Judge — April 22, 1911 — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘What's the matter?"’ asked the sec- ond baseman. “‘Haven’t warmed up yet,”’ I said. “Better warm up pretty soon,"’ vised the captain, in a tone that sounded like a threat. “T'll get them,’’ I promised. have them eating out of my hand. But the next batter slapped one to the assistant sporting editor. He was a pretty good assistant sporting editor, as sporting editors go, and he could write a really readable article on how to hita sacrifice fly. Yet he did ‘‘thinks’’ to that poor little grounder that were shameful, indeed. As one run went over the plate, I came to the conclusion that a ten-year-ago shortstop is scarcely a Rock of Gibraltar when it comes to cut- ting down a runner at first. Our infield came in and lined up and told me what they thought of my work. The grand-stand let loose its opinion of the game, and it was truly a shocking, profane opinion. Then the infield went back to position again and the next man hit for three bases. Unfortunately, the ball rolled to the center-field fence, and our fat center fielder, after a gallant chase, was forced to retire from the game. He was carried, gasping, to a near-by rathskeller, I panted, I grunted, I squeaked at every joint, and the rest of that inning was something to congeal the blood of robust men. For timid women the de- tails would spell murder. So why give the details and bring upon my head the blood of innocent wives, sisters, and divorcees? They got— My typewriter chokes on the fateful sentence and my right arm quivers. But the truth must prevail, They got fourteen runs. On my way to the bench I passed my friends in the grand-stand. They leaned out to talk to me. ad- “HEADS BELOW. LOOK ctr!” “If you said you could pitch,’’ they said, ‘tyou should be arrested for per- jury.”’ On the bench our team shed perspira- tion and tears. They told me to go play ping-pong with the bat boy, and the bat boy said that when he played ping-pong he'd play witha man, Whereupon—— “I’ve had enough,’’ I told our captain. “Miller will pitch,’’ he said sadly. “Try your hand at second base. You can’t do much worse."’ In this, though, our captain was mis- taken. I did adeal worse. Six times . the ball was hit in my direction, and six times our noble right fielder played first- aid-to-second-basemen and chased it to the fence. At first he made no com- plaint. In the eighth inning, however, he advised me that if I let another one get past to the fence, he’d punch my ae eye. He wasa husky So during the ninth inning I played shortstop and the assistant sport- ing editor took my dangerous place. At the bat —I went to the bat for the first time in the third inning. Our police reporter was waiting patiently on way NoT? third base, and I swung at three that were over my head. “You're a frost!’’ said the police re- porter. “T like them high,’’ I explained. you hit them, they go a mile.’” The next time up I swung at three that were down around my ankles. “Thought you liked them high,” said the police reporter. “T wanted to lift one over the heads of the infielders,’’ I explained. “re EXPECTED SOME MUSIC. Captain—** Won't you come down below ?'” ’ut—* No; I'm going to stay right here, alongside of the gramaphone."" “Next time up,’? said our captain, “you swing at nothing. Get your base ‘on balls.’” Which accounts for the fact that in the seventh inning I walked to first on four bad balls. Our captain was coach- comicbooks.com