CHAPTER X
THE OPENING GUN
The practice games of the next few days were by no means tame affairs,even though there was nothing especially at stake.
The All-National team was, as has been seen, chosen from among the starsof the profession, and though they lacked, of course, the team work ofthe Giants, they gave the latter all they could do to hold their own.They had been ordered to "tear things wide open" and play the game forall it was worth.
This they proceeded to do with such effect that when the time for thegreat Series arrived the Giants had been put on their mettle and were atthe very top of their form.
It had been an especially busy week for Joe. He had spent one day inBoston, to which city he had run over on the midnight train at thedirection of McRae, in order that he might observe the practice of theRed Sox and get a line on their batters. He had been impressed but notdismayed by their show of strength, and had come back knowing that hiswork was cut out for him.
He had taken advantage, too, of his presence in Boston to arrange forrooms for his family, as well as for Reggie and Mabel, as they expectedto go back and forth during the fateful week the Series lasted on thesame trains taken by the two teams.
Thursday was made memorable to the New Yorks by the appearance ofHughson. There was an affectionate roar and rush for the veteran as hecame into the clubhouse among his adoring mates.
To the torrent of questions poured out on him as to his condition, heresponded that he was feeling fine physically, but was not yet sure ofhis arm. His shoulder was still somewhat lame and tender, but he hopedto get into some of the games later on. He tossed the ball about for alittle while, but made no attempt to cut loose with any curves or fastones. But the very sight of their crack pitcher once more in uniform wasa tonic and inspiration to his mates, and they put an amount of "ginger"into their practice game that afternoon that was full of promise toMcRae and Robson, as they watched their men from the side lines.
"I think we're going to cop the Series, Robbie," declared the formerwhen the practice was over. "The men are as full of pep as so manycolts."
"They certainly look good to-day, John," was the response. "But I'd givea thousand dollars out of my pocket at this minute if Hughson was inshape."
That evening Joe's parents and sister reached New York. Joe had receiveda wire telling him on what train they were coming and was at the stationto meet them, full of affection and impatience.
He scanned eagerly the long train as it rolled into the station. Then hedetected the familiar figures descending the steps of a Pullman coach,and in a moment more there was a joyful family reunion.
"Momsey--Dad!" he cried, grasping his father's hand and kissing hismother, who had all she could do to keep from throwing her arms aroundhis neck then and there. "And Sis, you darling! Sweet and pretty as apicture!" he exclaimed, holding her out at arms' length so that he couldlook at her sparkling face. "Poor, poor Jim!" he teased. "I see hisfinish!"
Clara's color deepened, but before she could retort, Joe was hurryingthe little party through the crowd to the street, where he hailed ataxicab and had them whirled away to their rooms at the Marlborough.
He had arranged to have a nice supper served in their suite that night,as he knew that they would be tired and excited after their longjourney. So they dined cosily and happily, and the hour or two of dearfamiliar talk that followed marked one of the happiest experiences theunited little family had ever known.
But Joe could not stay nearly as long as he wanted to, for to-morrowwas the day of the first game and he had to retire early so as to be inperfect condition.
McRae had told Joe that afternoon that he was slated to pitch theopening game.
"I'm banking on you, Joe," the manager told him. "You've never failed meyet, and I don't think you'll do it now. If you fall down, we're deadones."
"I'll do my very best," declared Joe earnestly.
"Your best is good enough for any one," replied McRae. "Just show themthe same stuff you did the Chicagos in that last game and I won't askfor anything more."
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and the city was agog withexpectation. New York, usually so indifferent to most things, had gonewild over the Series. The morning papers bore the flaring headlines:"_Matson Pitches the First Game._" Crowds gathered early about thebulletin boards. Long before the time set for the game, cars and trainsdisgorged their living loads at the gates of the Polo Grounds, andbefore the teams came out for practice the grandstands and bleacherswere black with swarming, jostling humanity. The metropolis was simplybaseball mad.
Within the gates, hundreds of special officers lined the field to keeporder and prevent the overflow back of centerfield from encroaching onthe playing space. The Seventh Regiment Band played popular airs. Moviemen were here, there and everywhere, getting snapshots of the scene.The diamond lay like so much green velvet under the bright sun, and thefreshly marked white base lines stood out in dazzling contrast. It was ascene to stir to the depths any lover of the great national game.
There was a thunderous roar as the teams marched down from theclubhouse, and there were bursts of applause for the sparkling playsthat marked the preliminary practice. Then the field was cleared, thegong rang and the umpire, taking off his hat and facing the stands,bellowed in stentorian tones:
"Ladies and gentlemen: The batteries for to-day's game are Fraser andThompson for Boston, Matson and Mylert for New York."
Loud applause followed, and this grew into a cyclone when Joe took theball tossed to him and walked toward the pitcher's box.
"Matson! Matson! Matson!" yelled the crowd.
Joe cast a swift look at the box where his family were seated with Mabeland Reggie. Then he touched a little glove that rested in a pocket ofhis uniform.
The head of the Red Sox batting order had taken up his position at theplate.
"Play ball!" called the umpire.
Joe straightened up to his full height, wound up deliberately, and theball shot over the corner of the plate like a bullet. The batter lungedat it savagely, but only hit the air.
The crowd yelled its delight at the auspicious beginning.
"That's the way, Joe!"
"He can't touch you!"
"Missed it by a mile!"
A ball followed, then a foul, then another ball, and a final strike thatsent the batter discomfited to the bench.
The next man up raised a towering skyscraper, which Larry gathered inwithout moving from his tracks, and the third man died, as had thefirst, on strikes.
The half inning had been short and sharp, and Joe met a tempest ofencouraging cheers as he walked in to the bench.
"You've got their number, old man!"
"They'll break their backs trying to hit you!"
"Some bad pitching, I don't think!"
But Joe had had too much experience to be betrayed into any undueelation. There were eight innings more to come and in that time manythings might happen.