“Ridic’lous!” says Hawley. “Where do you get that stuff? Don’t you know that rain can be started with dynamite? Well, then, why wouldn’t all that shootin’ affect the weather? They must be some explanation.”
“Did you make him?” says Carey to me afterward. “He trimmed me both ways. Some day he’ll single to right field and throw himself out at first base. I seen I was in for a lickin’, so I hedged to get a draw, and the minute I joined his league he jumped to the outlaws. But after this I’m goin’ to stick on one side of it. He goes better when he’s usin’ his own stuff.”
III
In battin’ practice the next day Carey hit one up against them boards in right center on a line.
“Good night!” says Smitty. “I bet that’s the hardest wallop that was ever made on these grounds.”
“I know I didn’t never hit one harder here,” says Carey. “I don’t never hit good in this park. I’d rather be on the road all the wile. I hit better on the Polo Grounds than anywheres else. I s’pose it’s on account o’ the background.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” says Hawley. “Everybody hits better in New York than they do here. Do you want to know why? Because it’s a clean town, without no dirt and cinders blowin’ in your eyes. This town’s all smoke and dirt, and it ain’t no wonder a man’s handicapped. The fellas that’s with clubs in clean towns has got it all over us. Look at Detroit—one o’ the cleanest towns in the country! And look how Cobb and Crawford hit! A man in one o’ these smoke holes can’t never pile up them big averages, or he can’t last as long, neither.”
“No,” says Carey; “and that accounts for Wagner’s rotten record in Pittsburgh.”
Do you think that stopped him? Not him!
“Yes,” he says; “and how much would Wagner of hit if he’d been playin’ in New York or Detroit all the wile? He wouldn’t never been below .500. And he’d of lasted just twicet as long.”
“But on account of him landin’ in Pittsburgh,” says Carey, “the poor kid’ll be all through already before he’s fairly started yet. It’s a crime and the grand jury should ought to take steps.”
“Have you ever been to Washington?” says I.
“Have I ever been to Washington?” says Hawley. “Say, I know Washington like a book. My old man’s brother’s a senator there in Congress. You must of heard o’ Senator Hawley.”
“Oh, yes,” says Carey; “the fella that made the speech that time.”
“That’s the fella,” says Hawley. “And a smart fella too. Him and Woodruff Wilson’s just like brothers. They’re always to each other’s houses. That’s where I met Wilson—was at Uncle Zeke’s. We fanned together for a couple hours. You wouldn’t never know he was the President. He don’t let on like he was any better than I or you.”
“He ain’t as good as you; that’s a pipe!” says Carey.
“Where does your cousin live?” says Smitty.
“Cousin Zeke’s got the swellest apartment in Washington,” says Hawley. “Right next to the Capitol, on Pennsylvania Street.”
“I wisht I could live there,” I says. “It’s the best town in the country for my money. And it’s the cleanest one too.”
“No factories or smoke there,” says Carey.
“I wonder how it comes,” I says, “that most o’ the fellas on the Washington Club, playin’ in the cleanest town in the country most o’ the wile, can’t hardly foul a ball—let alone hit it.”
“Maybe the silver dust from the mint gets in their eyes,” says Carey.
“Where do you get that noise?” says Hawley. “The mint ain’t nowheres near the ball orchard.”
“Well then,” I says, “how do you account for the club not hittin’?”
“Say,” says Hawley, “it ain’t no wonder they don’t hit in that town. We played a exhibition game there last spring and we didn’t hit, neither.”
“Who pitched against you—Johnson?” I ast him.
“Yes; Johnson,” says Hawley.
“But that don’t explain why the Washington bunch can’t hit,” says Carey. “He ain’t mean enough to turn round and pitch against his own club.”
“They won’t nobody hit in that town,” says Hawley, “and I don’t care if it’s Johnson pitchin’ or the mayor.”
“What’s the trouble?” I says.
“The heat gets ’em!” says Carey.
“No such a thing!” says Hawley. “That shows you don’t know nothin’ about it. It’s the trees.”
“The trees!” I says. “Do they play out in the woods or somewheres?”
“No,” says Hawley. “If they did they’d be all right. Their ball park’s just like any ball park; they ain’t no trees in it. But they’s trees all over the rest o’ the town. It don’t make no difference where you go, you’re in the shade. And then, when you get to the ball park you’re exposed to the sun all of a sudden and it blinds you.”
“I should think it would affect their fieldin’ too,” says Carey.
“They wear goggles in the field,” says Hawley.
“Do the infielders wear goggles?” ast Carey.
“No; but most o’ the balls they got to handle comes on the ground. They don’t have to look up for ’em,” says Hawley.
“S’pose somebody hits a high fly ball that’s comin’ down right in the middle o’ the diamond,” says Carey. “Who gets it?”
“It ain’t got,” says Hawley. “They leave it go and it gen’ally almost always rolls foul.”
“If I was Griffith,” says Carey, “I’d get the Forestry Department to cut away the trees in some part o’ town and then make all my ball players live there so’s they’d get used to the sun.”
“Or he might have a few big maples planted round the home plate some Arbor Day,” I says.
“Yes,” says Carey; “or he might trade Johnson to the Pittsburgh Federals for Oakes.”
“He’d be a sucker to trade Johnson,” says Hawley.
IV
Well, we played down in Cincy one Saturday to a crowd that might of all came out in one street car without nobody ridin’ in the motorman’s vest pocket. We was discussin’ it that
