He bought a ticket at the 25-cent window, and edging his huge bulk through the turnstile, laboriously followed the noisy crowd toward the bleachers.
I could not have been mistaken.He was Old Well-Well, famous from Boston to Baltimore as the greatest baseball fan in the East.His singular yell had pealed into the ears of five hundred thousand worshippers of the national game and would never be forgotten.
At sight of him I recalled a friend's baseball talk.``You remember Old Well-Well? He's all in--dying, poor old fellow! It seems young Burt, whom the Phillies are trying out this spring, is Old Well-Well's nephew and protege.Used to play on the Murray Hill team; a speedy youngster.
When the Philadelphia team was here last, Manager Crestline announced his intention to play Burt in center field.Old Well-Well was too ill to see the lad get his tryout.He was heart-broken and said: `If I could only see one more game!' ''
The recollection of this random baseball gossip and the fact that Philadelphia was scheduled to play New York that very day, gave me a sudden desire to see the game with Old Well-Well.I did not know him, but where on earth were introductions as superfluous as on the bleachers? It was a very easy matter to catch up with him.He walked slowly, leaning hard on a cane and his wide shoulders sagged as he puffed along.I was about to make some pleasant remark concerning the prospects of a fine game, when the sight of his face shocked me and I drew back.If ever I had seen shadow of pain and shade of death they hovered darkly around Old Well-Well.
No one accompanied him; no one seemed to recognize him.The majority of that merry crowd of boys and men would have jumped up wild with pleasure to hear his well-remembered yell.Not much longer than a year before, I had seen ten thousand fans rise as one man and roar a greeting to him that shook the stands.So I was confronted by a situation strikingly calculated to rouse my curiosity and sympathy.
He found an end seat on a row at about the middle of the right-field bleachers and I chose one across the aisle and somewhat behind him.
No players were yet in sight.The stands were filling up and streams of men were filing into the aisles of the bleachers and piling over the benches.
Old Well-Well settled himself comfortably in his seat and gazed about him with animation.There had come a change to his massive features.The hard lines had softened; the patches of gray were no longer visible; his cheeks were ruddy;something akin to a smile shone on his face as he looked around, missing no detail of the familiar scene.
During the practice of the home team Old Well-Well sat still with his big hands on his knees; but when the gong rang for the Phillies, he grew restless, squirming in his seat and half rose several times.I divined the importuning of his old habit to greet his team with the yell that had made him famous.I expected him to get up; I waited for it.Gradually, however, he became quiet as a man governed by severe self-restraint and directed his attention to the Philadelphia center fielder.
At a glance I saw that the player was new to me and answered the newspaper description of young Burt.What a lively looking athlete! He was tall, lithe, yet sturdy.He did not need to chase more than two fly balls to win me.His graceful, fast style reminded me of the great Curt Welch.Old Well-Well's face wore a rapt expression.I discovered myself hoping Burt would make good; wishing he would rip the boards off the fence; praying he would break up the game.
It was Saturday, and by the time the gong sounded for the game to begin the grand stand and bleachers were packed.The scene was glittering, colorful, a delight to the eye.Around the circle of bright faces rippled a low, merry murmur.The umpire, grotesquely padded in front by his chest protector, announced the batteries, dusted the plate, and throwing out a white ball, sang the open sesame of the game: ``Play!''
Then Old Well-Well arose as if pushed from his seat by some strong propelling force.It had been his wont always when play was ordered or in a moment of silent suspense, or a lull in the applause, or a dramatic pause when hearts heat high and lips were mute, to bawl out over the listening, waiting multitude his terrific blast: ``Well-Well-Well!''
Twice he opened his mouth, gurgled and choked, and then resumed his seat with a very red, agitated face; something had deterred him from his purpose, or he had been physically incapable of yelling.
The game opened with White's sharp bounder to the infield.Wesley had three strikes called on him, and Kelly fouled out to third base.The Phillies did no better, being retired in one, two, three order.The second inning was short and no tallies were chalked up.Brain hit safely in the third and went to second on a sacrifice.The bleachers began to stamp and cheer.He reached third on an infield hit that the Philadelphia short-stop knocked down but could not cover in time to catch either runner.The cheer in the grand stand was drowned by the roar in the bleachers.
Brain scored on a fly-ball to left.A double along the right foul line brought the second runner home.Following that the next batter went out on strikes.
In the Philadelphia half of the inning young Burt was the first man up.He stood left-handed at the plate and looked formidable.Duveen, the wary old pitcher for New York, to whom this new player was an unknown quantity, eyed his easy position as if reckoning on a possible weakness.
Then he took his swing and threw the ball.Burt never moved a muscle and the umpire called strike.
The next was a ball, the next a strike; still Burt had not moved.
``Somebody wake him up!'' yelled a wag in the bleachers.``He's from Slumbertown, all right, all right!'' shouted another.
Duveen sent up another ball, high and swift.
Burt hit straight over the first baseman, a line drive that struck the front of the right-field bleachers.
``Peacherino!'' howled a fan.
Here the promise of Burt's speed was fulfilled.