Baseball Joe, Captain of the Team; or, Bitter Struggles on the Diamond

"No use talking, Joe, we seem to be on the toboggan," remarked Jim Barclay, one of the first string pitchers of the Giant team, to his closest chum, Joe Matson; as they came out of the clubhouse at the Chicago baseball park and strolled over toward their dugout in the shadow of the grandstand.

"You're right, old boy," agreed Joe-"Baseball Joe," as he was known by the fans all over the country. "We seem to be headed straight for the cellar championship, and at the present rate it won't be long before we land there. I can't tell what's got into the boys. Perhaps I'm as much to blame as any of the rest of them. I've lost the last two games I pitched."

"Huh!" snorted Jim. "Look at the way you lost them! You never pitched better in your life. You had everything-speed, curves, control, and that old fadeaway of yours was working like a charm. But the boys played behind you like a lot of sand-lotters. They simply threw the game away-handed it to the Cubs on a silver platter. What they did in the field was a sin and a shame. And when it came to batting, they were even worse. The home run and triple you pasted out yourself were the only clouts worth mentioning."

"The boys do seem to have lost their batting eyes," agreed Joe. "And when it comes to fielding, they're all thumbs. What do you think the trouble is?"

"Search me," replied Jim. "We've got the same team we had when we started the season. Look at the way we started off: Three out of four from the Brooklyns, the same from the Bostons, and a clean sweep from the Phillies. It looked as though we were going to go through the League like a prairie fire. But the instant we struck the West we went down with a sickening thud. Pittsburgh wiped up the earth with us. The Reds walked all over us. The Cubs in the last two games have given us the razz. We're beginning to look like something the cat dragged in."

"I can't make it out," observed Joe, thoughtfully. "Of course, every team gets in a slump sometimes. But this has lasted longer than usual, and it's time we snapped out of it. McRae will be a raving lunatic if we don't."

"He's pretty near that now," replied Jim. "And I don't wonder. He'd set his heart on winning the flag this season, and it begins to look as though his cake was dough."

"Even Robbie's lost his smile," said Joe. "And things must be pretty bad when he gets into the doleful dumps."

"I thought that when we got those rascals, Hupft and McCarney, off the team, everything would be plain sailing," remarked Jim. "They seemed to be the only disorganizing element."

"Yes," agreed Joe. "And especially when we got such crackerjacks in their places as Jackwell and Bowen. But speaking of them, have you noticed anything peculiar about them?"

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Jim, in some alarm. "You don't mean to intimate that they're crooks, too?"

"Not at all," replied Joe. "From all I can see, they are as white as any men on the team. And they certainly know baseball from A to Z. They can run rings around Hupft and McCarney. But, just the same, I've noticed something odd about them from the start."

"What, for instance?" asked Jim, with quickened interest.

"They seem nervous and scared at times," answered Joe. "Jackwell, at third, keeps looking towards that part of the grandstand. The other day I was going to throw to him, to catch Elston napping; but I saw that Jackwell wasn't looking at me, and so I held the ball. And I've noticed that when he's coming into the bench between innings he lets his eyes range all over the stands."

"Looking to see if his girl was there, perhaps," laughed Jim.

"Nothing so pleasant as that," asserted Joe. "It was as though he were looking for some one he didn't want to see. And the same thing is true of Bowen. Of course he's out at center, and I can't observe him as well as I can Jackwell. But when he's been sitting in the dugout waiting for his turn at bat, he's always squinting at the fans in the stands and the bleachers. The other boys aren't that way."

"This is all news to me," remarked Jim. "I've noticed that they've been rather clannish and stuck close together, but that's natural enough, seeing that they were pals in the minor-league team from which McRae bought them and that they don't feel quite at home yet in big-league company."

"Well, you keep your eye on them and see if you don't notice what I've been telling you about," counseled Joe. "Of course, it may not mean a thing, but all the same it's struck me as queer."

By this time the two pitchers had reached the Giants' dugout, where most of their teammates had already gathered.

It was a beautiful day in early summer. The Eastern teams' invasion of the West was in full swing, and baseball enthusiasm was running high all over the circuit. The Giants, after a disastrous series of games in Pittsburgh and Cincinnati, had struck Chicago. Or, perhaps, it would be more correct to say that Chicago had struck them, for the Cubs had taken the first two games with ease.

No doubt that accounted for the tremendous throng that had been pouring into the gates that afternoon, until now the stands and bleachers were crowded with enthusiastic fans. For if there was anything in the world that Chicago dearly loved, it was to see the Giants beaten. One game from the haughty Giants, the champions of the world, was more keenly relished than two games from any other club.

The rivalry between the teams of the two great cities was intense, dating from the days when the old Chicagos, with "Pop" Anson and Frank Chance at their head, had been accustomed to sweeping everything before them. Now the tables had been turned, and for the last few years, the Giants, with McRae as their astute manager and Baseball Joe as their pitching "ace," had had the upper hand. Twice in succession the Giants had won the championship of the National League and had wound up the season in a blaze of glory by also winning the World Series.

This year they were desperately anxious to repeat. And, as Jim had said, it looked at the beginning of the season as though they were going to do it. They got off on the right foot and had an easy time of it in the games with the other Eastern clubs.

But with the Western clubs it was another story. A "jinx" seemed to be pursuing them. Pittsburgh had tied the can to them, and the Reds, not to be outdone, had tightened the knot. The Cubs thus far had clawed them savagely. They had tasted blood, and their appetite had grown with what it had fed upon. And for that reason the sport lovers of the Windy City had turned out in force to see the Cubs once more make the Giants "their meat."

McRae, the manager, was sitting on the bench with Robson, his assistant, as Joe and Jim approached. There was an anxious furrow on his brow, and even the rotund and rubicund "Robbie," usually jolly and smiling, seemed in the depths of gloom.

McRae's face lightened a little when he saw Joe.

"I'm going to put you in to pitch to-day, Matson," he said. "How's the old soup-bone feeling?"

"Fine and dandy," returned Joe, with a smile.

"I want you to stand those fellows on their heads," said the manager. "They've been making monkeys of us long enough."

"I'll do my best, Mac," promised Joe, as he picked up a ball preparatory to going out for warming-up practice.

"Your best is good enough," replied McRae.

Joe and Jim went out with their respective catchers and limbered up their pitching arms.

"How are they coming, Mylert?" Joe called out to the veteran catcher, who was acting as his backstop.

"Great," pronounced Mylert. "You've got speed to burn and your curves are all to the merry. That hop of yours is working fine. You'll have them breaking their backs to get at the ball."

McRae, in the meantime, had beckoned to Iredell, the captain of the team.

"Look here, Iredell," he asked abruptly, "what's the matter with this team? Why are they playing like a lot of old women?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Iredell, flushing and twirling his cap nervously.

"Don't know?" snapped McRae. "Who should know if you don't? You're the captain, aren't you?"

"Sure," admitted Iredell. "But for all that, I can't always get onto what's in the minds of the fellows. I've talked to them and razzed them and done everything except to lam them. They're just in a slump, and they don't seem able to get out. Some of them think a jinx is on their backs. I'm playing my own position well enough, ain't I?"

"Yes, you are," McRae was forced to admit, for Iredell was one of the crack shortstops of the League, and so far had been batting and fielding well. "But that isn't enough. To be a good shortstop is one thing, and to be a good captain is another. I figured you'd be both. Tell me this. Are there any cliques in the team? Any fellows out to do another or show him up? Any fights in the clubhouse that I haven't been told about?"

"No," replied Iredell, "nothing that's worth noticing. Of course, the boys are as sore as boils over the way they keep on losing, and their tempers are on a hair trigger. Once in a while something is said that makes one of them take a crack at another. But that's usually over in a minute and they shake hands and make up. There aren't any real grudges among the boys that I know of."

"Well, things have got to change, and it's largely up to you to change them," growled McRae. "If the job's too big for you, perhaps somebody else will have to take it. I've often found that a shake up in the batting order will work wonders. Perhaps the same thing's true of a shake up in captains."

The flush in Iredell's face grew deeper and his eyes glinted with anger. But he said nothing, and as McRae turned to say something to Robbie, indicating that the interview was ended, he moved away sullenly from the dugout.

Just then the bell rang as a signal for the Giants to run out for practice. The white uniforms of the Chicagos faded away from the diamond, while the gray-suited Giants scattered to their several positions in the field and on the bases.

Jackwell, who had been standing near Joe while the latter was putting the balls over to Mylert, started to run out with the rest, but suddenly he halted and stood in his tracks like a stone image.

Joe, who, out of the corner of his eye, had noted the action, turned to him in surprise.

"What's the matter, Jackwell?" he asked, eying the new third baseman keenly.

"I-I can't go on," stammered Jackwell.

Joe noted that he had suddenly turned white.

* * *