There was Delaney's red-haired trio--Red Gilbat,
left fielder; Reddy Clammer, right fielder, and
Reddie Ray, center fielder, composing the most
remarkable outfield ever developed in minor
league baseball. It was Delaney's pride, as it was
also his trouble.
Red Gilbat was nutty--and his batting average
was .371. Any student of baseball could weigh
these two facts against each other and understand
something of Delaney's trouble. It was not possible
to camp on Red Gilbat's trail. The man was
a jack-o'-lantern, a will-o'-the-wisp, a weird, long-
legged, long-armed, red-haired illusive phantom.
When the gong rang at the ball grounds there
were ten chances to one that Red would not be
present. He had been discovered with small boys
peeping through knotholes at the vacant left field
he was supposed to inhabit during play.
Of course what Red did off the ball grounds
was not so important as what he did on. And
there was absolutely no telling what under the sun
he might do then except once out of every three
times at bat he could be counted on to knock the
cover off the ball.
Reddy Clammer was a grand-stand player--the
kind all managers hated--and he was hitting .305.
He made circus catches, circus stops, circus
throws, circus steals--but particularly circus
catches. That is to say, he made easy plays
appear difficult. He was always strutting, posing,
talking, arguing, quarreling--when he was not
engaged in making a grand-stand play. Reddy
Clammer used every possible incident and artifice
to bring himself into the limelight.
Reddie Ray had been the intercollegiate
champion in the sprints and a famous college ball
player. After a few months of professional ball
he was hitting over .400 and leading the league
both at bat and on the bases. It was a beautiful
and a thrilling sight to see him run. He was so
quick to start, so marvelously swift, so keen of
judgment, that neither Delaney nor any player
could ever tell the hit that he was not going to
get. That was why Reddie Ray was a whole game
in himself.
Delaney's Rochester Stars and the Providence
Grays were tied for first place. Of the present
series each team had won a game. Rivalry had
always been keen, and as the teams were about
to enter the long homestretch for the pennant
there was battle in the New England air.
The September day was perfect. The stands
were half full and the bleachers packed with a
white-sleeved mass. And the field was beautifully
level and green. The Grays were practicing and
the Stars were on their bench.
``We're up against it,'' Delaney was saying.
``This new umpire, Fuller, hasn't got it in for us.
Oh, no, not at all! Believe me, he's a robber.
But Scott is pitchin' well. Won his last three
games. He'll bother 'em. And the three Reds
have broken loose. They're on the rampage.
They'll burn up this place today.''
Somebody noted the absence of Gilbat.
Delaney gave a sudden start. ``Why, Gil was
here,'' he said slowly. ``Lord!--he's about due
for a nutty stunt.''
Whereupon Delaney sent boys and players
scurrying about to find Gilbat, and Delaney went
himself to ask the Providence manager to hold
back the gong for a few minutes.
Presently somebody brought Delaney a telephone
message that Red Gilbat was playing ball
with some boys in a lot four blocks down the
street. When at length a couple of players
marched up to the bench with Red in tow Delaney
uttered an immense sigh of relief and then, after
a close scrutiny of Red's face, he whispered,
``Lock the gates!''
Then the gong rang. The Grays trooped in.
The Stars ran out, except Gilbat, who ambled like
a giraffe. The hum of conversation in the grand
stand quickened for a moment with the scraping
of chairs, and then grew quiet. The bleachers
sent up the rollicking cry of expectancy. The
umpire threw out a white ball with his stentorian
``Play!'' and Blake of the Grays strode to the
plate.
Hitting safely, he started the game with a rush.
With Dorr up, the Star infield played for a bunt.
Like clockwork Dorr dumped the first ball as
Blake got his flying start for second base. Morrissey
tore in for the ball, got it on the run and
snapped it underhand to Healy, beating the
runner by an inch. The fast Blake, with a long
slide, made third base. The stands stamped. The
bleachers howled. White, next man up, batted a
high fly to left field. This was a sun field and
the hardest to play in the league. Red Gilbat was
the only man who ever played it well. He judged
the fly, waited under it, took a step hack, then
forward, and deliberately caught the ball in his
gloved hand. A throw-in to catch the runner scoring
from third base would have been futile, but
it was not like Red Gilbat to fail to try. He tossed
the ball to O'Brien. And Blake scored amid
applause.
``What do you know about that?'' ejaculated
Delaney, wiping his moist face. ``I never
before saw our nutty Redhead pull off a play like
that.''
Some of the players yelled at Red, ``This is a
two-handed league, you bat!''
The first five players on the list for the Grays
were left-handed batters, and against a right-
handed pitcher whose most effective ball for them
was a high fast one over the outer corner they
would naturally hit toward left field. It was no
surprise to see Hanley bat a skyscraper out to left.
Red had to run to get under it. He braced himself
rather unusually for a fielder. He tried to
catch the ball in his bare right hand and muffed it,
Hanley got to second on the play while the audience
roared. When they got through there was
some roaring among the Rochester players. Scott
and Captain Healy roared at Red, and Red roared
back at them.
``It's all off. Red never did that before,'' cried
Delaney in despair. ``He's gone clean bughouse
now.''
Babcock was the next man up and he likewise
hit to left. It was a low, twisting ball--half fly,
half liner--and a difficult one to field. Gilbat ran
with great bounds, and though he might have got
two hands on the ball he did not try, but this time
caught it in his right, retiring the side.
The Stars trotted in, Scott and Healy and Kane,
all veterans, looking like thunderclouds. Red
ambled in the last and he seemed very nonchalant.
``By Gosh, I'd 'a' ketched that one I muffed
if I'd had time to change hands,'' he said with a
grin, and he exposed a handful of peanuts. He
had refused to drop the peanuts to make the
catch with two hands. That explained the
mystery. It was funny, yet nobody laughed. There
was that run chalked up against the Stars, and
this game had to be won.
``Red, I--I want to take the team home in the
lead,'' said Delaney, and it was plain that he
suppressed strong feeling. ``You didn't play the
game, you know.''
Red appeared mightily ashamed.
``Del, I'll git that run back,'' he said.
Then he strode to the plate, swinging his wagon-
tongue bat. For all his awkward position in the
box he looked what he was--a formidable hitter.
He seemed to tower over the pitcher--Red was
six feet one--and he scowled and shook his bat
at Wehying and called, ``Put one over--you
wienerwurst!'' Wehying was anything but red-
headed, and he wasted so many balls on Red that
it looked as if he might pass him. He would have
passed him, too, if Red had not stepped over on
the fourth ball and swung on it. White at second
base leaped high for the stinging hit, and failed
to reach it. The ball struck and bounded for the
fence. When Babcock fielded it in, Red was standing
on third base, and the bleachers groaned.
Whereupon Chesty Reddy Clammer proceeded
to draw attention to himself, and incidentally delay
the game, by assorting the bats as if the audience
and the game might gladly wait years to see
him make a choice.
``Git in the game!'' yelled Delaney.
``Aw, take my bat, Duke of the Abrubsky!''
sarcastically said Dump Kane. When the grouchy
Kane offered to lend his bat matters were critical
in the Star camp.
Other retorts followed, which Reddy Clammer
deigned not to notice. At last he got a bat that
suited him--and then, importantly, dramatically,
with his cap jauntily riding his red locks, he
marched to the plate.
Some wag in the bleachers yelled into the
silence, ``Oh, Maggie, your lover has come!''
Not improbably Clammer was thinking first of
his presence before the multitude, secondly of his
batting average and thirdly of the run to be
scored. In this instance he waited and feinted at
balls and fouled strikes at length to work his base.
When he got to first base suddenly he bolted for
second, and in the surprise of the unlooked-for
play he made it by a spread-eagle slide. It was a
circus steal.
Delaney snorted. Then the look of profound
disgust vanished in a flash of light. His huge face
beamed.
Reddie Ray was striding to the plate.
There was something about Reddie Ray that
pleased all the senses. His lithe form seemed
instinct with life; any sudden movement was suggestive
of stored lightning. His position at the
plate was on the left side, and he stood perfectly
motionless, with just a hint of tense waiting
alertness. Dorr, Blake and Babcock, the outfielders
for the Grays, trotted round to the right of their
usual position. Delaney smiled derisively, as if
he knew how futile it was to tell what field Reddie
Ray might hit into. Wehying, the old fox, warily
eyed the youngster, and threw him a high curve,
close in. It grazed Reddie's shirt, but he never
moved a hair. Then Wehying, after the manner
of many veteran pitchers when trying out a new
and menacing batter, drove a straight fast ball at
Reddie's head. Reddie ducked, neither too slow
nor too quick, just right to show what an eye he
had, how hard it was to pitch to. The next was
a strike. And on the next he appeared to step
and swing in one action. There was a ringing
rap, and the ball shot toward right, curving down,
a vicious, headed hit. Mallory, at first base,
snatched at it and found only the air. Babcock
had only time to take a few sharp steps, and then
he plunged down, blocked the hit and fought the
twisting ball. Reddie turned first base, flitted on
toward second, went headlong in the dust, and
shot to the base before White got the throw-in
from Babcock. Then, as White wheeled and lined
the ball home to catch the scoring Clammer,
Reddie Ray leaped up, got his sprinter's start
and, like a rocket, was off for third. This time
he dove behind the base, sliding in a half circle,
and as Hanley caught Strickland's perfect throw
and whirled with the ball, Reddie's hand slid to
the bag.
Reddie got to his feet amid a rather breathless
silence. Even the coachers were quiet. There
was a moment of relaxation, then Wehying
received the ball from Hanley and faced the
batter.
This was Dump Kane. There was a sign of
some kind, almost imperceptible, between Kane
and Reddie. As Wehying half turned in his swing
to pitch, Reddie Ray bounded homeward. It was
not so much the boldness of his action as the
amazing swiftness of it that held the audience
spellbound. Like a thunderbolt Reddie came
down the line, almost beating Wehying's pitch to
the plate. But Kane's bat intercepted the ball,
laying it down, and Reddie scored without sliding.
Dorr, by sharp work, just managed to throw Kane
out.
Three runs so quick it was hard to tell how they
had come. Not in the major league could there
have been faster work. And the ball had been
fielded perfectly and thrown perfectly.
``There you are,'' said Delaney, hoarsely.
``Can you beat it? If you've been wonderin' how
the cripped Stars won so many games just put
what you've seen in your pipe and smoke it. Red
Gilbat gets on--Reddy Clammer gets on--and
then Reddie Ray drives them home or chases them
home.''
The game went on, and though it did not exactly
drag it slowed down considerably. Morrissey and
Healy were retired on infield plays. And the sides
changed. For the Grays, O'Brien made a scratch
hit, went to second on Strickland's sacrifice, stole
third and scored on Mallory's infield out. Wehying
missed three strikes. In the Stars' turn the
three end players on the batting list were easily
disposed of. In the third inning the clever Blake,
aided by a base on balls and a hit following, tied
the score, and once more struck fire and brimstone
from the impatient bleachers. Providence was a
town that had to have its team win.
``Git at 'em, Reds!'' said Delaney gruffly.
``Batter up!'' called Umpire Fuller, sharply.
``Where's Red? Where's the bug? Where's
the nut? Delaney, did you lock the gates? Look
under the bench!'' These and other remarks, not
exactly elegant, attested to the mental processes
of some of the Stars. Red Gilbat did not appear
to be forthcoming. There was an anxious delay
Capt. Healy searched for the missing player.
Delaney did not say any more.
Suddenly a door under the grand stand opened
and Red Gilbat appeared. He hurried for his bat
and then up to the plate. And he never offered
to hit one of the balls Wehying shot over. When
Fuller had called the third strike Red hurried
back to the door and disappeared.
``Somethin' doin','' whispered Delaney.
Lord Chesterfield Clammer paraded to the
batter's box and, after gradually surveying the
field, as if picking out the exact place he meant to
drive the ball, he stepped to the plate. Then a
roar from the bleachers surprised him.
``Well, I'll be dog-goned!'' exclaimed Delaney.
``Red stole that sure as shootin'.''
Red Gilbat was pushing a brand-new baby carriage
toward the batter's box. There was a tittering
in the grand stand; another roar from the
bleachers. Clammer's face turned as red as his
hair. Gilbat shoved the baby carriage upon the
plate, spread wide his long arms, made a short
presentation speech and an elaborate bow, then
backed away.
All eyes were centered on Clammer. If he had
taken it right the incident might have passed without
undue hilarity. But Clammer became absolutely
wild with rage. It was well known that
he was unmarried. Equally well was it seen that
Gilbat had executed one of his famous tricks.
Ball players were inclined to be dignified about
the presentation of gifts upon the field, and
Clammer, the dude, the swell, the lady's man, the
favorite of the baseball gods--in his own estimation--
so far lost control of himself that he threw
his bat at his retreating tormentor. Red jumped
high and the bat skipped along the ground toward
the bench. The players sidestepped and leaped
and, of course, the bat cracked one of Delaney's
big shins. His eyes popped with pain, but he
could not stop laughing. One by one the players
lay down and rolled over and yelled. The
superior Clammer was not overliked by his co-
players.
From the grand stand floated the laughter of
ladies and gentlemen. And from the bleachers--
that throne of the biting, ironic, scornful fans--
pealed up a howl of delight. It lasted for a full
minute. Then, as quiet ensued, some boy blew a
blast of one of those infernal little instruments of
pipe and rubber balloon, and over the field wailed
out a shrill, high-keyed cry, an excellent imitation
of a baby. Whereupon the whole audience roared,
and in discomfiture Reddy Clammer went in
search of his bat.
To make his chagrin all the worse he ingloriously
struck out. And then he strode away under
the lea of the grand-stand wall toward right field.
Reddie Ray went to bat and, with the infield
playing deep and the outfield swung still farther
round to the right, he bunted a little teasing ball
down the third-base line. Like a flash of light
he had crossed first base before Hanley got his
hands on the ball. Then Kane hit into second
base, forcing Reddie out.
Again the game assumed less spectacular and
more ordinary play. Both Scott and Wehying
held the batters safely and allowed no runs. But
in the fifth inning, with the Stars at bat and two
out, Red Gilbat again electrified the field. He
sprang up from somewhere and walked to the
plate, his long shape enfolded in a full-length linen
duster. The color and style of this garment
might not have been especially striking, but upon
Red it had a weird and wonderful effect.
Evidently Red intended to bat while arrayed in his
long coat, for he stepped into the box and faced
the pitcher. Capt. Healy yelled for him to take
the duster off. Likewise did the Grays yell.
The bleachers shrieked their disapproval. To
say the least, Red Gilbat's crazy assurance was
dampening to the ardor of the most blindly confident
fans. At length Umpire Fuller waved his
hand, enjoining silence and calling time.
``Take it off or I'll fine you.''
From his lofty height Gilbat gazed down upon
the little umpire, and it was plain what he thought.
``What do I care for money!'' replied Red.
``That costs you twenty-five,'' said Fuller.
``Cigarette change!'' yelled Red.
``Costs you fifty.''
``Bah! Go to an eye doctor,'' roared Red.
``Seventy-five,'' added Fuller, imperturbably.
``Make it a hundred!''
``It's two hundred.''
``ROB-B-BER!'' bawled Red.
Fuller showed willingness to overlook Red's
back talk as well as costume, and he called,
``Play!''
There was a mounting sensation of prophetic
certainty. Old fox Wehying appeared nervous.
He wasted two balls on Red; then he put one over
the plate, and then he wasted another. Three
balls and one strike! That was a bad place for a
pitcher, and with Red Gilbat up it was worse.
Wehying swung longer and harder to get all his
left behind the throw and let drive. Red lunged
and cracked the ball. It went up and up and kept
going up and farther out, and as the murmuring
audience was slowly transfixed into late realization
the ball soared to its height and dropped
beyond the left-field fence. A home run!
Red Gilbat gathered up the tails of his duster,
after the manner of a neat woman crossing a
muddy street, and ambled down to first base and
on to second, making prodigious jumps upon the
bags, and round third, to come down the home-
stretch wagging his red head. Then he stood on
the plate, and, as if to exact revenge from the
audience for the fun they made of him, he threw
back his shoulders and bellowed: ``HAW! HAW!
HAW!''
Not a handclap greeted him, but some mindless,
exceedingly adventurous fan yelled: ``Redhead!
Redhead! Redhead!''
That was the one thing calculated to rouse Red
Gilbat. He seemed to flare, to bristle, and he
paced for the bleachers.
Delaney looked as if he might have a stroke.
``Grab him! Soak him with a bat! Somebody
grab him!''
But none of the Stars was risking so much, and
Gilbat, to the howling derision of the gleeful fans,
reached the bleachers. He stretched his long
arms up to the fence and prepared to vault over.
``Where's the guy who called me redhead?'' he
yelled.
That was heaping fuel on the fire. From all
over the bleachers, from everywhere, came the
obnoxious word. Red heaved himself over the
fence and piled into the fans. Then followed the
roar of many voices, the tramping of many feet,
the pressing forward of line after line of shirt-
sleeved men and boys. That bleacher stand
suddenly assumed the maelstrom appearance of a
surging mob round an agitated center. In a
moment all the players rushed down the field, and
confusion reigned.
``Oh! Oh! Oh!'' moaned Delaney.
However, the game had to go on. Delaney, no
doubt, felt all was over. Nevertheless there were
games occasionally that seemed an unending
series of unprecedented events. This one had begun
admirably to break a record. And the Providence
fans, like all other fans, had cultivated an
appetite as the game proceeded. They were wild
to put the other redheads out of the field or at
least out for the inning, wild to tie the score, wild
to win and wilder than all for more excitement.
Clammer hit safely. But when Reddie Ray lined
to the second baseman, Clammer, having taken a
lead, was doubled up in the play.
Of course, the sixth inning opened with the
Stars playing only eight men. There was another
delay. Probably everybody except Delaney and
perhaps Healy had forgotten the Stars were short
a man. Fuller called time. The impatient bleachers
barked for action.
Capt. White came over to Delaney and courteously
offered to lend a player for the remaining
innings. Then a pompous individual came out of
the door leading from the press boxes--he was
a director Delaney disliked.
``Guess you'd better let Fuller call the game,''
he said brusquely.
``If you want to--as the score stands now in
our favor,'' replied Delaney.
``Not on your life! It'll be ours or else we'll
play it out and beat you to death.''
He departed in high dudgeon.
``Tell Reddie to swing over a little toward
left,'' was Delaney's order to Healy. Fire
gleamed in the manager's eye.
Fuller called play then, with Reddy Clammer
and Reddie Ray composing the Star outfield. And
the Grays evidently prepared to do great execution
through the wide lanes thus opened up. At
that stage it would not have been like matured
ball players to try to crop hits down into the
infield.
White sent a long fly back of Clammer. Reddy
had no time to loaf on this hit. It was all he could
do to reach it and he made a splendid catch, for
which the crowd roundly applauded him. That
applause was wine to Reddy Clammer. He began
to prance on his toes and sing out to Scott: ``Make
'em hit to me, old man! Make 'em hit to me!''
Whether Scott desired that or not was scarcely
possible to say; at any rate, Hanley pounded a
hit through the infield. And Clammer, prancing
high in the air like a check-reined horse, ran to
intercept the ball. He could have received it in
his hands, but that would never have served
Reddy Clammer. He timed the hit to a nicety,
went down with his old grand-stand play and
blocked the ball with his anatomy. Delaney
swore. And the bleachers, now warm toward the
gallant outfielder, lustily cheered him. Babcock
hit down the right-field foul line, giving Clammer
a long run. Hanley was scoring and Babcock was
sprinting for third base when Reddy got the ball.
He had a fine arm and he made a hard and
accurate throw, catching his man in a close play.
Perhaps even Delaney could not have found any
fault with that play. But the aftermath spoiled
the thing. Clammer now rode the air; he soared;
he was in the clouds; it was his inning and he had
utterly forgotten his team mates, except inasmuch
as they were performing mere little automatic
movements to direct the great machinery in his
direction for his sole achievement and glory.
There is fate in baseball as well as in other
walks of life. O'Brien was a strapping fellow and
he lifted another ball into Clammer's wide
territory. The hit was of the high and far-away
variety. Clammer started to run with it, not like
a grim outfielder, but like one thinking of himself,
his style, his opportunity, his inevitable
success. Certain it was that in thinking of himself
the outfielder forgot his surroundings. He ran
across the foul line, head up, hair flying, unheeding
the warning cry from Healy. And, reaching
up to make his crowning circus play, he smashed
face forward into the bleachers fence. Then,
limp as a rag, he dropped. The audience sent
forth a long groan of sympathy.
``That wasn't one of his stage falls,'' said
Delaney. ``I'll bet he's dead. . . . Poor Reddy!
And I want him to bust his face!''
Clammer was carried off the field into the dressing
room and a physician was summoned out of
the audience.
``Cap., what'd it--do to him?'' asked Delaney.
``Aw, spoiled his pretty mug, that's all,''
replied Healy, scornfully. ``Mebee he'll listen to
me now.''
Delaney's change was characteristic of the man.
``Well, if it didn't kill him I'm blamed glad he got
it. . . . Cap, we can trim 'em yet. Reddie Ray'll
play the whole outfield. Give Reddie a chance to
run! Tell the boy to cut loose. And all of you git
in the game. Win or lose, I won't forget it. I've
a hunch. Once in a while I can tell what's comin'
off. Some queer game this! And we're goin' to
win. Gilbat lost the game; Clammer throwed it
away again, and now Reddie Ray's due to win
it. . . . I'm all in, but I wouldn't miss the finish
to save my life.''
Delaney's deep presaging sense of baseball
events was never put to a greater test. And the
seven Stars, with the score tied, exhibited the
temper and timber of a championship team in the
last ditch. It was so splendid that almost
instantly it caught the antagonistic bleachers.
Wherever the tired Scott found renewed
strength and speed was a mystery. But he struck
out the hard-hitting Providence catcher and that
made the third out. The Stars could not score in
their half of the inning. Likewise the seventh
inning passed without a run for either side; only
the infield work of the Stars was something
superb. When the eighth inning ended, without a
tally for either team, the excitement grew tense.
There was Reddy Ray playing outfield alone, and
the Grays with all their desperate endeavors had
not lifted the ball out of the infield.
But in the ninth, Blake, the first man up, lined
low toward right center. The hit was safe and
looked good for three bases. No one looking, however,
had calculated on Reddie's Ray's fleetness.
He covered ground and dove for the bounding
ball and knocked it down. Blake did not get
beyond first base. The crowd cheered the play
equally with the prospect of a run. Dorr bunted
and beat the throw. White hit one of the high
fast balls Scott was serving and sent it close to
the left-field foul line. The running Reddie Ray
made on that play held White at second base. But
two runs had scored with no one out.
Hanley, the fourth left-handed hitter, came up
and Scott pitched to him as he had to the others
--high fast balls over the inside corner of the
plate. Reddy Ray's position was some fifty yards
behind deep short, and a little toward center field.
He stood sideways, facing two-thirds of that
vacant outfield. In spite of Scott's skill, Hanley
swung the ball far round into right field, but he
hit it high, and almost before he actually hit it the
great sprinter was speeding across the green.
The suspence grew almost unbearable as the
ball soared in its parabolic flight and the red-
haired runner streaked dark across the green.
The ball seemed never to be coming down. And
when it began to descend and reached a point
perhaps fifty feet above the ground there appeared
more distance between where it would alight and
where Reddie was than anything human could
cover. It dropped and dropped, and then dropped
into Reddie Ray's outstretched hands. He had
made the catch look easy. But the fact that White
scored from second base on the play showed what
the catch really was.
There was no movement or restlessness of the
audience such as usually indicated the beginning
of the exodus. Scott struck Babcock out. The
game still had fire. The Grays never let up a
moment on their coaching. And the hoarse voices
of the Stars were grimmer than ever. Reddie
Ray was the only one of the seven who kept silent.
And he crouched like a tiger.
The teams changed sides with the Grays three
runs in the lead. Morrissey, for the Stars, opened
with a clean drive to right. Then Healy slashed a
ground ball to Hanley and nearly knocked him
down. When old Burns, by a hard rap to short,
advanced the runners a base and made a desperate,
though unsuccessful, effort to reach first the
Providence crowd awoke to a strange and inspiring
appreciation. They began that most rare
feature in baseball audiences--a strong and
trenchant call for the visiting team to win.
The play had gone fast and furious. Wehying,
sweaty and disheveled, worked violently. All the
Grays were on uneasy tiptoes. And the Stars
were seven Indians on the warpath. Halloran
fouled down the right-field line; then he fouled
over the left-field fence. Wehying tried to make
him too anxious, but it was in vain. Halloran was
implacable. With two strikes and three balls he
hit straight down to white, and was out. The
ball had been so sharp that neither runner on base
had a chance to advance.
Two men out, two on base, Stars wanting three
runs to tie, Scott, a weak batter, at the plate!
The situation was disheartening. Yet there sat
Delaney, shot through and through with some
vital compelling force. He saw only victory. And
when the very first ball pitched to Scott hit him
on the leg, giving him his base, Delaney got to his
feet, unsteady and hoarse.
Bases full, Reddie Ray up, three runs to tie!
Delaney looked at Reddie. And Reddie looked
at Delaney. The manager's face was pale, intent,
with a little smile. The player had eyes of fire,
a lean, bulging jaw and the hands he reached for
his bat clutched like talons.
``Reddie, I knew it was waitin' for you,'' said
Delaney, his voice ringing. ``Break up the
game!''
After all this was only a baseball game, and
perhaps from the fans' viewpoint a poor game at
that. But the moment when that lithe, redhaired
athlete toed the plate was a beautiful one. The
long crash from the bleachers, the steady cheer
from the grand stand, proved that it was not so
much the game that mattered.
Wehying had shot his bolt; he was tired. Yet
he made ready for a final effort. It seemed that
passing Reddie Ray on balls would have been a
wise play at that juncture. But no pitcher, probably,
would have done it with the bases crowded
and chances, of course, against the batter.
Clean and swift, Reddie leaped at the first
pitched ball. Ping! For a second no one saw the
hit. Then it gleamed, a terrific drive, low along
the ground, like a bounding bullet, straight at
Babcock in right field. It struck his hands and
glanced viciously away to roll toward the fence.
Thunder broke loose from the stands. Reddie
Ray was turning first base. Beyond first base he
got into his wonderful stride. Some runners run
with a consistent speed, the best they can make
for a given distance. But this trained sprinter
gathered speed as he ran. He was no short-stepping
runner. His strides were long. They gave
an impression of strength combined with fleetness.
He had the speed of a race horse, but the
trimness, the raciness, the delicate legs were not
characteristic of him. Like the wind he turned
second, so powerful that his turn was short. All
at once there came a difference in his running. It
was no longer beautiful. The grace was gone. It
was now fierce, violent. His momentum was running
him off his legs. He whirled around third
base and came hurtling down the homestretch.
His face was convulsed, his eyes were wild. His
arms and legs worked in a marvelous muscular
velocity. He seemed a demon--a flying streak.
He overtook and ran down the laboring Scott, who
had almost reached the plate.
The park seemed full of shrill, piercing strife.
It swelled, reached a highest pitch, sustained that
for a long moment, and then declined.
``My Gawd!'' exclaimed Delaney, as he fell
back. ``Wasn't that a finish? Didn't I tell you
to watch them redheads!''
_________
-THE END-
Zane Grey's short story: The Redheaded Outfield
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