The game progressed, growing more and more of a nightmare to me.It was not Worcester's day.The umpire could not see straight; the boys grumbled and fought among themselves; Spears roasted the umpire and was sent to the bench;Bogart tripped, hurting his sore ankle, and had to be taken out.Henderson's slow, easy ball baffled my players, and when he used speed they lined it straight at a Providence fielder.
In the sixth, after a desperate rally, we crowded the bases with only one out.Then Mullaney's hard rap to left, seemingly good for three bases, was pulled down by Stone with one hand.It was a wonderful catch and he doubled up a runner at second.Again in the seventh we had a chance to score, only to fail on another double play, this time by the infield.
When the Providence players were at bat their luck not only held good but trebled and quadrupled.The little Texas-league hits dropped safely just out of reach of the infielders.My boys had an off day in fielding.What horror that of all days in a season this should be the one for them to make errors!
But they were game, and the Rube was the gamest of all.He did not seem to know what hard luck was, or discouragement, or poor support.
He kept everlastingly hammering the ball at those lucky Providence hitters.What speed he had! The ball streaked in, and somebody would shut his eyes and make a safety.But the Rube pitched, on, tireless, irresistibly, hopeful, not forgetting to call a word of cheer to his fielders.
It was one of those strange games that could not be bettered by any labor or daring or skill.
I saw it was lost from the second inning, yet so deeply was I concerned, so tantalizingly did the plays reel themselves off, that I groveled there on the bench unable to abide by my baseball sense.
The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of doubt how baseball fate, in common with other fates, loved to balance the chances, to lift up one, then the other, to lend a deceitful hope only to dash it away.
Providence had almost three times enough to win.The team let up in that inning or grew over-confident or careless, and before we knew what had happened some scratch hits, and bases on balls, and errors, gave us three runs and left two runners on bases.The disgusted bleachers came out of their gloom and began to whistle and thump.The Rube hit safely, sending another run over the plate.McCall worked his old trick, beating out a slow bunt.
Bases full, three runs to tie! With Ashwell up and one out, the noise in the bleachers mounted to a high-pitched, shrill, continuous sound.I got up and yelled with all my might and could not hear my voice.Ashwell was a dangerous man in a pinch.The game was not lost yet.A hit, anything to get Ash to first--and then Stringer!
Ash laughed at Henderson, taunted him, shook his bat at him and dared him to put one over.
Henderson did not stand under fire.The ball he pitched had no steam.Ash cracked it--square on the line into the shortstop's hands.The bleachers ceased yelling.
Then Stringer strode grimly to the plate.It was a hundred to one, in that instance, that he would lose the ball.The bleachers let out one deafening roar, then hushed.I would rather have had Stringer at the bat than any other player in the world, and I thought of the Rube and Nan and Milly--and hope would not die.
Stringer swung mightily on the first pitch and struck the ball with a sharp, solid bing! It shot toward center, low, level, exceedingly swift, and like a dark streak went straight into the fielder's hands.A rod to right or left would have made it a home run.The crowd strangled a victorious yell.I came out of my trance, for the game was over and lost.It was the Rube's Waterloo.
I hurried him into the dressing room and kept close to him.He looked like a man who had lost the one thing worth while in his life.I turned a deaf ear to my players, to everybody, and hustled the Rube out and to the hotel.I wanted to be near him that night.
To my amaze we met Milly and Nan as we entered the lobby.Milly wore a sweet, sympathetic smile.Nan shone more radiant than ever.
I simply stared.It was Milly who got us all through the corridor into the parlor.I heard Nan talking.
``Whit, you pitched a bad game but--'' there was the old teasing, arch, coquettishness--``but you are the best pitcher!''
``Nan!''
``Yes!''