Chapter XV: In the Ninth Inning

But if the seventh inning was no help to North Bank, neither did it add to Bayside’s tallies, for Grinnel settled down nicely and the Cherry-and-Black players went out in one, two, three order. Jerry, anxious and absorbed, gave a sigh of relief as the third man flung his bat disgustedly into the pile. But Bayside’s one run lead loomed very big as North Bank began the eighth, and it loomed still bigger some ten minutes later when Sortwell’s desperate effort to reach base ahead of shortstop’s peg failed dismally and the teams again changed places.

“Let’s hold ’em now,” called Pop as he pulled his glove on and went down to first. “We’ll get ’em next inning, fellows!”

Grinnel had a bad spell in that first of the eighth, for, after disposing of the first batsman with four deliveries, he pitched three balls in succession and set Bayside howling derisively. Then, steadying, he pitched a strike that cut the outer corner of the plate and followed it with a slow ball that also registered for him.

“Right here, Jack!” called Tub Keller, holding his hands invitingly. “Put it over! He’ll never see it! Let’s have it, boy!”

And Jack put it over, or, at least he started it over, but, although it was a fast one, it had nothing on it, and the batter swung and found it and came to a stop, somewhat breathlessly on second base. The home team rooters cheered lustily then and the coaches, hurrying to their stations behind first and third bases, began a cross-fire that, whether or not helpful to the runner, was not designed to steady Jack Grinnel any. But Jack was too old a hand to let that sort of thing worry him much, and, after two attempts to catch the man on second napping, he gave his attention to the Bayside third baseman. He worked a strike on him and offered him a hook that was refused. Then came a second strike that, rather high, brought groans of derision from the local sympathizers.

“A nice one!” shouted Tub. “Let’s have another, Jack!” But when he knelt and gave his signal it wasn’t a high one he asked for, but a drop. And Jack, casting an incurious glance toward second base, hitched his cap, dug his toe and shot his arm out. The ball started for the inner corner of the plate, breast-high, but it changed its mind on the way, seemed to lose every speck of ambition and just settled down and down until, after the batsman had ingloriously swung at it and missed it by four inches, Tub picked it out of the dust. It was North Bank’s turn to jeer, and she did it, and the Bayside third baseman, who had something of a reputation as a hitter, trailed his bat disconsolately to the opposite bench, and, casting a brief but venomous glance at the pitcher, began a muttered alibi.

“Last man!” called Pop Lord. “Let’s get him, Jack! Take your time! No one walks!”

And Jack did get him in the end, although he caused some anxious moments for Jerry and the others on the North Bank bench. Four fouls, long ones and impossible to reach, spoiled as many attempts on Jack’s part to register a third strike, and had all the appearance of hits until they landed. In the end it was a long fly to Beech in center that brought the eighth inning to an end and a heartfelt sigh of relief from Jerry.

“Here’s your last chance, fellows,” said Mr. Keegan as the players came in. “Let’s tie it up in this inning. That pitcher of theirs is getting wobbly and you can get at him if you really try. Don’t go after the long ones. There’s a good opening between first and second. Try to lam ’em through there. That second baseman’s as slow as molasses on hits that go to his left. You’re up, Beech. Make him give you good ones. That umpire’s with you and you don’t have to take the bad ones. Pick out one you like and push it past second. Go to it, son!”

Ted Beech was a rattling good center fielder and, against certain styles of pitching, was a dependable batter, but to-day Embauer had held him hitless. Perhaps it was a realization of his failure to find the opposing twirler that put Ted on his mettle. He faced Embauer with a cockiness that was a challenge, and Embauer took a second and harder look at him and shook his head over the catcher’s signal. When he did nod and wind himself up and speed the ball away the offering was a wide hook that Ted judged correctly and let pass.

“Tell him to put them where I can reach them,” he said to the catcher. “Give him two fingers, partner.”

“Think you know our signals, do you?” grunted the boy in the mask. “All right, here’s two fingers for you.” He knelt, but whether it was two fingers or four he held out of Ted’s view, the latter never knew. What he did know, a moment later, was that the ball coming toward him looked like a straight one that would cut the outer corner waist-high. And he acted accordingly. He swung and did his level best to “pull” the hit to the right of the pitcher’s box, and the next instant he had dropped the bat and was legging it to first while a shrill shout of joy followed him from the North Bank bench. It was a close shave, but he made it. The ball had started off straight for the alley between first and second, rising in its flight. First and second baseman went after it and it was second baseman who reached it. But his attempt to spear it left-handed only knocked it down and, while Ted and Embauer sped for the bag, the first baseman scooped it up. Had he tossed swiftly to the base the pitcher might have caught it, for he reached the bag ahead of Ted, but the baseman made the mistake of trying for the putout and the result was that of the three players who reached the sack almost together the baseman was last! When Ted had made the turn and returned, Embauer and the first baseman were having a very pretty exchange of compliments and the North Bank players were cheering and laughing uproariously.

Pop himself sped around to coach and Tub Keller walked to the plate. The Bayside pitcher was disgruntled as he stepped back to the mound, and he looked it. It is quite all right for a pitcher to look disgruntled, but a poor plan for him to feel so, as events proved. Tub scorned one low one that the umpire called a strike and then, shortening his bat, made as pretty a bunt down the first base line as is often seen. Just inside the chalk mark it rolled and Tub was very careful not to interfere with it as he dug out for first. Had Embauer been a trifle quicker he might have tagged the runner on the way to base, but hurt feelings made him slow, and when, finally, he reached the trickling ball his chance of arching it over Tub’s head in time to get him was a forlorn one. Besides, about that instant the ball showed a disposition to roll over the line and change itself from a fair ball to a foul, and Embauer decided to let it. And, having reached that decision about the time Tub reached the base, he stood idly over the erratic sphere while it changed its mind and decided to remain fair!

Nothing is much more ridiculous from the opponent’s point of view than the sight of two able-bodied players crouching above the base line watching a ball that just won’t roll outside! And North Bank enjoyed the crestfallen looks of the Bayside pitcher and catcher immensely and hooted with glee. It was the wild appeals of the other infielders that finally induced the catcher to snatch the disappointing ball from the ground and shoot it across to third. But Ted Beech had reconsidered his plan to go on and scuttled back to second.

With two on and none out, Embauer felt the strain. The united coaching efforts of Pop Lord and Tom Hartley at opposite corners of the diamond did nothing to restore his tranquillity. Nor did the fact that he now had to face an unknown quantity in the shape of Stevens, substitute fielder, who had taken Grinnel’s place in the batting list. Some pitchers may tell you that they dote on pinch hitters and “eat ’em alive,” and perhaps they do if they know the hitters. But when they have never seen them before, and when the catcher can’t offer any information, they are likely to be rather more uneasy than pleased. In the present case neither the Bayside catcher nor the Bayside pitcher knew anything as to Stevens’ likes or dislikes, and since the philosophy of successful pitching is to give the batsman what he doesn’t want and make him like it Embauer heartily wished that the opponent’s coach had let well enough alone.

There were even those on the North Bank bench who thought Mr. Keegan had done better to let Grinnel bat. Grinnel, like many pitchers, was an uncertain batsman who, when he did hit, hit for extra bases. Besides, with none out, it was felt that North Bank was in position to take a chance on Grinnel delivering a hit. But Coach Keegan wanted more than aught else to tie that score, and he was a great believer in going after what he wanted and not trusting to having some one come along and hand it to him. With the score tied he would take as many chances as any one, but until it was he meant to waste no moves. So Grinnel went out of the game and Stevens went in, and Embauer shot over a first strike, something he was very fond of doing.

Stevens was undismayed, however, and swung his bat as confidently as ever. Embauer teased him with a drop that went as a ball and then followed with a high and fast one that looked good from the benches but didn’t satisfy the umpire. With the score one and two, the Bayside pitcher attempted to sneak one over knee-high. That happened to be the particular style of ball that Stevens adored, and he lifted it far and high into left field. Unfortunately for him, the left fielder was nimble and dependable and the ball settled into his hands. But his throw to third was too late to catch Ted Beech, and he and Tub moved up a notch each. That out appeared to comfort Embauer and he looked much easier in his mind as Jackson stepped to the plate. But Jackson headed the visitors’ batting list and, with men on third and second, Coach Keegan looked no less easy of mind than Embauer. There is no need to recount the rest of that ninth inning in detail, for there was a certain monotony about it that Bayside, at least, found uninteresting. Jackson hit safely and so did Captain Lord. Conway walked. McGee hit to shortstop who fumbled and tossed wildly to second. McGee and Conway were both safe. So it went until, with a lead of five runs, Coach Keegan substituted Partridge and Royce for Sortwell and Beech. But even the substitutes managed to make good, Partridge reaching his first station after Embauer had cracked him in the ribs with the ball and Royce on an error by third baseman.

The Cherry-and-Black pitcher was plainly played out, but, although Bayside had been warming up a new twirler for ten minutes, he was not used. Doubtless the Bayside coach concluded that the game was lost beyond recovery and that Embauer might as well take his medicine. And pretty bitter medicine it was. Jerry felt sorry for the lad, he had pitched fine ball for eight innings. But Jerry didn’t let his sympathy for Embauer sadden him unduly. He was much too pleased with North Bank’s victory. With Partridge on second and Royce on first, Coach Keegan mentally ran over the available substitutes. More tallies were scarcely necessary, and he wanted to give as many second-string players a finger in the pie as he could. So he called Ted Beech back, much to that youth’s disappointment, and sent in Crocker. Crocker, a substitute catcher, was no wizard with the bat, and Bayside, glum and disconsolate, essayed a feeble cheer when Embauer, with a brief return to form, put two strikes over on him in succession. But Crocker judged the next two correctly and picked out the fifth delivery for his attention. Straight at Embauer traveled the ball, and Embauer made a futile stab with his right hand. Deflected, the ball shot toward the first base line. First baseman and pitcher chased it. Crocker, although thickset, was fast on his feet, and reached the bag before second baseman was there to cover it. Once again the bases were full.

“Benson!”

Jerry looked down the line of chuckling players with a start. Mr. Keegan was beckoning. “Take a whack,” said the coach, nodding toward the plate. “Might as well clean up while you’re at it, Benson.” He spoke carelessly and, having spoken, returned to an interrupted conversation with Captain Lord. Jerry didn’t quite know what was meant by cleaning up, but the coach’s intention was clear. So he picked out a striped bat that held tender memories for him and went unhurriedly to the plate. Encouraging advice followed him.

“Bounce one off the pitcher, Jerry!”

“Make it a homer, kid! Flatten it out!”

Bayside was not too dejected to laugh when Jerry took his stand at the rubber. Even the catcher managed a smile as Jerry spread his long legs and poised the bat along the back of his shoulders. If Jerry knew the cause of the ripple of merriment he gave no sign. After a brief glance at the pitcher he set his eyes firmly on the ball and never lost sight of it from the moment Embauer spread his fingers around it until it had passed from vision like a gray smudge to thump into the catcher’s mitt.

“Stri-i-ike!” announced the umpire.

Jerry considered with bent head. Then he nodded agreement. Some of his team mates laughed, and Tom called: “That’s only one, Jerry! He hasn’t any more!”

Nor had he, it seemed. The next delivery was wide of the plate and the following one was so wild that only a supreme effort by the catcher kept the ball from going past to the backstop. Friend and foe alike applauded the play and Partridge danced disappointedly back to third base. Embauer tried very hard to cut a corner with an outshoot and failed by an inch or two.

“One and three!” advised the umpire, holding his fingers aloft.

“Let him walk you, Jerry!” came the call from the bench. “Wait him out, old son!”

But Jerry knew nothing about being walked. He never yet had gained his base in that fashion and didn’t mean to now. But Embauer didn’t know that, nor did the catcher, and so the former’s next effort was a fast and straight ball that tried to glide across the rubber about opposite the top button of Jerry’s gray shirt. Probably that ball got the surprise of its brief career just then, for Jerry’s eager arms brought the bat around swiftly and Jerry’s muscles concentrated on pushing the ball into the next county. Of course, he didn’t succeed, although for one short moment it did look as if he might, for the ball started off with all the enthusiasm in the world. And so did Jerry, his long legs twinkling as he raced for the base. North Bank roared encouragement and delight. Partridge waited, midway between third and home, ready to go on or back, and Royce and Crocker were on their toes. Far and high sped the ball. Left fielder and center fielder were running back, converging as they went. Then the flying sphere descended and Partridge returned to third and waited. After all, he would have plenty of time! Down came the ball. Then, on a sudden, the North Bank players on the bench arose as one man and howled gleefully. Too many cooks had spoiled the broth! The ball thumped to the sod midway between the two fielders, each of whom, as it appeared, had left the job of catching it to the other! In trotted Partridge, in sped Royce, in raced Crocker. But now the ball was speeding to second baseman, and now it was traveling home, and at third Tub Keller reached forth and violently yanked Jerry back to the bag. Some there were who afterwards maintained that Jerry’s hit might have been stretched from a three-bagger to a home run, but Jerry was no Meredith, and, while a faster runner might possibly have reached the plate ahead of second baseman’s desperate peg, it is doubtful if he could have. In any event, Tub didn’t let him try, and Jerry, forcibly returned to the bag, sat down, blinking, and untroubledly strove to recover some of the breath he had left between the plate and his present station.

Then, perhaps only because the afternoon was waning and the visitors had a train to catch, the Bayside coach removed Mr. Embauer, who was accorded deserved applause from both sides of the diamond, and substituted a tall and lanky youth who, after passing Jackson, caused Pop Lord to fly out to right and Conway to fan helplessly, thus bringing to an end the most remarkable half inning in the records of either school. North Bank had sent fifteen men to bat and had scored eleven runs, for Jerry had raced home on Lord’s sacrifice fly. Manager Birkenside’s score book, so far as one page of it was concerned, looked strangely crowded and confused!

The visitors went out for the last of the ninth with a much altered line-up. The new battery was Train and Crocker and an entirely new outfield was presented. The outfielders, however, might just as well have remained on the bench, for Bayside, in spite of a determination to reduce the enemy’s lead, failed to hit out of the infield and got only one man on base when McGee booted an easy one. The runner, with one out, worked a daring steal, but he never got beyond second, for Train had a nice command of the ball and it takes more than determination to earn runs. The last man went out, Hartley to Lord, and the long contest was over, the score 15 to 5.

Most of the way home on the train, while the rest of the crowd, tired and hungry but well contented, sang and roistered, Birkenside wrestled with his score, calling frequently for help. When, at last, he had added the final total and set it down in its proper compartment he poised his pen above a line that held the words “Length of game” and after a moment of mental reckoning set down the characters “2 Hrs., 43 Mins.”!

Jerry received no special commendation for that three-base hit of his. After all, it had only been saved from a nice sacrifice fly by the stupidity of the fielders. For that matter, however, Jerry wasn’t expecting commendation, and so wasn’t disappointed. Tom tried to pretend that Jerry had distinguished himself nobly, but Jerry wouldn’t be fooled. “Reckon,” he said, “those fellers got the sun in their eyes or something. It wasn’t no safe hit, Tom.” One thing his performance that afternoon did do, though, was to convince Coach Keegan that Jerry might become a valuable asset to the nine as a pinch hitter, for, as he remarked to Pop Lord later, “The chap’s got an almighty wallop, Cap, and he isn’t afraid of anything you can pitch him!”