The crowd buzzed and applauded Harry in his old position in the box. Shouts came for the “Old Vet” to show his pluck. Anticipating Brainard’s speedballs, the Forest Citys overswung on Harry’s dew-drops and went one-two-three in the first.
“So much for the Sucker State!” somebody yelled.
But we started off no better against Spalding, who worked smoothly, mixing speeds and brushing the corners. He obviously had a “book” on us after being knocked around in Rockford. George and Gould popped up; Waterman did likewise, but his dropped safely behind second. That brought me up in Allison’s place.
There was no on-deck circle. Strikers generally took a few swings in front of their bench—as much to demonstrate stylish form as to loosen up. Our bench, painted bright red, of course, was situated in the shade of the Grand Duchess on the first-base side. I’d been swinging vigorously, trying to spot Cait and Timmy among a profusion of red parasols and handkerchiefs and hats.
“Sam!” said Harry. “Spalding’s in form. Legs!”
Which meant that since runs might be hard to come by, we’d be aggressive on the bases. I stepped in and looked for the sign. Harry touched only the white parts of his uniform: take. I watched Spalding’s first pitch blur past, scarcely able to pick up its spin. Waterman sprinted for second. The ump yelled, “Warning, striker!” Addy, fumbling in his haste to nail Waterman, dropped the ball. He swore and took his place again. I missed Spalding’s next blazer by half a foot. Addy was up and throwing as Waterman scrambled for third. The peg had him cold, but he bamboozled the third baseman with a gorgeous hook slide. Just bring him home, I thought, waving the bat and digging in. I fouled off a low inside pitch and barely held back on a shoulder-high hummer. Then Spalding laid one down the pipe. With visions of sending it into space I strode forward—and realized too late he’d taken something off it. I tried to correct, swung awkwardly, and missed badly. Strike three. Shit!
“Don’t get rattled,” Harry told me. “Bear down in the field. We’ll be fine.”
Bats warmed up in the second. Forest City pushed across a run on slashing hits to right center, which I was glad to let Mac play. Harry singled in our half, stole second, and scored on Andy’s liner to right. Andy swiped second and was doubled in by Sweasy, who scored on Mac’s sacrifice fly.
Forest City came back in the third on Spalding’s double, tallying three runs and regaining the lead. They whitewashed us again—twice in three innings they’d done it, an ominous trend. I fouled out to Addy my second time up. I wasn’t the only one having trouble solving Spalding. The Stockings popped his rising fastballs up repeatedly, and the few grounders we managed all seemed to go straight to Barnes at short.
In the fourth, Brainard, playing agilely behind the plate, ran down a foul bound, and Mac speared a sinking liner to snuff a rally. We laid a goose egg on them in turn, and finally touched Spalding in our half, scoring four runs; with two out I stepped to the plate with Waterman again on third. Spalding, working me inside and out, finally got too cute. Timing an outside change-up, I drilled it up the right-center alley. The ball slammed off the fence and caromed among the carriages. By the time the outfielders retrieved it I’d slid into third. We led 8-4. Andy led cheers on the bench. The crowd roared. It was one hell of a moment. Standing there tingling and grinning, I wanted them all to be up there in the stands: Cait impressed, Timmy yelling his head off, O’Donovan seething.
Refusing to be blown out, the Rockfords came back stubbornly with three runs in the fifth. They were aided considerably by me. I went deep for Barnes’s long fly, couldn’t hold it, then overthrew the cutoff, allowing Barnes to circle the bases. The next Forest City crushed one off the fence, a mile beyond Andy. When a hard-hitting lefty moved to the plate, Harry waved us over in a shift as severe as any ever put on for Ted Williams. Sure enough, the batter lined to Sweasy in what normally would have been the hole between first and second. We came in to take our licks—and got whitewashed again, on sensational fielding by Barnes.
“He’s getting on my nerves,” George complained, having a rare bad day at the plate.
Barnes was getting on all of our nerves. So was Spalding. The Rockfords trailed us like grim shadows.
Stockings 8, Forest Citys 7.
In the sixth, Harry and Brainard changed places. Brainard, tentative in the box without Allison’s reassuring presence, walked the first Forest City. The second punched a hit-and-run single past Sweasy. Two infield outs produced a run. Only an acrobatic stop and snap throw by Waterman saved another. In the bottom half we regained our bare lead on Mac’s double and a seeing-eye single by Gould—who then brought Harry as close to cursing as I’d seen him by getting himself picked off first. My usually imperturbable mates showed signs of cracking.
In the next moment a foul off George’s bat caught Addy full in the face. Blood spurted from his nose as he sagged to the turf. I thought he’d been brained. We ran to him; his nose was smashed, his cheek already swelling. I brought ice from the booth. At length he staggered to his feet and insisted on playing. It was plucky, everybody agreed. In my estimation it was also fairly
