From: Arden Town (1913; Unpublished MS)
Author: Scott Nearing
Published:
“Play ball,” called the umpire, throwing a white, new ball to the pitcher. “Too wide, one ball.” The catcher threw the new ball back deliberately.
Fred Allen was at third. His practice had been very ragged, but there was no one else to cover the base. “You’ll improve with wear,” Al Wilson had remarked. “We’ve got to have you anyway. Look here,” he added, indicating the opponents, “we have played these fellows twice this season. The first we took, four to two. They got the next, three to two. Who do you suppose will get this one?”
“We will,” exclaimed Fred Allen, enthusiastically.
“Right-O,” and Al Wilson trotted to his position.
The game was a pitcher’s battle from the beginning. Three innings slipped by without a score. The visitors were fielding superbly, and the Arden team was not a whit behindhand. In the last half of the fourth inning, the captain of the visiting team hit a hard straight ball, and the runner went to second. There was no one out, and four strong batters followed the captain on the visitors’ list.
The first man to come up was tall and angular.
“Who wants this man?” sang out the catcher jovially.
“I’ll take him,” said Al Wilson.
“All right, old man, he’s yours. Now Ted,” to the pitcher, “give him number fifty-seven. Nice work.”
“Strike,” said the umpire.
Two balls followed in rapid succession.
“Hi,” came a shrill voice from the crowd, “he swings like a gate.” The visitor had nibbled at a wide one.
Then the pitcher tried a low drop, and the visitor caught it on the end of his bat and lifted it out into center field. The fielder got it, but the captain went down to third.
“It’s ours now, boys,” came from -the coaching line. “We’re wearing him down. Wow? Come back?” The captain had left third incautiously, and the pitcher threw over fast and true.
“Safe.”
The crowd jumped to its feet. “Robber!” “Kill ‘im.” “Take him out.” But the noise quickly subsided.
“Batter up,” and the next man faced the pitcher. He was thick-set, with red hair and a raw-looking face. He had lost a garter, and one stocking hung down dejectedly.
“Oh, Tim,” from the catcher, “see what the cat brought in. Don’t hit him, boy, don’t hit him.” Then, as the first ball came, “Peaches?”
He of the red hair doubled himself in two, but the catcher held the ball, which had been a wide, out stroke.
“Strike one.”
“Nice work, Tim, old man? They all count for you. Give him that same one again. Now!”
The ball came straight and true over the center of the plate.
“Strike two,” from the umpire.
“Can him, boy, can him!” At that point luck forsook Arden. The batter knocked an easy grounder to Al Wilson, who threw it well over the first baseman’s head. A jump would have meant an out, but the long first baseman merely reached. The ball tipped his gloves and dropped twenty feet from the bag, and the dejected stocking went to first.
“Oh, Joe?” lamented the crowd.
“Joe would have had it,” yelled a youngster, waving his arms energetically. “Try it on Joe.”
Joe retrieved himself in part, however, by a fast throw to second, which caught the runner. The captain was in from third, on the throw to Joe, and the score stood 1 to 0 in favor of the visitors.
“Al,” said Al Wilson, sententiously, “When you get a ball with a man on third, for heaven’s sake throw it some. Al—you’re an ass.”
“We know it,” snickered the catcher. Unanimous vote, Mr. Chairman.”
The next man was sent to base on four balls, and his successor drove out a fine single, which took him to third. Another single sent the man home from third. Then Tim struck out the next batter, but the score was 2 to 0. The visitors had an awkward lead.
The fifth inning passed uneventfully; but in the sixth, the Arden team went to work. The professor came up first, batting left-handed, and by dint of much dodging and fighting, got a base on balls. Then Fred Allen stood up.
“Get mother’s boy,” smiled the catcher.
The first turn at bat Fred Allen had struck out ignominiously, but his eye had been good at college, and the old fire was raging in him. The pitcher threw two wide ones. Fred Allen ignored them. The third cut the outside corner of the plate. Fred Allen saw it coming, and met it squarely on the end of his bat. He was on his way to second before the fielder got the ball, and by a good slide, he made third in the hit. Meanwhile the professor had scored.
“Oh! Little Freddie Allen is my sweetheart,” sang two jubilant youngsters near the first base line.
“You’ll do, boss,” said Al Wilson, approvingly. “Now we need this run. Tim is going to sacrifice. He’s given the hit and run sign—get off a little—now—whoa—back—careful—wow!”
Tim hit the ball nicely out of the short-stop’s reach, and Fred Allen came in panting. The score was 2 to 2. The next three men struck out in monotonous succession. The visitors took their inning, and the score had not changed.
In the last half of the eighth, the first visiting baseman hit a hard ball just inside of third base. Fred Allen stooped for it, but missed; the left fielder was running frantically after the ball, and the batter was making second. The crowd sighed. That was the first real error of the game, and Fred Allen felt the crimson on his cheeks. He was as full of shame as a school-boy. But he ground his teeth and played his position. Two long drives to center field followed rapidly, and although the fielder gathered them in with wonderful consistency, the runner took third base in the first out and home on the second. The score was 3 to 2.
Arden Town went to bat in the ninth with the score still there. Fred Allen was the first man up.
“Now, old man, break the windows in the front of the Inn, and I’ll pay for ‘em,” cried some one.
There was to be no window breaking, however. The pitcher craftily threw four balls, and Fred Allen went to first base. He wanted to steal second, but the coach held him. “You can’t make it on these fellows,” he commented. Besides, we can’t afford to try it now.”
Yet when two men had struck out, the step was inevitable.
“Now you are going down with his arm. On your toes! Now, go!”
And he made it. When the cloud of dust had settled, and the umpire had announced “Safe,” Fred Allen smoothed the torn trouser-leg over his raw knee and prepared to go to third. Sliding to base has its clouds as well as its sunshine, as Fred Allen’s left knee and hip insistently testified; but he was still game, and when Tim drove the first ball over the trees for a home run, Fred Allen skipped across the plate like a young lamb.
So the game ended, with a score of 3 to 4 in favor of the home team, and if Fred Allen’s error had given the visitors a bad lead, his three bagger had laid a big part of the foundation for the Arden score.
After a plunge in the creek, and a good rub down, he started up for dinner with that peculiar look of satisfaction which comes from a good game, well won. Half way across the common he stopped short and bit his finger thoughtfully. In that instant he remembered that for the first time in a month Ruth Wade had not entered his mind during two consecutive waking hours.
“My,” he muttered, “base ball certainly is fascinating. Magical!” he muttered, “no wonder base ball is the national game.”
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