.

  ``A lucky stab! Crane has a habit of running round like an ostrich and sticking out a hand to catch a ball. It's a grand-stand play. Why, a good outfielder would have been waiting under that fly.''

  ``Dalgren did fine work in the box, don't you think?''

  ``Oh, the kid's all right with an old head back of the plate. He's wild, though, and will never make good in fast company. I won his game today.

  He wouldn't have lasted an inning without me. It was dead wrong for Pat to pitch him.

  Dalgren simply can't pitch and he hasn't sand enough to learn.''

  A hot retort trembled upon Madge Ellston's lips, but she withheld it and quietly watched Carroll. How complacent he was, how utterly self- contained!

  ``And Billie Sheldon--wasn't it good to see him brace? What hitting! . . . That home run!''

  ``Sheldon flashed up today. That's the worst of such players. This talk of his slump is all rot.

  When he joined the team he made some lucky hits and the papers lauded him as a comer, but he soon got down to his real form. Why, to break into a game now and then, to shut his eyes and hit a couple on the nose--that's not baseball.

  Pat's given him ten days' notice, and his release will be a good move for the team. Sheldon's not fast enough for this league.''

  ``I'm sorry. He seemed so promising,'' replied Madge. ``I liked Billy--pretty well.''

  ``Yes, that was evident,'' said Carroll, firing up. ``I never could understand what you saw in him. Why, Sheldon's no good. He----''

  Madge turned a white face that silenced Carroll. She excused herself and returned to the parlor, where she had last seen her uncle. Not finding him there, she went into the long corridor and met Sheldon, Dalgren and two more of the players. Madge congratulated the young pitcher and the other players on their brilliant work; and they, not to be outdone, gallantly attributed the day's victory to her presence at the game. Then, with
out knowing in the least how it came about, she presently found herself alone with Billy, and they were strolling into the music-room.

  ``Madge, did I brace up?''

  The girl risked one quick look at him. How boyish he seemed, how eager! What an altogether different Billie! But was the difference all in him! Somehow, despite a conscious shyness in the moment she felt natural and free, without the uncertainty and restraint that had always troubled her while with him.

  ``Oh, Billie, that glorious home run!''

  ``Madge, wasn't that hit a dandy? How I made it is a mystery, but the bat felt like a feather. I thought of you. Tell me-- what did you think when I hit that ball over the fence?''

  ``Billie, I'll never, never tell you.''

  ``Yes--please--I want to know. Didn't you think something--nice of me?''

  The pink spots in Madge's cheeks widened to crimson flames.

  ``Billie, are you still--crazy about me? Now, don't come so close. Can't you behave yourself?

  And don't break my fingers with you terrible baseball hands. . . . Well, when you made that hit I just collapsed and I said----''

  ``Say it! Say it!'' implored Billie.

  She lowered her face and then bravely raised it.

  ``I said, `Billie, I could hug you for that!' . . .

  Billie, let me go! Oh, you mustn't!--please!''

  Quite a little while afterward Madge remembered to tell Billie that she had been seeking her uncle. They met him and Pat Donahue, coming out of the parlor.

  ``Where have you been all evening?'' demanded Mr. Ellston.

  ``Shure it looks as if she's signed a new manager,'' said Pat, his shrewd eyes twinkling.

  The soft glow in Madge's cheeks deepened into tell-tale scarlet; Billie resembled a schoolboy stricken in guilt.

  ``Aha! so that's it?'' queried her uncle.

  ``Ellston,'' said Pat. ``Billie's home-run drive today recalled his notice an' if I don't miss guess it won him another game--the best game in life.''

  ``By George!'' exclaimed Mr. Ellston. ``I was afraid it was Carroll!''

  He led Madge away and Pat followed with Billie.

  ``Shure, it was good to see you brace, Billie,'' said the manager, with a kindly hand on the young man's arm. ``I'm tickled to death. That ten days' notice doesn't go. See? I've had to shake up the team but your job is good. I released McReady outright an' traded Carroll to Denver for a catcher and a fielder. Some of the directors hollered murder, an' I expect the fans will roar, but I'm running this team, I'll have harmony among my players. Carroll is a great catcher, but he's a knocker.''

  THE WINNING BALL

  One day in July our Rochester club, leader in the Eastern League, had returned to the hotel after winning a double-header from the Syracuse club. For some occult reason there was to be a lay-off next day and then on the following another double-header. These double-headers we hated next to exhibition games. Still a lay-off for twenty-four hours, at that stage of the race, was a Godsend, and we received the news with exclamations of pleasure.

  After dinner we were all sitting and smoking comfortably in front of the hotel when our manager, Merritt, came hurriedly out of the lobby.

  It struck me that he appeared a little flustered.

  ``Say, you fellars,'' he said brusquely. ``Pack your suits and be ready for the bus at seven- thirty.''

  For a moment there was a blank, ominous silence, while we assimilated the meaning of his terse speech.

  ``I've got a good thing on for tomorrow,'' continued the manager. ``Sixty per cent gate receipts if we win. That Guelph team is hot stuff, though.''

  ``Guelph!'' exclaimed some of the players suspiciously. ``Where's Guelph?''

  ``It's in Canada. We'll take the night express an' get there tomorrow in time for the game.

  An' we'll hev to hustle.''

  Upon Merritt then rained a multiplicity of excuses. Gillinger was not well, and ought to have that day's rest. Snead's eyes would profit by a lay-off. Deerfoot Browning was leading the league in base running, and as his legs were all bruised and scraped by sliding, a manager who was not an idiot would have a care of such valuable runmakers for his team. Lake had ``Charley- horse.'' Hathaway's arm was sore. Bane's stomach threatened gastritis. Spike Doran's finger needed a chance to heal. I was stale, and the other players, three pitchers, swore their arms should be in the hospital.

  ``Cut it out!'' said Merritt, getting exasperated.

  ``You'd all lay down on me--now, wouldn't you? Well, listen to this: McDougal pitched today; he doesn't go. Blake works Friday, he doesn't go. But the rest of you puffed-up, high- salaried stiffs pack your grips quick. See? It'll cost any fresh fellar fifty for missin' the train.''

  So that was how eleven of the Rochester team found themselves moodily boarding a Pullman en route for Buffalo and Canada. We went to bed early and arose late.

  Guelph lay somewhere in the interior of Canada, and we did not expect to get there until 1 o'clock.

  As it turned out, the train was late; we had to dress hurriedly in the smoking room, pack our citizen clothes in our grips and leave the train to go direct to the ball grounds without time for lunch.

  It was a tired, dusty-eyed, peevish crowd of ball players that climbed into a waiting bus at the little station.

  We had never heard of Guelph; we did not care anything about Rube baseball teams. Baseball was not play to us; it was the hardest kind of work, and of all things an exhibition game was an abomination.

  The Guelph players, strapping lads, met us with every mark of respect and courtesy and escorted us to the field with a brass band that was loud in welcome, if not harmonious in tune.

  Some 500 men and boys trotted curiously along with us, for all the world as if the bus were a circus parade cage filled with striped tigers.

  What a rustic, motley crowd massed about in and on that ball ground. There must have been 10,000.

  The audience was strange to us. The Indians, half-breeds, French-Canadians; the huge, hulking, bearded farmers or traders, or trappers, whatever they were, were new to our baseball experience.

  The players themselves, however, earned the largest share of our attention. By the time they had practiced a few moments we looked at Merritt and Merritt looked at us.

  These long, powerful, big-handed lads evidently did not know the difference between lacrosse and baseball; but they were quick as cats on their feet, and they scooped up the ball in a way wonderful to see. And throw!--it made a professional's heart swell just to see them line the ball across the diamond.

  ``Lord! what whips these lads have!'' exclaimed Merritt. ``Hope we're not up against it.

  If this team should beat us we wouldn't draw a handful at Toronto. We can't afford to be beaten.

  Jump around and cinch the game quick. If we get in a bad place, I'll sneak in the `rabbit.' ''

  The ``rabbit'' was a baseball similar in appearance to the ordinary league ball; under its horse- hide cover, however, it was remarkably different.

  An ingenious fan, a friend of Merritt, had removed the covers from a number of league balls and sewed them on rubber balls of his own making.

  They could not be distinguished from the regular article, not even by an experienced professional--until they were hit. Then! The fact that after every bounce one of these rubber balls bounded swifter and higher had given it the name of the ``rabbit.''

  Many a game had the ``rabbit'' won for us at critical stages. Of course it was against the rules of the league, and of course every player in the league knew about it; still, when it was judiciously and cleverly brought into a close game, the ``rabbit'' would be in play, and very probably over the fence, before the opposing captain could learn of it, let alone appeal to the umpire.

  ``Fellars, look at that guy who's goin' to pitch,'' suddenly spoke up one of the team.

  Many as were the country players whom we seasoned and traveled professionals had run across, this twirler outclassed them for remarkable appearance. Moreover, what put an enti
rely different tinge to our momentary humor was the discovery that he was as wild as a March hare and could throw a ball so fast that it resembled a pea shot from a boy's air gun.

  Deerfoot led our batting list, and after the first pitched ball, which he did not see, and the second, which ticked his shirt as it shot past, he turned to us with an expression that made us groan inwardly.

  When Deerfoot looked that way it meant the pitcher was dangerous. Deerfoot made no effort to swing at the next ball, and was promptly called out on strikes.

  I was second at bat, and went up with some reluctance. I happened to be leading the league in both long distance and safe hitting, and I doted on speed. But having stopped many mean in- shoots with various parts of my anatomy, I was rather squeamish about facing backwoods yaps who had no control.

  When I had watched a couple of his pitches, which the umpire called strikes, I gave him credit for as much speed as Rusie. These balls were as straight as a string, singularly without curve, jump, or variation of any kind. I lined the next one so hard at the shortstop that it cracked like a pistol as it struck his hands and whirled him half off his feet. Still he hung to the ball and gave opportunity for the first crash of applause.

  ``Boys, he's a trifle wild,'' I said to my team- mates, ``but he has the most beautiful ball to hit you ever saw. I don't believe he uses a curve, and when we once time that speed we'll kill it.''

  Next inning, after old man Hathaway had baffled the Canadians with his wide, tantalizing curves, my predictions began to be verified. Snead rapped one high and far to deep right field. To our infinite surprise, however, the right fielder ran with fleetness that made our own Deerfoot seem slow, and he got under the ball and caught it.

  Doran sent a sizzling grasscutter down toward left. The lanky third baseman darted over, dived down, and, coming up with the ball, exhibited the power of a throwing arm that made as all green with envy.

  Then, when the catcher chased a foul fly somewhere back in the crowd and caught it, we began to take notice.

  ``Lucky stabs!'' said Merritt cheerfully. ``They can't keep that up. We'll drive him to the woods next time.''