Breaking Into Fast Company
They may say baseball is the same in the minor
leagues that it is in the big leagues, but any old
ball player or manager knows better. Where the
difference comes in, however, is in the greater
excellence and unity of the major players, a speed,
a daring, a finish that can be acquired only in
competition with one another.
I thought of this when I led my party into
Morrisey's private box in the grand stand of the
Chicago American League grounds. We had
come to see the Rube's break into fast company.
My great pitcher, Whittaker Hurtle, the Rube,
as we called him, had won the Eastern League
Pennant for me that season, and Morrisey, the
Chicago magnate, had bought him. Milly, my
affianced, was with me, looking as happy as she
was pretty, and she was chaperoned by her
mother, Mrs. Nelson.
With me, also, were two veterans of my team,
McCall and Spears, who lived in Chicago, and
who would have traveled a few miles to see the
Rube pitch. And the other member of my party
was Mrs. Hurtle, the Rube's wife, as saucy and
as sparkling-eyed as when she had been Nan
Brown. Today she wore a new tailor-made gown,
new bonnet, new gloves--she said she had decorated
herself in a manner befitting the wife of a
major league pitcher.
Morrisey's box was very comfortable, and, as
I was pleased to note, so situated that we had a
fine view of the field and stands, and yet were
comparatively secluded. The bleachers were filling.
Some of the Chicago players were on the
field tossing and batting balls; the Rube,
however, had not yet appeared.
A moment later a metallic sound was heard on
the stairs leading up into the box. I knew it for
baseball spiked shoes clanking on the wood.
The Rube, looking enormous in his uniform,
stalked into the box, knocking over two chairs as
he entered. He carried a fielder's glove in one
huge freckled hand, and a big black bat in the
other.
Nan, with much dignity and a very manifest
pride, introduced him to Mrs. Nelson.
There was a little chatting, and then, upon the
arrival of Manager Morrisey, we men retired to
the back of the box to talk baseball.
Chicago was in fourth place in the league race,
and had a fighting chance to beat Detroit out for
the third position. Philadelphia was scheduled
for that day, and Philadelphia had a great team.
It was leading the race, and almost beyond all
question would land the flag. In truth, only one
more victory was needed to clinch the pennant.
The team had three games to play in Chicago and
it was to wind up the season with three in
Washington. Six games to play and only one
imperatively important to win! But baseball is
uncertain, and until the Philadelphians won that game
they would be a band of fiends.
``Well, Whit, this is where you break in,'' I
said. ``Now, tip us straight. You've had more
than a week's rest. How's that arm?''
``Grand, Con, grand!'' replied the Rube with
his frank smile. ``I was a little anxious till I
warmed up. But say! I've got more up my sleeve
today than I ever had.''
``That'll do for me,'' said Morrisey, rubbing
his hands. ``I'll spring something on these
swelled Quakers today. Now, Connelly, give Hurtle
one of your old talks--the last one--and then
I'll ring the gong.''
I added some words of encouragement, not
forgetting my old ruse to incite the Rube by rousing
his temper. And then, as the gong rang and the
Rube was departing, Nan stepped forward for
her say. There was a little white under the tan on
her cheek, and her eyes had a darkling flash.
``Whit, it's a magnificent sight--that beautiful
green field and the stands. What a crowd of
fans! Why, I never saw a real baseball crowd
before. There are twenty thousand here. And
there's a difference in the feeling. It's sharper
--new to me. It's big league baseball. Not a soul
in that crowd ever heard of you, but, I believe,
tomorrow the whole baseball world will have heard
of you. Mr. Morrisey knows. I saw it in his
face. Captain Spears knows. Connie knows. I
know.''
Then she lifted her face and, pulling him down
within reach, she kissed him. Nan took her husband's
work in dead earnest; she gloried in it,
and perhaps she had as much to do with making
him a great pitcher as any of us.
The Rube left the box, and I found a seat
between Nan and Milly. The field was a splendid
sight. Those bleachers made me glow with managerial
satisfaction. On the field both teams
pranced and danced and bounced around in practice.
In spite of the absolutely last degree of egotism
manifested by the Philadelphia players, I could
not but admire such a splendid body of men.
``So these are the champions of last season and
of this season, too,'' commented Milly. ``I don't
wonder. How swiftly and cleanly they play!
They appear not to exert themselves, yet they
always get the ball in perfect time. It all reminds
me of--of the rhythm of music. And that champion
batter and runner--that Lane in center--
isn't he just beautiful? He walks and runs like a
blue-ribbon winner at the horse show. I tell you
one thing, Connie, these Quakers are on dress
parade.''
``Oh, these Quakers hate themselves, I don't
think!'' retorted Nan. Being a rabid girl-fan it
was, of course, impossible for Nan to speak baseball
convictions or gossip without characteristic
baseball slang. ``Stuck on themselves! I never
saw the like in my life. That fellow Lane is so
swelled that he can't get down off his toes. But
he's a wonder, I must admit that. They're a
bunch of stars. Easy, fast, trained--they're
machines, and I'll bet they're Indians to fight. I can
see it sticking out all over them. This will
certainly be some game with Whit handing up that
jump ball of his to this gang of champs. But,
Connie, I'll go you Whit beats them.''
I laughed and refused to gamble.
The gong rang; the crowd seemed to hum and
rustle softly to quiet attention; Umpire McClung
called the names of the batteries; then the
familiar ``Play!''
There was the usual applause from the grand
stand and welcome cheers from the bleachers.
The Rube was the last player to go out.
Morrisey was a manager who always played to the
stands, and no doubt he held the Rube back for
effect. If so, he ought to have been gratified.
That moment reminded me of my own team and
audience upon the occasion of the Rube's debut.
It was the same only here it happened in the
big league, before a championship team and
twenty thousand fans.
The roar that went up from the bleachers might
well have scared an unseasoned pitcher out of his
wits. And the Quakers lined up before their
bench and gazed at this newcomer who had the
nerve to walk out there to the box. Cogswell
stood on the coaching line, looked at the Rube and
then held up both arms and turned toward the
Chicago bench as if to ask Morrisey: ``Where
did you get that?''
Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leaned
over the box-rail and looked at the champions
with fire in her eye. ``Oh, you just wait! wait!''
she bit out between her teeth.
Certain it was that there was no one who knew
the Rube as well as I; and I knew beyond the
shadow of a doubt that the hour before me would
see brightening of a great star pitcher on the big
league horizon. It was bound to be a full hour
for me. I had much reason to be grateful to Whit
Hurtle. He had pulled my team out of a rut and
won me the pennant, and the five thousand dollars
I got for his release bought the little cottage on
the hill for Milly and me. Then there was my
pride in having developed him. And all that I
needed to calm me, settle me down into assurance
and keen criticism of the game, was to see the
Rube pitch a few balls with his old incomparable
speed and control.
Berne, first batter for the Quakers, walked up
to the plate. He was another Billy Hamilton,
built like a wedge. I saw him laugh at the long
pitcher.
Whit swayed back, coiled and uncoiled. Something
thin, white, glancing, shot at Berne. He
ducked, escaping the ball by a smaller margin
than appeared good for his confidence. He spoke
low to the Rube, and what he said was probably
not flavored with the milk of friendly sweetness.
``Wild! What'd you look for?'' called out
Cogswell scornfully. ``He's from the woods!''
The Rube swung his enormously long arm, took
an enormous stride toward third base, and pitched
again. It was one of his queer deliveries. The
ball cut the plate.
``Ho! Ho!'' yelled the Quakers.
The Rube's next one was his out curve. It
broke toward the corner of the plate and would
have been a strike had not Berne popped it up.
Callopy, the second hitter, faced the Rube, and
he, too, after the manner of ball players, made
some remark meant only for the Rube's ears.
Callopy was a famous waiter. He drove more
pitchers mad with his implacable patience than
any hitter in the league. The first one of the
Rube's he waited on crossed the in-corner; the
second crossed the out-corner and the third was
Rube's wide, slow, tantalizing ``stitch-ball,'' as
we call it, for the reason that it came so slow a
batter could count the stitches. I believe Callopy
waited on that curve, decided to hit it, changed
his mind and waited some more, and finally the
ball maddened him and he had to poke at it, the
result being a weak grounder.
Then the graceful, powerful Lane, champion
batter, champion base runner, stepped to the
plate. How a baseball crowd, any crowd, anywhere,
loves the champion batter! The ovation
Lane received made me wonder, with this impressive
reception in a hostile camp, what could be
the manner of it on his home field? Any boy ball-
player from the lots seeing Lane knock the dirt
out of his spikes and step into position would have
known he was a 400 hitter.
I was curious to see what the Rube would pitch
Lane. It must have been a new and significant
moment for Hurtle. Some pitchers actually wilt
when facing a hitter of Lane's reputation. But
he, on his baseball side, was peculiarly unemotional.
Undoubtedly he could get furious, but that
only increased his effectiveness. To my amazement
the Rube pitched Lane a little easy ball, not
in any sense like his floater or stitch-ball, but just
a little toss that any youngster might have tossed.
Of all possible balls, Lane was not expecting such
as that, and he let it go. If the nerve of it amazed
me, what did it not do to Lane? I saw his face
go fiery red. The grand stand murmured; let out
one short yelp of pleasure; the Quaker players
chaffed Lane.
The pitch was a strike. I was gripping my
chair now, and for the next pitch I prophesied the
Rube's wonderful jump ball, which he had not yet
used. He swung long, and at the end of his swing
seemed to jerk tensely. I scarcely saw the ball.
It had marvelous speed. Lane did not offer to hit
it, and it was a strike. He looked at the Rube,
then at Cogswell. That veteran appeared amused.
The bleachers, happy and surprised to be able to
yell at Lane, yelled heartily.
Again I took it upon myself to interpret the
Rube's pitching mind. He had another ball that
he had not used, a drop, an unhittable drop. I
thought he would use that next. He did, and
though Lane reached it with the bat, the hit was
a feeble one. He had been fooled and the side
was out.
Poole, the best of the Quaker's pitching staff,
walked out to the slab. He was a left-hander,
and Chicago, having so many players who batted
left-handed, always found a southpaw a hard
nut to crack. Cogswell, field manager and
captain of the Quakers, kicked up the dust around
first base and yelled to his men: ``Git in the
game!''
Staats hit Poole's speed ball into deep short
and was out; Mitchell flew out to Berne; Rand
grounded to second.
While the teams again changed sides the fans
cheered, and then indulged in the first stretch of
the game. I calculated that they would be stretching
their necks presently, trying to keep track of
the Rube's work. Nan leaned on the railing
absorbed in her own hope and faith. Milly chattered
about this and that, people in the boxes, and
the chances of the game.
My own interest, while it did not wholly
preclude the fortunes of the Chicago players at the
bat, was mostly concerned with the Rube's fortunes
in the field.
In the Rube's half inning he retired Bannister
and Blandy on feeble infield grounders, and
worked Cogswell into hitting a wide curve high
in the air.
Poole meant to win for the Quakers if his good
arm and cunning did not fail him, and his pitching
was masterly. McCloskey fanned, Hutchinson
fouled out, Brewster got a short safe fly just
out of reach, and Hoffner hit to second, forcing
Brewster.
With Dugan up for the Quakers in the third
inning, Cogswell and Bannister, from the coaching
lines, began to talk to the Rube. My ears,
keen from long practice, caught some of the
remarks in spite of the noisy bleachers.
``Say, busher, you 've lasted longer'n we
expected, but you don't know it!''
``Gol darn you city ball tossers! Now you jest
let me alone!''
``We're comin' through the rye!''
``My top-heavy rustic friend, you'll need an
airship presently, when you go up!''
All the badinage was good-natured, which was
sure proof that the Quakers had not arrived at
anything like real appreciation of the Rube. They
were accustomed to observe the trying out of
many youngsters, of whom ninety-nine out of a
hundred failed to make good.
Dugan chopped at three strikes and slammed
his bat down. Hucker hit a slow fly to Hoffer.
Three men out on five pitched balls! Cogswell,
old war horse that he was, stood a full moment
and watched the Rube as he walked in to the
bench. An idea had penetrated Cogswell's brain,
and I would have given something to know what
it was. Cogswell was a great baseball general,
and though he had a preference for matured ball-
players he could, when pressed, see the quality
in a youngster. He picked up his mitt and took
his position at first with a gruff word to his
players.
Rand for Chicago opened with a hit, and the
bleachers, ready to strike fire, began to cheer and
stamp. When McCloskey, in an attempt to sacrifice,
beat out his bunt the crowd roared. Rand,
eing slow on his feet, had not attempted to make
third on the play. Hutchinson sacrificed, neatly
advancing the runners. Then the bleachers
played the long rolling drum of clattering feet
with shrill whistling accompaniment. Brewster
batted a wicked ground ball to Blandy. He dove
into the dust, came up with the ball, and feinting
to throw home he wheeled and shot the ball to
Cogswell, who in turn shot it to the plate to head
Rand. Runner and ball got there apparently
together, but Umpire McClung's decision went
against Rand. It was fine, fast work, but how
the bleachers stormed at McClung!
``Rob-b-ber!''
Again the head of the Quakers' formidable list
was up. I knew from the way that Cogswell
paced the coaching box that the word had gone
out to look the Rube over seriously. There were
possibilities even in rubes.
Berne carefully stepped into the batter's box,
as if he wanted to be certain to the breadth of a
hair how close he was to the plate. He was there
this time to watch the Rube pitch, to work him
out, to see what was what. He crouched low, and
it would have been extremely hard to guess what
he was up to. His great play, however, was his
ability to dump the ball and beat out the throw
to first. It developed presently, that this was
now his intention and that the Rube knew it and
pitched him the one ball which is almost impossible
to bunt--a high incurve, over the inside corner.
There was no mistaking the Rube's magnificent
control. True as a plumb line he shot up
the ball--once, twice, and Berne fouled both--two
strikes. Grudgingly he waited on the next, but it,
too, was over the corner, and Berne went out on
strikes. The great crowd did not, of course, grasp
the finesse of the play, but Berne had struck out
--that was enough for them.
Callopy, the famous spiker, who had put many
a player out of the game for weeks at a time,
strode into the batter's place, and he, too, was not
at the moment making any funny remarks. The
Rube delivered a ball that all but hit Callopy fair
on the head. It was the second narrow escape
for him, and the roar he let out showed how he
resented being threatened with a little of his own
medicine. As might have been expected, and
very likely as the Rube intended, Callopy hit the
next ball, a sweeping curve, up over the infield.
I was trying to see all the intricate details of
the motive and action on the field, and it was not
easy to watch several players at once. But while
Berne and Callopy were having their troubles
with the Rube, I kept the tail of my eye on
Cogswell. He was prowling up and down the third-
base line.
He was missing no signs, no indications, no
probabilities, no possibilities. But he was in
doubt. Like a hawk he was watching the Rube,
and, as well, the crafty batters. The inning might
not tell the truth as to the Rube's luck, though it
would test his control. The Rube's speed and
curves, without any head work, would have made
him a pitcher of no mean ability, but was this
remarkable placing of balls just accident? That
was the question.
When Berne walked to the bench I distinctly
heard him say: ``Come out of it, you dubs. I say
you can't work him or wait him. He's peggin'
'em out of a gun!''
Several of the Quakers were standing out from
the bench, all intent on the Rube. He had stirred
them up. First it was humor; then ridicule,
curiosity, suspicion, doubt. And I knew it would grow
to wonder and certainty, then fierce attack from
both tongues and bats, and lastly--for ball players
are generous--unstinted admiration.
Somehow, not only the first climaxes of a game
but the decisions, the convictions, the reputations
of pitchers and fielders evolve around the great
hitter. Plain it was that the vast throng of
spectators, eager to believe in a new find, wild to
welcome a new star, yet loath to trust to their own
impulsive judgments, held themselves in check
until once more the great Lane had faced the
Rube.
The field grew tolerably quiet just then. The
Rube did not exert himself. The critical stage
had no concern for him. He pitched Lane a high
curve, over the plate, but in close, a ball meant
to be hit and a ball hard to hit safely. Lane knew
that as well as any hitter in the world, so he let
two of the curves go by--two strikes. Again the
Rube relentlessly gave him the same ball; and
Lane, hitting viciously, spitefully, because he did
not want to hit that kind of a ball, sent up a fly
that Rand easily captured.
``Oh, I don't know! Pretty fair, I guess!''
yelled a tenor-voiced fan; and he struck the key-
note. And the bleachers rose to their feet and
gave the Rube the rousing cheer of the brotherhood
of fans.
Hoffer walked to first on a base on balls.
Sweeney advanced him. The Rube sent up a giant
fly to Callopy. Then Staats hit safely, scoring
the first run of the game. Hoffer crossed the
plate amid vociferous applause. Mitchell ended
the inning with a fly to Blandy.
What a change had come over the spirit of that
Quaker aggregation! It was something to make
a man thrill with admiration and, if he happened
to favor Chicago, to fire all his fighting blood.
The players poured upon the Rube a continuous
stream of scathing abuse. They would have made
a raging devil of a mild-mannered clergyman.
Some of them were skilled in caustic wit, most of
them were possessed of forked tongues; and Cogswell,
he of a thousand baseball battles, had a
genius for inflaming anyone he tormented. This
was mostly beyond the ken of the audience, and
behind the back of the umpire, but it was perfectly
plain to me. The Quakers were trying to rattle
the Rube, a trick of the game as fair for one side
as for the other. I sat there tight in my seat,
grimly glorying in the way the Rube refused to
be disturbed. But the lion in him was rampant.
Fortunately, it was his strange gift to pitch better
the angrier he got; and the more the Quakers
flayed him, the more he let himself out to their
crushing humiliation.
The innings swiftly passed to the eighth with
Chicago failing to score again, with Philadelphia
failing to score at all. One scratch hit and a single,
gifts to the weak end of the batting list, were
all the lank pitcher allowed them. Long since the
bleachers had crowned the Rube. He was theirs
and they were his; and their voices had the
peculiar strangled hoarseness due to over-exertion.
The grand stand, slower to understand and
approve, arrived later; but it got there about the
seventh, and ladies' gloves and men's hats were
sacrificed.
In the eighth the Quakers reluctantly yielded
their meed of praise, showing it by a cessation of
their savage wordy attacks on the Rube. It was
a kind of sullen respect, wrung from the bosom of
great foes.
Then the ninth inning was at hand. As the
sides changed I remembered to look at the
feminine group in our box. Milly was in a most
beautiful glow of happiness and excitement. Nan
sat rigid, leaning over the rail, her face white
and drawn, and she kept saying in a low voice:
``Will it never end? Will it never end?'' Mrs.
Nelson stared wearily.
It was the Quakers' last stand. They faced it
as a team that had won many a game in the ninth
with two men out. Dugan could do nothing with
the Rube's unhittable drop, for a drop curve was
his weakness, and he struck out. Hucker hit to
Hoffer, who fumbled, making the first error of
the game. Poole dumped the ball, as evidently
the Rube desired, for he handed up a straight one,
but the bunt rolled teasingly and the Rube, being
big and tall, failed to field it in time.
Suddenly the whole field grew quiet. For the
first time Cogswell's coaching was clearly heard.
``One out! Take a lead! Take a lead! Go
through this time. Go through!''
Could it be possible, I wondered, that after such
a wonderful exhibition of pitching the Rube would
lose out in the ninth?
There were two Quakers on base, one out, and
two of the best hitters in the league on deck, with a
chance of Lane getting up.
``Oh! Oh! Oh!'' moaned Nan.
I put my hand on hers. ``Don't quit, Nan.
You'll never forgive yourself if you quit. Take
it from me, Whit will pull out of this hole!''
What a hole that was for the Rube on the day
of his break into fast company! I measured it
by his remarkable deliberation. He took a long
time to get ready to pitch to Berne, and when he
let drive it was as if he had been trifling all before
in that game. I could think of no way to figure
it except that when the ball left him there was
scarcely any appreciable interval of time before
it cracked in Sweeney's mitt. It was the Rube's
drop, which I believed unhittable. Berne let it
go by, shaking his head as McClung called it a
strike. Another followed, which Berne chopped
at vainly. Then with the same upheaval of his
giant frame, the same flinging of long arms and
lunging forward, the Rube delivered a third drop.
And Berne failed to hit it.
The voiceless bleachers stamped on the benches
and the grand stand likewise thundered.
Callopy showed his craft by stepping back and
lining Rube's high pitch to left. Hoffer leaped
across and plunged down, getting his gloved hand
in front of the ball. The hit was safe, but Hoffer's
valiant effort saved a tie score.
Lane up! Three men on bases! Two out!
Not improbably there were many thousand
spectators of that thrilling moment who pitied
the Rube for the fate which placed Lane at the
bat then. But I was not one of them. Nevertheless
my throat was clogged, my mouth dry, and
my ears full of bells. I could have done something
terrible to Hurtle for his deliberation, yet I knew
he was proving himself what I had always tried
to train him to be.
Then he swung, stepped out, and threw his body
with the ball. This was his rarely used pitch, his
last resort, his fast rise ball that jumped up a
little at the plate. Lane struck under it. How
significant on the instant to see old Cogswell's
hands go up! Again the Rube pitched, and this
time Lane watched the ball go by. Two strikes!
That whole audience leaped to its feet,
whispering, yelling, screaming, roaring, bawling.
The Rube received the ball from Sweeney and
quick as lightning he sped it plateward. The great
Lane struck out! The game was over--Chicago,
1; Philadelphia, 0.
In that whirling moment when the crowd went
mad and Milly was hugging me, and Nan pounding
holes in my hat, I had a queer sort of blankness,
a section of time when my sensations were
deadlocked.
``Oh! Connie, look!'' cried Nan. I saw Lane
and Cogswell warmly shaking hands with the
Rube. Then the hungry clamoring fans tumbled
upon the field and swarmed about the players.
Wereupon Nan kissed me and Milly, and then
kissed Mrs. Nelson. In that radiant moment Nan
was all sweetness.
``It is the Rube's break into fast company,'' she
said.
-THE END-
Zane Grey's short story: Breaking Into Fast Company
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