Old Well-Well
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.
Run! He was fleet as a deer. He cut through
first like the wind, settled to a driving strides
rounded second, and by a good, long slide beat
the throw in to third. The crowd, who went to
games to see long hits and daring runs, gave him
a generous hand-clapping.
Old Well-Well appeared on the verge of apoplexy.
His ruddy face turned purple, then black;
he rose in his seat; he gave vent to smothered
gasps; then he straightened up and clutched his
hands into his knees.
Burt scored his run on a hit to deep short, an
infielder's choice, with the chances against retiring
a runner at the plate. Philadelphia could not
tally again that inning. New York blanked in the
first of the next. For their opponents, an error,
a close decision at second favoring the runner,
and a single to right tied the score. Bell of New
York got a clean hit in the opening of the fifth.
With no one out and chances for a run, the
impatient fans let loose. Four subway trains in
collision would not have equalled the yell and stamp
in the bleachers. Maloney was next to bat and
he essayed a bunt. This the fans derided with
hoots and hisses. No team work, no inside ball
for them.
``Hit it out!'' yelled a hundred in unison.
``Home run!'' screamed a worshipper of long
hits.
As if actuated by the sentiments of his admirers
Maloney lined the ball over short. It looked good
for a double; it certainly would advance Bell to
third; maybe home. But no one calculated on
Burt. His fleetness enabled him to head the
bounding ball. He picked it up cleanly, and
checking his headlong run, threw toward third base.
Bell was half way there. The ball shot straight
and low with terrific force and beat the runner to
the bag.
``What a great arm!'' I exclaimed, deep in my
throat. ``It's the lad's day! He can't be
stopped.''
The keen newsboy sitting below us broke the
amazed silence in the bleachers.
``Wot d'ye tink o' that?''
Old Well-Well writhed in his seat. To him if
was a one-man game, as it had come to be for me.
I thrilled with him; I gloried in the making good
of his protege; it got to be an effort on my part
to look at the old man, so keenly did his emotion
communicate itself to me.
The game went on, a close, exciting, brilliantly
fought battle. Both pitchers were at their best.
The batters batted out long flies, low liners, and
sharp grounders; the fielders fielded these difficult
chances without misplay. Opportunities came
for runs, but no runs were scored for several
innings. Hopes were raised to the highest pitch
only to be dashed astonishingly away. The crowd
in the grand stand swayed to every pitched ball;
the bleachers tossed like surf in a storm.
To start the eighth, Stranathan of New York
tripled along the left foul line. Thunder burst
from the fans and rolled swellingly around the
field. Before the hoarse yelling, the shrill
hooting, the hollow stamping had ceased Stranathan
made home on an infield hit. Then bedlam broke
loose. It calmed down quickly, for the fans sensed
trouble between Binghamton, who had been
thrown out in the play, and the umpire who was
waving him back to the bench.
``You dizzy-eyed old woman, you can't see
straight!'' called Binghamton.
The umpire's reply was lost, but it was evident
that the offending player had been ordered out of
the grounds.
Binghamton swaggered along the bleachers
while the umpire slowly returned to his post. The
fans took exception to the player's objection and
were not slow in expressing it. Various witty
enconiums, not to be misunderstood, attested to
the bleachers' love of fair play and their disgust
at a player's getting himself put out of the game
at a critical stage.
The game proceeded. A second batter had been
thrown out. Then two hits in succession looked
good for another run. White, the next batter,
sent a single over second base. Burt scooped the
ball on the first bounce and let drive for the plate.
It was another extraordinary throw. Whether
ball or runner reached home base first was most
difficult to decide. The umpire made his sweeping
wave of hand and the breathless crowd caught
his decision.
``Out!''
In action and sound the circle of bleachers
resembled a long curved beach with a mounting
breaker thundering turbulently high.
``Rob--b--ber--r!'' bawled the outraged fans,
betraying their marvelous inconsistency.
Old Well-Well breathed hard. Again the
wrestling of his body signified an inward strife. I
began to feel sure that the man was in a mingled
torment of joy and pain, that he fought the maddening
desire to yell because he knew he had not
the strength to stand it. Surely, in all the years
of his long following of baseball he had never had
the incentive to express himself in his peculiar
way that rioted him now. Surely, before the game
ended he would split the winds with his wonderful
yell.
Duveen's only base on balls, with the help of
a bunt, a steal, and a scratch hit, resulted in a run
for Philadelphia, again tying the score. How the
fans raged at Fuller for failing to field the lucky
scratch.
``We had the game on ice!'' one cried.
``Get him a basket!''
New York men got on bases in the ninth and
made strenuous efforts to cross the plate, but it
was not to be. Philadelphia opened up with two
scorching hits and then a double steal. Burt came
up with runners on second and third. Half the
crowd cheered in fair appreciation of the way fate
was starring the ambitious young outfielder; the
other half, dyed-in-the-wool home-team fans, bent
forward in a waiting silent gloom of fear. Burt
knocked the dirt out of his spikes and faced
Duveen. The second ball pitched he met fairly and
it rang like a bell.
No one in the stands saw where it went. But
they heard the crack, saw the New York shortstop
stagger and then pounce forward to pick up the
ball and speed it toward the plate. The catcher
was quick to tag the incoming runner, and then
snap the ball to first base, completing a double
play.
When the crowd fully grasped this, which was
after an instant of bewilderment, a hoarse crashing
roar rolled out across the field to bellow back
in loud echo from Coogan's Bluff. The grand
stand resembled a colored corn field waving in a
violent wind; the bleachers lost all semblance of
anything. Frenzied, flinging action--wild chaos
--shrieking cries--manifested sheer insanity of
joy.
When the noise subsided, one fan, evidently
a little longer-winded than his comrades, cried out
hysterically:
``O-h! I don't care what becomes of me--
now-w!''
Score tied, three to three, game must go ten
innings--that was the shibboleth; that was the
overmastering truth. The game did go ten innings--
eleven--twelve, every one marked by masterly
pitching, full of magnificent catches, stops
and throws, replete with reckless base-running
and slides like flashes in the dust. But they were
unproductive of runs. Three to three! Thirteen
innings!
``Unlucky thirteenth,'' wailed a superstitious
fan.
I had got down to plugging, and for the first
time, not for my home team. I wanted Philadelphia
to win, because Burt was on the team. With
Old Well-Well sitting there so rigid in his seat,
so obsessed by the playing of the lad, I turned
traitor to New York.
White cut a high twisting bounder inside the
third base, and before the ball could be returned
he stood safely on second. The fans howled with
what husky voice they had left. The second hitter
batted a tremendously high fly toward center field.
Burt wheeled with the crack of the ball and raced
for the ropes. Onward the ball soared like a sailing
swallow; the fleet fielder ran with his back to
the stands. What an age that ball stayed in the
air! Then it lost its speed, gracefully curved and
began to fall. Burt lunged forward and upwards;
the ball lit in his hands and stuck there as he
plunged over the ropes into the crowd. White
had leisurely trotted half way to third; he saw the
catch, ran back to touch second and then easily
made third on the throw-in. The applause that
greeted Burt proved the splendid spirit of the
game. Bell placed a safe little hit over short,
scoring White. Heaving, bobbing bleachers--
wild, broken, roar on roar!
Score four to three--only one half inning left
for Philadelphia to play--how the fans rooted for
another run! A swift double-play, however, ended
the inning.
Philadelphia's first hitter had three strikes
called on him.
``Asleep at the switch!'' yelled a delighted fan.
The next batter went out on a weak pop-up fly
to second.
``Nothin' to it!''
``Oh, I hate to take this money!''
``All-l o-over!''
Two men at least of all that vast assemblage
had not given up victory for Philadelphia. I had
not dared to look at Old Well-Well for a long,
while. I dreaded the nest portentious moment.
I felt deep within me something like clairvoyant
force, an intangible belief fostered by hope.
Magoon, the slugger of the Phillies, slugged
one against the left field bleachers, but, being
heavy and slow, he could not get beyond second
base. Cless swung with all his might at the first
pitched ball, and instead of hitting it a mile as
he had tried, he scratched a mean, slow, teasing
grounder down the third base line. It was as
safe as if it had been shot out of a cannon. Magoon
went to third.
The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities;
sharp commands came from the players'
bench. The Philadelphia team were bowling and
hopping on the side lines, and had to be put down
by the umpire.
An inbreathing silence fell upon stands and
field, quiet, like a lull before a storm.
When I saw young Burt start for the plate and
realized it was his turn at bat, I jumped as if I
had been shot. Putting my hand on Old Well-
Well's shoulder I whispered: ``Burt's at bat:
He'll break up this game! I know he's going to
lose one!''
The old fellow did not feel my touch; he did not
hear my voice; he was gazing toward the field
with an expression on his face to which no human
speech could render justice. He knew what was
coming. It could not be denied him in that moment.
How confidently young Burt stood up to the
plate! None except a natural hitter could have
had his position. He might have been Wagner
for all he showed of the tight suspense of that
crisis. Yet there was a tense alert poise to his
head and shoulders which proved he was alive to
his opportunity.
Duveen plainly showed he was tired. Twice he
shook his head to his catcher, as if he did not
want to pitch a certain kind of ball. He had to
use extra motion to get his old speed, and he
delivered a high straight ball that Burt fouled over
the grand stand. The second ball met a similar
fate. All the time the crowd maintained that
strange waiting silence. The umpire threw out a
glistening white ball, which Duveen rubbed in the
dust and spat upon. Then he wound himself up
into a knot, slowly unwound, and swinging with
effort, threw for the plate.
Burt's lithe shoulders swung powerfully. The
meeting of ball and bat fairly cracked. The low
driving hit lined over second a rising glittering
streak, and went far beyond the center fielder.
Bleachers and stands uttered one short cry,
almost a groan, and then stared at the speeding
runners. For an instant, approaching doom could
not have been more dreaded. Magoon scored.
Cless was rounding second when the ball lit. If
Burt was running swiftly when he turned first he
had only got started, for then his long sprinter's
stride lengthened and quickened. At second he
was flying; beyond second he seemed to merge
into a gray flitting shadow.
I gripped my seat strangling the uproar within
me. Where was the applause? The fans were
silent, choked as I was, but from a different cause.
Cless crossed the plate with the score that
defeated New York; still the tension never laxed
until Burt beat the ball home in as beautiful a run
as ever thrilled an audience.
In the bleak dead pause of amazed disappointment
Old Well-Well lifted his hulking figure and
loomed, towered over the bleachers. His wide
shoulders spread, his broad chest expanded, his
breath whistled as he drew it in. One fleeting
instant his transfigured face shone with a glorious
light. Then, as he threw back his head and
opened his lips, his face turned purple, the muscles
of his cheeks and jaw rippled and strung, the veins
on his forehead swelled into bulging ridges. Even
the back of his neck grew red.
``Well!--Well!--Well!!!''
Ear-splitting stentorian blast! For a moment
I was deafened. But I heard the echo ringing
from the cliff, a pealing clarion call, beautiful and
wonderful, winding away in hollow reverberation,
then breaking out anew from building to
building in clear concatenation.
A sea of faces whirled in the direction of that
long unheard yell. Burt had stopped statue-like
as if stricken in his tracks; then he came running,
darting among the spectators who had leaped the
fence.
Old Well-Well stood a moment with slow glance
lingering on the tumult of emptying bleachers, on
the moving mingling colors in the grand stand,
across the green field to the gray-clad players.
He staggered forward and fell.
Before I could move, a noisy crowd swarmed
about him, some solicitous, many facetious.
Young Burt leaped the fence and forced his way
into the circle. Then they were carrying the old
man down to the field and toward the clubhouse.
I waited until the bleachers and field were
empty. When I finally went out there was a crowd
at the gate surrounding an ambulance. I caught
a glimpse of Old Well-Well. He lay white and
still, but his eyes were open, smiling intently.
Young Burt hung over him with a pale and agitated
face. Then a bell clanged and the ambulance
clattered away.
-THE END-
Zane Grey's short story: Old Well-Well
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
