were left without a first-string catcher to finish out the season and Klein, in the dugout, began nervously fumbling with the buckles on his shin guards.
This incident, the new catcher, the men on second and third, all upset Rog Stinson in the box. He walked the next man, while from the visitors’ bench the jockeys howled and on the lines the red-faced coaches joined in the jeering.
“Yeah... who’s ’at catching now?”
“Hey, Buglenose... hold that ball!” Spike wondered how they had managed to learn the team’s nickname for the youngster in such a short time. But he knew things of this sort were part of the rival coaches’ business. The boy behind the plate was plainly nervous, Rog was nervous, and the nervousness of the pitcher communicated itself again to the catcher. A ball got away from him and dribbled on the ground back of the plate. He yanked off his mask, twisted rapidly around, pounced on it, juggled the ball, picked it up, and stood there poised to throw.
While the coaches jeered, the runners dashed forward and then darted back to safety, and the rival bench howled with delight. For the moment Klein was saved, but his nervousness was plain for everyone to see. And always from the bench and the coaching lines came that storm of words, of names, of jokes, all directed at the boy there in his catcher’s tools. “Ah there, Buglenose...”
“Don’t drop that ball, Buglenose...”
“Watch out... watch out, or you’ll be back in the Three I League next week...” Then the batter singled cleanly and two more runs scored. Now the tieing run was perched on third. A long fly brought it in, and the teams were even at four runs apiece.
The next batter came up with Spike’s favorite ball. It was a sizzling grasscutter well over toward third, a ball that had legs on it, low and fast. Harry, his glove outstretched, stabbed and missed. Spike was there behind the third baseman, waiting for the ball, got it cleanly and burned it home ahead of the heavy, slow baserunner. The huge man on the path was ten feet from home when the ball landed in Klein’s hands. So instead of sliding he ran as hard as he could and hurled himself, shoulder forward, at the rookie catcher. The blow knocked Klein spinning, and the ball tumbled from his grasp.
Confusion! Everyone was running. Rog raced for the ball, Harry came charging in from third, and Spike dashed for the plate, too. This was something he wouldn’t usually have done. But he snatched the ball from Rog Stinson and ran over to the burly Cub runner, who was picking himself up from the collision and shaking dirt out of his shirt. He slapped the ball on his shoulder.
“He never touched the plate, he never touched the plate!” shouted Spike to the umpire.
From nowhere Crane appeared at his side. For just a second or two his cursing was directed toward the young catcher, and then as he caught the significance of the shortstop’s words, he, too, charged Old Stubblebeard, the umpire, with all his fury and all the invective at his command. He shouted, he shrieked, he screamed. His howls drowned out the protests and assertions of the player, the rival manager, and his coaches. For the second time in two days the umpire turned away from the plate, arms folded. But this time his patience was short. Suddenly he turned and pointed toward the dugout.
Ginger refused to budge.
“This’ll cost you a hundred dollars,” said the umpire. Then Ginger moved. Slowly he moved. He was out of the game.
Too late Cassidy took over the team. The winning run was home and they trooped in to the lockers twenty minutes later, another lead thrown away, another game lost that should have been won, another bitter disappointment, and another cheerless dinner ahead of them. They sat there dispirited and disgusted.
“What time is it?” asked someone finally. “Does anyone know what time it is?”
“Does anyone care?” said a voice. It was typical of their feeling. No one cared.
Crane had
This incident, the new catcher, the men on second and third, all upset Rog Stinson in the box. He walked the next man, while from the visitors’ bench the jockeys howled and on the lines the red-faced coaches joined in the jeering.
“Yeah... who’s ’at catching now?”
“Hey, Buglenose... hold that ball!” Spike wondered how they had managed to learn the team’s nickname for the youngster in such a short time. But he knew things of this sort were part of the rival coaches’ business. The boy behind the plate was plainly nervous, Rog was nervous, and the nervousness of the pitcher communicated itself again to the catcher. A ball got away from him and dribbled on the ground back of the plate. He yanked off his mask, twisted rapidly around, pounced on it, juggled the ball, picked it up, and stood there poised to throw.
While the coaches jeered, the runners dashed forward and then darted back to safety, and the rival bench howled with delight. For the moment Klein was saved, but his nervousness was plain for everyone to see. And always from the bench and the coaching lines came that storm of words, of names, of jokes, all directed at the boy there in his catcher’s tools. “Ah there, Buglenose...”
“Don’t drop that ball, Buglenose...”
“Watch out... watch out, or you’ll be back in the Three I League next week...” Then the batter singled cleanly and two more runs scored. Now the tieing run was perched on third. A long fly brought it in, and the teams were even at four runs apiece.
The next batter came up with Spike’s favorite ball. It was a sizzling grasscutter well over toward third, a ball that had legs on it, low and fast. Harry, his glove outstretched, stabbed and missed. Spike was there behind the third baseman, waiting for the ball, got it cleanly and burned it home ahead of the heavy, slow baserunner. The huge man on the path was ten feet from home when the ball landed in Klein’s hands. So instead of sliding he ran as hard as he could and hurled himself, shoulder forward, at the rookie catcher. The blow knocked Klein spinning, and the ball tumbled from his grasp.
Confusion! Everyone was running. Rog raced for the ball, Harry came charging in from third, and Spike dashed for the plate, too. This was something he wouldn’t usually have done. But he snatched the ball from Rog Stinson and ran over to the burly Cub runner, who was picking himself up from the collision and shaking dirt out of his shirt. He slapped the ball on his shoulder.
“He never touched the plate, he never touched the plate!” shouted Spike to the umpire.
From nowhere Crane appeared at his side. For just a second or two his cursing was directed toward the young catcher, and then as he caught the significance of the shortstop’s words, he, too, charged Old Stubblebeard, the umpire, with all his fury and all the invective at his command. He shouted, he shrieked, he screamed. His howls drowned out the protests and assertions of the player, the rival manager, and his coaches. For the second time in two days the umpire turned away from the plate, arms folded. But this time his patience was short. Suddenly he turned and pointed toward the dugout.
Ginger refused to budge.
“This’ll cost you a hundred dollars,” said the umpire. Then Ginger moved. Slowly he moved. He was out of the game.
Too late Cassidy took over the team. The winning run was home and they trooped in to the lockers twenty minutes later, another lead thrown away, another game lost that should have been won, another bitter disappointment, and another cheerless dinner ahead of them. They sat there dispirited and disgusted.
“What time is it?” asked someone finally. “Does anyone know what time it is?”
“Does anyone care?” said a voice. It was typical of their feeling. No one cared.
Crane had
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