``Fellows, it's this way.You've got to win today's game.It's the last of the season and means the pennant for Worcester.One more hard scrap and we're done! Of all the up-hill fights any bunch ever made to land the flag, our has been the best.You're the best team I ever managed, the gamest gang of ball players that ever stepped in spikes.We've played in the hardest kind of luck all season, except that short trip we called the Rube's Honeymoon.We got a bad start, and sore arms and busted fingers, all kinds of injuries, every accident calculated to hurt a team's chances, came our way.But in spite of it all we got the lead and we've held it, and today we're still a few points ahead of Buffalo.''
I paused to catch my breath, and looked round on the grim, tired faces of my players.They made a stern group.The close of the season found them almost played out.What a hard chance it was, after their extraordinary efforts, to bring the issue of the pennant down to this last game!
``If we lose today, Buffalo, with three games more to play at home, will pull the bunting,'' Iwent on.``But they're not going to win! I'm putting it up to you that way.I know Spears is all in; Raddy's arm is gone; Ash is playing on one leg; you're all crippled.But you've got one more game in you, I know.These last few weeks the Rube has been pitching out of turn and he's about all in, too.He's kept us in the lead.If he wins today it'll be Rube's Pennant.But that might apply to all of you.Now, shall we talk over the play today? Any tricks to pull off? Any inside work?''
``Con, you're pretty much upset an' nervous,''
replied Spears, soberly.``It ain't no wonder.
This has been one corker of a season.I want to suggest that you let me run the team today.I've talked over the play with the fellers.We ain't goin' to lose this game, Con.Buffalo has been comin' with a rush lately, an' they're confident.
But we've been holdin' in, restin' up as much as we dared an' still keep our lead.Mebbee it'll surprise you to know we've bet every dollar we could get hold of on this game.Why, Buffalo money is everywhere.''
``All right, Spears, I'll turn the team over to you.We've got the banner crowd of the year out there right now, a great crowd to play before.
I'm more fussed up over this game than any Iremember.But I have a sort of blind faith in my team....I guess that's all I want to say.''
Spears led the silent players out of the dressing room and I followed; and while they began to toss balls to and fro, to limber up cold, dead arms, I sat on the bench.
The Bisons were prancing about the diamond, and their swaggering assurance was not conducive to hope for the Worcesters.I wondered how many of that vast, noisy audience, intent on the day's sport, even had a thought of what pain and toil it meant to my players.The Buffalo men were in good shape; they had been lucky; they were at the top of their stride, and that made all the difference.
At any rate, there were a few faithful little women in the grand stand--Milly and Nan and Rose Stringer and Kate Bogart--who sat with compressed lips and hoped and prayed for that game to begin and end.
The gong called off the practice, and Spears, taking the field, yelled gruff encouragement to his men.Umpire Carter brushed off the plate and tossed a white ball to Rube and called: ``Play!''
The bleachers set up an exultant, satisfied shout and sat down to wait.
Schultz toed the plate and watched the Rube pitch a couple.There seemed to be no diminution of the great pitcher's speed and both balls cut the plate.Schultz clipped the next one down the third-base Line.Bogart trapped it close to the bag, and got it away underhand, beating the speedy runner by a nose.It was a pretty play to start with, and the spectators were not close-mouthed in appreciation.The short, stocky Carl ambled up to bat, and I heard him call the Rube something.It was not a friendly contest, this deciding game between Buffalo and Worcester.
``Bing one close to his swelled nut!'' growled Spears to the Rube.
Carl chopped a bouncing grounder through short and Ash was after it like a tiger, but it was a hit.The Buffalo contingent opened up.Then Manning faced the Rube, and he, too, vented sarca**.It might not have been heard by the slow, imperturbable pitcher for all the notice he took.
Carl edged off first, slid back twice, got a third start, and on the Rube's pitch was off for second base with the lead that always made him dangerous.
Manning swung vainly, and Gregg snapped a throw to Mullaney.Ball and runner got to the bag apparently simultaneously; the umpire called Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar of delight.
The next pitch to Manning was a strike.Rube was not wasting any balls, a point I noted with mingled fear and satisfaction.For he might have felt that he had no strength to spare that day and so could not try to work the batters.Again he swung, and Manning rapped a long line fly over McCall.As the little left fielder turned at the sound of the hit and sprinted out, his lameness was certainly not in evidence.He was the swiftest runner in the league and always when he got going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him.
Mac took that fly right off the foul flag in deep left, and the bleachers dinned their pleasure.
The teams changed positions.``Fellers,'' said Spears, savagely, ``we may be a bunged-up lot of stiffs, but, say! We can hit! If you love your old captain--sting the ball!''
Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work cut out for him.For one sympathetic moment Isaw his part through his eyes.My Worcester veterans, long used to being under fire, were relentlessly bent on taking that game.It showed in many ways, particularly in their silence, because they were seldom a silent team.McCall hesitated a moment over his bats.Then, as he picked up the lightest one, I saw his jaw set, and I knew he intended to bunt.He was lame, yet he meant to beat out an infield hit.He went up scowling.
