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 Iwanted 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.Alittle 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? Iwas 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?'' Ishouted, 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 Iread 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.
