It was the most critical time I had yet
experienced in my career as a baseball manager.
And there was more than the usual reason why
I must pull the team out. A chance for a
business deal depended upon the good-will of the
stockholders of the Worcester club. On the
outskirts of the town was a little cottage that I
wanted to buy, and this depended upon the business
deal. My whole future happiness depended
upon the little girl I hoped to install in that
cottage.
Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team,
I had found a strong aggregation and an
enthusiastic following. I really had a team with
pennant possibilities. Providence was a strong
rival, but I beat them three straight in the opening
series, set a fast pace, and likewise set Worcester
baseball mad. The Eastern League clubs
were pretty evenly matched; still I continued to
hold the lead until misfortune overtook me.
Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid
off. Mullaney got spiked while sliding and was
out of the game. Ashwell sprained his ankle and
Hirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great
pitcher, hurt his arm on a cold day and he could
not get up his old speed. Stringer, who had
batted three hundred and seventy-one and led the
league the year before, struck a bad spell and
could not hit a barn door handed up to him.
Then came the slump. The team suddenly let
down; went to pieces; played ball that would have
disgraced an amateur nine. It was a trying time.
Here was a great team, strong everywhere. A
little hard luck had dug up a slump--and now!
Day by day the team dropped in the race. When
we reached the second division the newspapers
flayed us. Worcester would never stand for a
second division team. Baseball admirers, reporters,
fans--especially the fans--are fickle. The
admirers quit, the reporters grilled us, and the
fans, though they stuck to the games with that
barnacle-like tenacity peculiar to them, made life
miserable for all of us. I saw the pennant slowly
fading, and the successful season, and the business
deal, and the cottage, and Milly----
But when I thought of her I just could not see
failure. Something must be done, but what? I
was at the end of my wits. When Jersey City
beat us that Saturday, eleven to two, shoving us
down to fifth place with only a few percentage
points above the Fall River team, I grew
desperate, and locking my players in the dressing
room I went after them. They had lain down on
me and needed a jar. I told them so straight and
flat, and being bitter, I did not pick and choose
my words.
``And fellows,'' I concluded, ``you've got to
brace. A little more of this and we can't pull out.
I tell you you're a championship team. We had
that pennant cinched. A few cuts and sprains
and hard luck--and you all quit! You lay down!
I've been patient. I've plugged for you. Never
a man have I fined or thrown down. But now I'm
at the end of my string. I'm out to fine you
now, and I'll release the first man who shows
the least yellow. I play no more substitutes.
Crippled or not, you guys have got to get in the
game.''
I waited to catch my breath and expected some
such outburst as managers usually get from criticized
players. But not a word! Then I addressed
some of them personally.
``Gregg, your lay-off ends today. You play
Monday. Mullaney, you've drawn your salary
for two weeks with that spiked foot. If you can't
run on it--well, all right, but I put it up to your
good faith. I've played the game and I know
it's hard to run on a sore foot. But you can do it.
Ashwell, your ankle is lame, I know--now, can
you run?''
``Sure I can. I'm not a quitter. I'm ready to
go in,'' replied Ashwell.
``Raddy, how about you?'' I said, turning to
my star twirler.
``Connelly, I've seen as fast a team in as bad a
rut and yet pull out,'' returned Radbourne.
``We're about due for the brace. When it comes
--look out! As for me, well, my arm isn't right,
but it's acting these warm days in a way that tells
me it will be soon. It's been worked too hard.
Can't you get another pitcher? I'm not knocking
Herne or Cairns. They're good for their turn,
but we need a new man to help out. And he must
be a crackerjack if we're to get back to the lead.''
``Where on earth can I find such a pitcher?'' I
shouted, almost distracted.
``Well, that's up to you,'' replied Radbourne.
Up to me it certainly was, and I cudgeled my
brains for inspiration. After I had given up in
hopelessness it came in the shape of a notice I
read in one of the papers. It was a brief mention
of an amateur Worcester ball team being shut
out in a game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsville
played Sunday ball, which gave me an opportunity
to look them over.
It took some train riding and then a journey
by coach to get to Rickettsville. I mingled with
the crowd of talking rustics. There was only one
little ``bleachers'' and this was loaded to the
danger point with the feminine adherents of the
teams. Most of the crowd centered alongside and
back of the catcher's box. I edged in and got a
position just behind the stone that served as home
plate.
Hunting up a player in this way was no new
thing to me. I was too wise to make myself
known before I had sized up the merits of my
man. So, before the players came upon the field
I amused myself watching the rustic fans and
listening to them. Then a roar announced the
appearance of the Rickettsville team and their
opponents, who wore the name of Spatsburg on
their Canton flannel shirts. The uniforms of these
country amateurs would have put a Philadelphia
Mummer's parade to the blush, at least for bright
colors. But after one amused glance I got down
to the stern business of the day, and that was to
discover a pitcher, and failing that, baseball talent
of any kind.
Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the
Rickettsville twirler. He was far over six feet
tall and as lean as a fence rail. He had a great
shock of light hair, a sunburned, sharp-featured
face, wide, sloping shoulders, and arms enormously
long. He was about as graceful and had
about as much of a baseball walk as a crippled cow.
``He's a rube!'' I ejaculated, in disgust and
disappointment.
But when I had seen him throw one ball to his
catcher I grew as keen as a fox on a scent. What
speed he had! I got round closer to him and
watched him with sharp, eager eyes. He was a
giant. To be sure, he was lean, rawboned as a
horse, but powerful. What won me at once was
his natural, easy swing. He got the ball away
with scarcely any effort. I wondered what he
could do when he brought the motion of his body
into play.
``Bub, what might be the pitcher's name?'' I
asked of a boy.
``Huh, mister, his name might be Dennis, but
it ain't. Huh!'' replied this country youngster.
Evidently my question had thrown some implication
upon this particular player.
``I reckon you be a stranger in these parts,''
said a pleasant old fellow. ``His name's Hurtle
--Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He hain't
lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee!
Never pitched any before, nuther.''
Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name!
Rickettsville chose the field and the game began.
Hurtle swung with his easy motion. The ball shot
across like a white bullet. It was a strike, and so
was the next, and the one succeeding. He could
not throw anything but strikes, and it seemed the
Spatsburg players could not make even a foul.
Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little
to me. And I was so fascinated by what I saw in
him that I could hardly contain myself. After
the first few innings I no longer tried to. I yelled
with the Rickettsville rooters. The man was a
wonder. A blind baseball manager could have
seen that. He had a straight ball, shoulder high,
level as a stretched string, and fast. He had a
jump ball, which he evidently worked by putting
on a little more steam, and it was the speediest
thing I ever saw in the way of a shoot. He had a
wide-sweeping outcurve, wide as the blade of a
mowing scythe. And he had a drop--an unhittable
drop. He did not use it often, for it made
his catcher dig too hard into the dirt. But whenever
he did I glowed all over. Once or twice he
used an underhand motion and sent in a ball that
fairly swooped up. It could not have been hit
with a board. And best of all, dearest to the
manager's heart, he had control. Every ball he threw
went over the plate. He could not miss it. To
him that plate was as big as a house.
What a find! Already I had visions of the long-
looked-for brace of my team, and of the pennant,
and the little cottage, and the happy light of a
pair of blue eyes. What he meant to me, that
country pitcher Hurtle! He shut out the Spatsburg
team without a run or a hit or even a scratch.
Then I went after him. I collared him and his
manager, and there, surrounded by the gaping
players, I bought him and signed him before any
of them knew exactly what I was about. I did
not haggle. I asked the manager what he wanted
and produced the cash; I asked Hurtle what he
wanted, doubled his ridiculously modest demand,
paid him in advance, and got his name to the
contract. Then I breathed a long, deep breath; the
first one for weeks. Something told me that with
Hurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern
League pennant. Then I invited all concerned
down to the Rickettsville hotel.
We made connections at the railroad junction
and reached Worcester at midnight in time for a
good sleep. I took the silent and backward
pitcher to my hotel. In the morning we had
breakfast together. I showed him about Worcester
and then carried him off to the ball grounds.
I had ordered morning practice, and as morning
practice is not conducive to the cheerfulness
of ball players, I wanted to reach the dressing
room a little late. When we arrived, all the players
had dressed and were out on the field. I had
some difficulty in fitting Hurtle with a uniform,
and when I did get him dressed he resembled a
two-legged giraffe decked out in white shirt, gray
trousers and maroon stockings.
Spears, my veteran first baseman and captain
of the team, was the first to see us.
``Sufferin' umpires!'' yelled Spears. ``Here,
you Micks! Look at this Con's got with him!''
What a yell burst from that sore and
disgruntled bunch of ball tossers! My players were
a grouchy set in practice anyway, and today they
were in their meanest mood.
``Hey, beanpole!''
``Get on to the stilts!''
``Con, where did you find that?''
I cut short their chaffing with a sharp order for
batting practice.
``Regular line-up, now no monkey biz,'' I went
on. ``Take two cracks and a bunt. Here, Hurtle,''
I said, drawing him toward the pitcher's
box, ``don't pay any attention to their talk. That's
only the fun of ball players. Go in now and practice
a little. Lam a few over.''
Hurtle's big freckled hands closed nervously
over the ball. I thought it best not to say more
to him, for he had a rather wild look. I remembered
my own stage fright upon my first appearance
in fast company. Besides I knew what my
amiable players would say to him. I had a secret
hope and belief that presently they would yell
upon the other side of the fence.
McCall, my speedy little left fielder, led
off at bat. He was full of ginger, chipper as
a squirrel, sarcastic as only a tried ball player
can be.
``Put 'em over, Slats, put 'em over,'' he called,
viciously swinging his ash.
Hurtle stood stiff and awkward in the box and
seemed to be rolling something in his mouth.
Then he moved his arm. We all saw the ball
dart down straight--that is, all of us except
McCall, because if he had seen it he might have
jumped out of the way. Crack! The ball hit him
on the shin.
McCall shrieked. We all groaned. That crack
hurt all of us. Any baseball player knows how it
hurts to be hit on the shinbone. McCall waved
his bat madly.
``Rube! Rube! Rube!'' he yelled.
Then and there Hurtle got the name that was
to cling to him all his baseball days.
McCall went back to the plate, red in the face,
mad as a hornet, and he sidestepped every time
Rube pitched a ball. He never even ticked one
and retired in disgust, limping and swearing.
Ashwell was next. He did not show much alacrity.
On Rube's first pitch down went Ashwell flat
in the dust. The ball whipped the hair of his
head. Rube was wild and I began to get worried.
Ashwell hit a couple of measly punks, but when
he assayed a bunt the gang yelled derisively at
him.
``What's he got?'' The old familiar cry of
batters when facing a new pitcher!
Stringer went up, bold and formidable. That
was what made him the great hitter he was. He
loved to bat; he would have faced anybody; he
would have faced even a cannon. New curves
were a fascination to him. And speed for him,
in his own words, was ``apple pie.'' In this
instance, surprise was in store for Stringer. Rube
shot up the straight one, then the wide curve, then
the drop. Stringer missed them all, struck out,
fell down ignominiously. It was the first time
he had fanned that season and he looked dazed.
We had to haul him away.
I called off the practice, somewhat worried
about Rube's showing, and undecided whether or
not to try him in the game that day. So I went
to Radbourne, who had quietly watched Rube
while on the field. Raddy was an old pitcher and
had seen the rise of a hundred stars. I told him
about the game at Rickettsville and what I thought
of Rube, and frankly asked his opinion.
``Con, you've made the find of your life,'' said
Raddy, quietly and deliberately.
This from Radbourne was not only comforting;
it was relief, hope, assurance. I avoided Spears,
for it would hardly be possible for him to regard
the Rube favorably, and I kept under cover until
time to show up at the grounds.
Buffalo was on the ticket for that afternoon,
and the Bisons were leading the race and playing
in topnotch form. I went into the dressing room
while the players were changing suits, because
there was a little unpleasantness that I wanted to
spring on them before we got on the field.
``Boys,'' I said, curtly, ``Hurtle works today.
Cut loose, now, and back him up.''
I had to grab a bat and pound on the wall to
stop the uproar.
``Did you mutts hear what I said? Well, it goes.
Not a word, now. I'm handling this team. We're
in bad, I know, but it's my judgment to pitch Hurtle,
rube or no rube, and it's up to you to back
us. That's the baseball of it.''
Grumbling and muttering, they passed out of
the dressing room. I knew ball players. If Hurtle
should happen to show good form they would
turn in a flash. Rube tagged reluctantly in their
rear. He looked like a man in a trance. I wanted
to speak encouragingly to him, but Raddy told me
to keep quiet.
It was inspiring to see my team practice that
afternoon. There had come a subtle change. I
foresaw one of those baseball climaxes that can
be felt and seen, but not explained. Whether it
was a hint of the hoped-for brace, or only another
flash of form before the final let-down, I had no
means to tell. But I was on edge.
Carter, the umpire, called out the batteries, and
I sent my team into the field. When that long,
lanky, awkward rustic started for the pitcher's
box, I thought the bleachers would make him drop
in his tracks. The fans were sore on any one
those days, and a new pitcher was bound to hear
from them.
``Where! Oh, where! Oh, where!''
``Connelly's found another dead one!''
``Scarecrow!''
``Look at his pants!''
``Pad his legs!''
Then the inning began, and things happened.
Rube had marvelous speed, but he could not find
the plate. He threw the ball the second he got
it; he hit men, walked men, and fell all over
himself trying to field bunts. The crowd stormed and
railed and hissed. The Bisons pranced round the
bases and yelled like Indians. Finally they retired
with eight runs.
Eight runs! Enough to win two games! I
could not have told how it happened. I was sick
and all but crushed. Still I had a blind, dogged
faith in the big rustic. I believed he had not got
started right. It was a trying situation. I called
Spears and Raddy to my side and talked fast.
``It's all off now. Let the dinged rube take his
medicine,'' growled Spears.
``Don't take him out,'' said Raddy. ``He's not
shown at all what's in him. The blamed hayseed
is up in the air. He's crazy. He doesn't
know what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may be
scared to death, but he's dead in earnest.''
Suddenly I recalled the advice of the pleasant
old fellow at Rickettsville.
``Spears, you're the captain,'' I said, sharply.
``Go after the rube. Wake him up. Tell him he
can't pitch. Call him `Pogie!' That's a name
that stirs him up.''
``Well, I'll be dinged! He looks it,'' replied
Spears. ``Here, Rube, get off the bench. Come
here.''
Rube lurched toward us. He seemed to be
walking in his sleep. His breast was laboring and
he was dripping with sweat.
``Who ever told you that you could pitch?''
asked Spears genially. He was master at baseball
ridicule. I had never yet seen the youngster who
could stand his badinage. He said a few things,
then wound up with: ``Come now, you cross
between a hayrack and a wagon tongue, get sore and
do something. Pitch if you can. Show us! Do
you hear, you tow-headed Pogie!''
Rube jumped as if he had been struck. His face
flamed red and his little eyes turned black. He
shoved his big fist under Capt. Spears' nose.
``Mister, I'll lick you fer thet--after the game!
And I'll show you dog-goned well how I can
pitch.''
``Good!'' exclaimed Raddy; and I echoed his
word. Then I went to the bench and turned my
attention to the game. Some one told me that
McCall had made a couple of fouls, and after waiting
for two strikes and three balls had struck
out. Ashwell had beat out a bunt in his old swift
style, and Stringer was walking up to the plate
on the moment. It was interesting, even in a losing
game, to see Stringer go to bat. We all
watched him, as we had been watching him for
weeks, expecting him to break his slump with one
of the drives that had made him famous. Stringer
stood to the left side of the plate, and I could
see the bulge of his closely locked jaw. He swung
on the first pitched ball. With the solid rap we
all rose to watch that hit. The ball lined first,
then soared and did not begin to drop till it was
far beyond the right-field fence. For an instant
we were all still, so were the bleachers. Stringer
had broken his slump with the longest drive ever
made on the grounds. The crowd cheered as he
trotted around the bases behind Ashwell. Two
runs.
``Con, how'd you like that drive?'' he asked
me, with a bright gleam in his eyes.
``O-h-!--a beaut!'' I replied, incoherently. The
players on the bench were all as glad as I was.
Henley flew out to left. Mullaney smashed a two-
bagger to right. Then Gregg hit safely, but Mullaney,
in trying to score on the play, was out at
the plate.
``Four hits! I tell you fellows, something's
coming off,'' said Raddy. ``Now, if only
Rube----''
What a difference there was in that long rustic!
He stalked into the box, unmindful of the hooting
crowd and grimly faced Schultz, the first batter
up for the Bisons. This time Rube was deliberate.
And where he had not swung before he now
got his body and arm into full motion. The ball
came in like a glint of light. Schultz looked
surprised. The umpire called ``Strike!''
``Wow!'' yelled the Buffalo coacher. Rube sped
up the sidewheeler and Schultz reached wide to
meet it and failed. The third was the lightning
drop, straight over the plate. The batter poked
weakly at it. Then Carl struck out and Manning
following, did likewise. Three of the best hitters
in the Eastern retired on nine strikes! That was
no fluke. I knew what it meant, and I sat there
hugging myself with the hum of something joyous
in my ears.
Gregg had a glow on his sweaty face. ``Oh, but
say, boys, take a tip from me! The Rube's a world
beater! Raddy knew it; he sized up that swing,
and now I know it. Get wise, you its!''
When old Spears pasted a single through shortstop,
the Buffalo manager took Clary out of the
box and put in Vane, their best pitcher. Bogart
advanced the runner to second, but was thrown
out on the play. Then Rube came up. He swung
a huge bat and loomed over the Bison's twirler.
Rube had the look of a hitter. He seemed to be
holding himself back from walking right into the
ball. And he hit one high and far away. The
fast Carl could not get under it, though he made
a valiant effort. Spears scored and Rube's long
strides carried him to third. The cold crowd in
the stands came to life; even the sore bleachers
opened up. McCall dumped a slow teaser down
the line, a hit that would easily have scored Rube,
but he ran a little way, then stopped, tried to get
back, and was easily touched out. Ashwell's hard
chance gave the Bison's shortstop an error, and
Stringer came up with two men on bases. Stringer
hit a foul over the right-field fence and the crowd
howled. Then he hit a hard long drive straight
into the centerfielder's hands.
``Con, I don't know what to think, but ding me
if we ain't hittin' the ball,'' said Spears. Then
to his players: ``A little more of that and we're
back in our old shape. All in a minute--at 'em
now! Rube, you dinged old Pogie, pitch!''
Rube toed the rubber, wrapped his long brown
fingers round the ball, stepped out as he swung
and--zing! That inning he unloosed a few more
kinks in his arm and he tried some new balls upon
the Bisons. But whatever he used and wherever
he put them the result was the same--they cut the
plate and the Bisons were powerless.
That inning marked the change in my team.
They had come hack. The hoodoo had vanished.
The championship Worcester team was itself
again.
The Bisons were fighting, too, but Rube had
them helpless. When they did hit a ball one of
my infielders snapped it up. No chances went to
the outfield. I sat there listening to my men, and
reveled in a moment that I had long prayed for.
``Now you're pitching some, Rube. Another
strike! Get him a board!'' called Ashwell.
``Ding 'em, Rube, ding 'em!'' came from Capt.
Spears.
``Speed? Oh-no!'' yelled Bogart at third
base.
``It's all off, Rube! It's all off--all off!''
So, with the wonderful pitching of an angry
rube, the Worcester team came into its own
again. I sat through it all without another word;
without giving a signal. In a way I realized the
awakening of the bleachers, and heard the pound
of feet and the crash, but it was the spirit of my
team that thrilled me. Next to that the work of
my new find absorbed me. I gloated over his easy,
deceiving swing. I rose out of my seat when he
threw that straight fast ball, swift as a bullet,
true as a plumb line. And when those hard-hitting,
sure bunting Bisons chopped in vain at the
wonderful drop, I choked back a wild yell. For
Rube meant the world to me that day.
In the eighth the score was 8 to 6. The Bisons
had one scratch hit to their credit, but not a
runner had got beyond first base. Again Rube
held them safely, one man striking out, another
fouling out, and the third going out on a little fly.
Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! The bleachers
were making up for many games in which
they could not express their riotous feelings.
``It's a cinch we'll win!'' yelled a fan with a
voice. Rube was the first man up in our half of
the ninth and his big bat lammed the first ball
safe over second base. The crowd, hungry for
victory, got to their feet and stayed upon their
feet, calling, cheering for runs. It was the moment
for me to get in the game, and I leaped up,
strung like a wire, and white hot with inspiration.
I sent Spears to the coaching box with
orders to make Rube run on the first ball. I
gripped McCall with hands that made him wince.
Then I dropped back on the bench spent and
panting. It was only a game, yet it meant so
much! Little McCall was dark as a thunder cloud,
and his fiery eyes snapped. He was the fastest
man in the league, and could have bunted an
arrow from a bow. The foxy Bison third baseman
edged in. Mac feinted to bunt toward him
then turned his bat inward and dumped a teasing
curving ball down the first base line. Rube ran
as if in seven-league boots. Mac's short legs
twinkled; he went like the wind; he leaped into
first base with his long slide, and beat the
throw.
The stands and bleachers seemed to be tumbling
down. For a moment the air was full of deafening
sound. Then came the pause, the dying away
of clatter and roar, the close waiting, suspended
quiet. Spears' clear voice, as he coached Rube, in
its keen note seemed inevitable of another run.
Ashwell took his stand. He was another left-
hand hitter, and against a right-hand pitcher, in
such circumstances as these, the most dangerous
of men. Vane knew it. Ellis, the Bison captain
knew it, as showed plainly in his signal to catch
Rube at second. But Spears' warning held or
frightened Rube on the bag.
Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwell
could not be coaxed. Wearily Vane swung; the
shortstop raced out to get in line for a possible
hit through the wide space to his right,
and the second baseman got on his toes as both
base runners started.
Crack! The old story of the hit and run game!
Ashwell's hit crossed sharply where a moment
before the shortstop had been standing. With
gigantic strides Rube rounded the corner and
scored. McCall flitted through second, and diving
into third with a cloud of dust, got the umpire's
decision. When Stringer hurried up with Mac
on third and Ash on first the whole field seemed
racked in a deafening storm. Again it subsided
quickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans had
been crushed too often of late for them to be fearless.
But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense
ended. I was like a man clamped in a vise.
Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with the
sprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm
and slowly edged off first. Stringer waited for
one strike and two balls, then he hit the next. It
hugged the first base line, bounced fiercely past
the bag and skipped over the grass to bump hard
into the fence. McCall romped home, and lame
Ashwell beat any run he ever made to the plate.
Rolling, swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feet
could not down the high piercing sustained yell of
the fans. It was great. Three weeks of submerged
bottled baseball joy exploded in one mad
outburst! The fans, too, had come into their own
again.
We scored no more. But the Bisons were
beaten. Their spirit was broken. This did not
make the Rube let up in their last half inning.
Grim and pale he faced them. At every long step
and swing he tossed his shock of light hair. At
the end he was even stronger than at the beginning.
He still had the glancing, floating airy
quality that baseball players call speed. And he
struck out the last three batters.
In the tumult that burst over my ears I sat
staring at the dots on my score card. Fourteen
strike outs! one scratch hit! No base on balls
since the first inning! That told the story which
deadened senses doubted. There was a roar in
my ears. Some one was pounding me. As I struggled
to get into the dressing room the crowd
mobbed me. But I did not hear what they yelled.
I had a kind of misty veil before my eyes, in
which I saw that lanky Rube magnified into a
glorious figure. I saw the pennant waving, and
the gleam of a white cottage through the trees,
and a trim figure waiting at the gate. Then I
rolled into the dressing room.
Somehow it seemed strange to me. Most of the
players were stretched out in peculiar convulsions.
Old Spears sat with drooping head. Then
a wild flaming-eyed giant swooped upon me. With
a voice of thunder he announced:
``I'm a-goin' to lick you, too!''
After that we never called him any name except
Rube.
_________
-THE END-
Author Zane Grey's short story: The Rube
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