Read Online At the Old Ballgame by Jeff Silverman - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeff Silverman
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can hurl an elusive leather-covered sphere, guaranteed to weigh in ringside at five ounces, and to be of 9-inch circumference, no more or no less, somewhere near a little disk they foolishly refer to as the home plate. Get me?
âNow, my friend, take my tip, pack your grip and go up to Canton. Theyâve got a big kid up there that can do anything with a baseball except eat it. Say, heâs got so much speed that he burns chunks of holes in the atmosphere. Heâs the shoot-âem-in-Pete of that reservation.
âWatched him streak âem over last Sunday, and he struck out a flock of baseball players. I think he fanned a hundred or two hundred. I didnât keep count. He made them describe figure âeights,â stand on their beams and wigwag for help. You get your grip, if you want a pitcher, streak it to Canton, and donât let anyone tout you off.â
Robison did as he was bade, and when he arrived at Canton he went out to the ball yard. There was a big, lop-sided yap on the mound. He looked as though nature chiseled him out to pitch hay, instead of a poor, little inoffensive baseball, and Robison had to laugh when he beheld the world-renowned bearcat twirler that his friend had tipped him off to.
The big boy in the box showed a lot of steam, and Robisonâs desire to laugh was turned to amazement. Heâd never beheld anyone toss a ball with just such speed and precision and with so many curlicues on it. After the game Robison called the young hay miner aside and offered him a job at a figure which made the youth open his mouth.
Robison slipped him transportation to Cleveland, with instructions to find his way out to the ball yard and call on Pat Tebeau, admonishing him to be careful not to get run over by any street cars, as he (Robison) owned the lines and didnât want any damage suits.
The lo-sided boy found his way to the ball yard, asked for Mr. Teabow, blushed like a June bride and told him what he came for.
Tebeau called Zimmer and a few of his old scouts about him, and they openly laughed at the unusual looking boy, who had the nerve to say that he might be a baseball pitcher fit for major league company.
Chicago was in Cleveland. Old fans will recall those dreaded White Stockings, with Anson at their head; and such stars as Ned Williamson, Tommy Burns, Fred Pfeffer, Dalrymple, Jimmy Ryan and that sort on the roster.
Those old boys used to give great pitchers that earthquake feeling about the knees when they dragged up their hundred-pound batons to thump the bitumen out of anything that came near the plate.
Tebeau thought it would be a good joke to pitch the young man against these sluggers and see the effect. He told the boy he wanted him to pitch. Then they dug up a uniform that fitted the lad like a 14½ collar would incase the neck of Frank Gotch.
Anson and his bunch were as fierce baseball pirates as ever scuttled a ship, but they had to laugh at the lad who was to aim the pill at them. They roared when they saw him go into the box.
But something happened. The mere boy struck out Adrian C. Anson, worldâs wonder with the bat; then he fanned Fred Pfeffer, the prince of second sackers, and slipped three across that Williamson missed entirely.
Then those Chicago sluggers began to take notice. Pat Tebeau saw that the boy he mistook for a clown was a real jewel in the rough. The boy won that game. He made the White Stockings look like a young simian trying to shave. That night the young ladâs name was on every tongue. He was Cy Young, farmer, who became a famous baseball pitcher in one day, and who has been making good ever since.
Young is a farmer yet. He cultivates his broad acres in Ohio and is well off.
Varsity Frank
Burt L. Standish
A day or two later came the very thing that had been anticipated and discussed, since the freshman game at Cambridge. Merriwell was selected as one of the pitchers on the âVarsity nine, and the freshmen lost him
âNow, my friend, take my tip, pack your grip and go up to Canton. Theyâve got a big kid up there that can do anything with a baseball except eat it. Say, heâs got so much speed that he burns chunks of holes in the atmosphere. Heâs the shoot-âem-in-Pete of that reservation.
âWatched him streak âem over last Sunday, and he struck out a flock of baseball players. I think he fanned a hundred or two hundred. I didnât keep count. He made them describe figure âeights,â stand on their beams and wigwag for help. You get your grip, if you want a pitcher, streak it to Canton, and donât let anyone tout you off.â
Robison did as he was bade, and when he arrived at Canton he went out to the ball yard. There was a big, lop-sided yap on the mound. He looked as though nature chiseled him out to pitch hay, instead of a poor, little inoffensive baseball, and Robison had to laugh when he beheld the world-renowned bearcat twirler that his friend had tipped him off to.
The big boy in the box showed a lot of steam, and Robisonâs desire to laugh was turned to amazement. Heâd never beheld anyone toss a ball with just such speed and precision and with so many curlicues on it. After the game Robison called the young hay miner aside and offered him a job at a figure which made the youth open his mouth.
Robison slipped him transportation to Cleveland, with instructions to find his way out to the ball yard and call on Pat Tebeau, admonishing him to be careful not to get run over by any street cars, as he (Robison) owned the lines and didnât want any damage suits.
The lo-sided boy found his way to the ball yard, asked for Mr. Teabow, blushed like a June bride and told him what he came for.
Tebeau called Zimmer and a few of his old scouts about him, and they openly laughed at the unusual looking boy, who had the nerve to say that he might be a baseball pitcher fit for major league company.
Chicago was in Cleveland. Old fans will recall those dreaded White Stockings, with Anson at their head; and such stars as Ned Williamson, Tommy Burns, Fred Pfeffer, Dalrymple, Jimmy Ryan and that sort on the roster.
Those old boys used to give great pitchers that earthquake feeling about the knees when they dragged up their hundred-pound batons to thump the bitumen out of anything that came near the plate.
Tebeau thought it would be a good joke to pitch the young man against these sluggers and see the effect. He told the boy he wanted him to pitch. Then they dug up a uniform that fitted the lad like a 14½ collar would incase the neck of Frank Gotch.
Anson and his bunch were as fierce baseball pirates as ever scuttled a ship, but they had to laugh at the lad who was to aim the pill at them. They roared when they saw him go into the box.
But something happened. The mere boy struck out Adrian C. Anson, worldâs wonder with the bat; then he fanned Fred Pfeffer, the prince of second sackers, and slipped three across that Williamson missed entirely.
Then those Chicago sluggers began to take notice. Pat Tebeau saw that the boy he mistook for a clown was a real jewel in the rough. The boy won that game. He made the White Stockings look like a young simian trying to shave. That night the young ladâs name was on every tongue. He was Cy Young, farmer, who became a famous baseball pitcher in one day, and who has been making good ever since.
Young is a farmer yet. He cultivates his broad acres in Ohio and is well off.
Varsity Frank
Burt L. Standish
A day or two later came the very thing that had been anticipated and discussed, since the freshman game at Cambridge. Merriwell was selected as one of the pitchers on the âVarsity nine, and the freshmen lost him
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