CHAPTER IX
THE FIRST LEAGUE GAME
"All aboard!"
"Good-bye, everybody!"
"See you next Spring!"
"Good-bye!"
These were some of the calls heard at the Montville station as thePittston ball team left their training grounds for the trip to theirhome city, where the league season would start. Joe had been South aboutthree weeks, and had made a few friends there. These waved a farewell tohim, as others did to other players, as the train pulled out.
Joe was not sure, but he thought he saw, amid the throng, the face of acertain girl. At any rate a white handkerchief was waved directly athim.
"Ah, ha! Something doing!" joked Charlie Hall, with whom Joe had struckup quite a friendship. "Who's the fair one, Joe?"
"I didn't see her face," was the evasive answer.
"Oh, come now! That's too thin! She's evidently taken a liking to you."
"I hope she has!" exclaimed the young pitcher, and then blushed at hisboldness. As the train pulled past the station he had a full view of thegirl waving at him. She was Mabel Varley. Charlie saw her also.
"My word!" he cried. "I congratulate you, old man!" and he clapped Joeon the shoulder.
"Cut it out!" came the retort, as Joe turned his reddened face in thedirection of the girl. And he waved back, while some of the otherplayers laughed.
"Better be looking for someone to sign in Matson's place soon, Mack,"remarked John Holme, the third baseman, with a chuckle. "He's going totrot in double harness if I know any of the symptoms."
"All right," laughed the assistant manager. "I'll have to begin scoutingagain, I suppose. Too bad, just as Joe is going to make good."
"Oh, don't worry," advised our hero coolly. "I'm going to play."
The trip up was much more enjoyable than Joe had found the one down,when he came alone. He was beginning to know and like nearly all ofhis team-mates--that is, all save Collin, and it was due only to thelatter's surly disposition that Joe could not be friendly with him.
"Think you'll stay in this business long?" asked Charlie of Joe as hesank into the seat beside him.
"Well, I expect to make it my business--if I can make good."
"I think you will."
"But I don't intend to stay in this small league forever," went on Joe."I'd like to get in a major one."
"That isn't as easy as it seems," said the other college lad. "You knowyou're sort of tied hand and foot once you sign with a professionalteam."
"How's that?"
"Why, there is a sort of national agreement, you know. No team in anyleague will take a player from another team unless the manager ofthat team gives the player his release. That is, you can quit playingball, of course; but, for the life of you, you can't get in any otherprofessional team until you are allowed to by the man with whom yousigned first."
"Well, of course, I've read about players being given their release, andbeing sold or traded from one team to another," spoke Joe, "but I didn'tthink it was as close as that."
"It is close," said Hall, "a regular 'trust.' Modern professionalbaseball is really a trust. There's a gentleman's agreement in regard toplayers that's never broken. I'm sorry, in a way, that I didn't stay anamateur. I, also, want to get into a big league, but the worst of it isthat if you show up well in a small league, and prove a drawing card,the manager won't release you. And until he does no other manager wouldhire you. Though, of course, the double A leagues can draft anyone theylike."
Joe whistled softly.
"Then it isn't going to be so easy to get into another league as Ithought," he said.
"Not unless something happens," replied his team-mate. "Of course, ifanother manager wanted you badly enough he would pay the price, andbuy you from this club. High prices have been paid, too. There'sMarquard--the Giants gave ten thousand dollars to have him play forthem."
"Yes, I heard about that," spoke Joe, "but I supposed it was mostlytalk."
"There's a good deal more than talk," asserted Charlie. "Though it's agreat advertisement for a man. Think of being worth ten thousand dollarsmore than your salary!"
"And he didn't get the ten," commented Joe.
"No. That's the worst of it. We're the slaves of baseball, in a way."
"Oh, well, I don't mind being that kind of a slave," said Joe,laughingly.
He lay back in his seat as the train whirled on, and before him, as heclosed his eyes, he could see a girl's face--the face of Mabel Varley.
"I wonder if her brother told her?" mused the young pitcher. "If he didshe may think just as he did--that I had a hand in looting that valise.Oh, pshaw! I'm not going to think about it. And yet I wish the mysterywas cleared up--I sure do!"
The training had done all the players good. They were right "on edge"and eager to get into the fray. Not a little horse-play was indulged inon the way North. The team had a car to itself, and so felt more freedomthan otherwise would have been the case.
Terry Blake, the little "mascot" of the nine, was a great favorite, andhe and Joe soon became fast friends.
Terry liked to play tricks on the men who made so much of him, and latethat first afternoon he stole up behind Jake Collin, who had fallenasleep, and tickled his face with a bit of paper. At first the pitcherseemed to think it was a troublesome fly, and his half-awake endeavorsto get rid of it amused Terry and some others who were watching.
Then, as the tickling was persisted in, Collin awoke with a start.He had the name of waking up cross and ugly, and this time was noexception. As he started up he caught sight of the little mascot, andunderstood what had been going on.
"You brat!" he cried, leaping out into the aisle. Terry fled, withfrightened face, and Collin ran after him. "I'll punch you for that!"cried the pitcher.
"Oh, can't you take a joke?" someone asked him, but Collin paid no heed.He raced after poor little Terry, who had meant no harm, and the mascotmight have come to grief had not Joe stepped out into the aisle of thecar and confronted Collin.
"Let me past! Let me get at him!" stormed the man.
"No, not now," was Joe's quiet answer.
"Out of my way, you whipper-snapper, or I'll----"
He drew back his arm, his fist clenched, but Joe never quailed. Helooked Collin straight in the eyes, and the man's arm went down. Joe wassmaller than he, but the young pitcher was no weakling.
"That'll do, Collin," said Jimmie Mack, quietly. "The boy only meant itfor a joke."
Collin did not answer. But as he turned aside to go back to his seat hegave Joe a black look. There was an under-current of unpleasant feelingover the incident during the remainder of the trip.
Little Terry stole up to Joe, when the players came back from thedining-car, and, slipped his small hand into that of the pitcher.
"I--I like you," he said, softly.
"Do you?" asked Joe with smile. "I'm glad of that, Terry."
"And I'll always see that you have the bat you want when you want it,"went on the little mascot. Poor little chap, he was an orphan, and GusHarrison, the big centre fielder, had practically adopted him. Then hewas made the official mascot, and while perhaps the constant associationwith the ball players was not altogether good for the small lad, stillhe might have been worse off.
Pittston was reached in due season, no happenings worth chroniclingtaking place on the way. Joe was eager to see what sort of a ball fieldthe team owned, and he was not disappointed when, early the morningafter his arrival, he and the others went out to it for practice.
It was far from being the New York Polo Grounds, nor was the field equalto the one at Yale, but Joe had learned to take matters as they came,and he never forgot that he was only with a minor league.
"Time enough to look for grounds laid out with a rule and compass when Iget into a major league," he told himself. "That is, if I can get myrelease."
Joe found some letters from home awaiting him at the hotel where theteam had its official home. But, before he answered them he wrote toMabel. I
wonder if we ought to blame him?
The more Joe saw of his team-mates the more he liked them--save Collin,and that was no fault of the young pitcher. He found Pittston a pleasantplace, and the citizens ardent "fans." They thought their team was aboutas good as any in that section, and, though it had not captured thepennant, there were hopes that it would come to Pittston that season.
"They're good rooters!" exclaimed Jimmie Mack. "I will say that for thisPittston bunch. They may not be such a muchness otherwise, but they'regood rooters, and it's a pleasure to play ball here. They warm you up,and make you do your best."
Joe was glad to hear this.
The new grounds were a little strange to him, at first, but he soonbecame used to them after one or two days' practice. Nearly all theother players, of course, were more at home.
"And now, boys," said Manager Gregory, when practice had closed one day."I want you to do your prettiest to-morrow. I've got a good team--I knowit. Some of you are new to me, but I've heard about you, and I'm bankingon your making good. I want you to wallop Clevefield to-morrow. I wantevery man to do his best, and don't want any hard feelings if I play oneman instead of another. I have reasons for it. Now that's my last wordto you. I want you to win."
There was a little nervous feeling among the players as the time for thefirst league game drew near. A number of the men had been bought fromother clubs. There was one former Clevefield player on the Pittstonteam, and also one from the pennant club of a previous year.
That night Joe spent some time studying the batting averages of theopposing team, and also he read as much of their history as he could gethold of. He wanted to know the characteristics of the various batters ifhe should be fortunate enough to face them from the pitching mound.
There was the blare of a band, roars of cheers, and much excitement. Theofficial opening of the league season was always an event in Pittston,as it is in most large cities. The team left their hotel in a body,going to the grounds in a large 'bus, which was decorated with flags. Amounted police escort had been provided, and a large throng, mostlyboys, marched to the grounds, accompanying the players.
There another demonstration took place as the home team paraded over thediamond, and greeted their opponents, who were already on hand, anovation having also been accorded to them.
The band played again, there were more cheers and encouraging calls, andthen the Mayor of the city stepped forward to throw the first ball.Clevefield was to bat first, the home team, in league games, alwayscoming up last.
The initial ball, of course, was only a matter of form, and the batteronly pretended to strike at it.
Then came the announcement all were waiting for; the naming of thePittston battery.
"For Clevefield," announced the umpire, "McGuinness and Sullivan. ForPittston, Matson and Nelson."
Joe had been picked to open the battle, and Nelson, who was the regularcatcher, except when Gregory took a hand, would back him up. Joe's earsrang as he walked to the mound.
"Play ball!" droned the umpire.