breast and the top of his head bald in the sun, and then the music stopped and the roar went up, and Sad Sam walked very slow out towards the hill. Over in front of the mayor the photographers was bent down on 1 knee, and the bulbs was flashing all over, and the mayor wound up and throwed the ball out on the field towards Sam.
He scooped it up and went to the mound and stood looking down at the ball in his hand. He studied it some, and he seen that it was scuffed, and he throwed it to the umpire for he will not use a ball that don’t suit him no matter if the mayor or the President or the King of England or anyone else has smudged it up. The umpire slapped a new ball in Red Traphagen’s mitt, and Red whipped it down to Sam, and Sam looked all about him to see that everyone was in the exact position they ought to be. Then his eye caught something over near the box that the mayor was in, and he pointed, and the mayor himself come out of the box onto the grass and picked up a flash bulb that 1 of the photographers dropped. He put it in his pocket and went back in and took his seat, and there was a big laugh all around.
Then Sam got his sign and wound and throwed, a fast curve about knee-high that Black, the Boston batter, drilled out into center for a single. We was sitting right behind the plate, and I seen Black start to swing and then hold it and then swing after all, so it was pure luck that he connected a-tall, and Pop turned to me and said, “He was the most surprised person in the park,” meaning Black, for Pop had saw what I saw. Behind us some fellow begun to moan, “Old Sad Sam is all washed up,” and he begun to sing a song, “Oh the old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be,” and I turned in my seat and shouted at him, “You have got your brains in your shoes.”
“Who says so?” said he.
“I said so,” I said.
“Okay,” said he. “I was just wondering.”
Granby moved Black along to second with the sacrifice.
With a 1-1 count on him Fielding cut under a letter-high fast ball and fouled it behind the plate. Red Traphagen come racing back. It did not look like he had a chance, but if you know Red you know that he is the type of a ballplayer that makes his play and stops to think about his chances afterward, and off come the mask, and the cap with it, and Red come roaring towards the fence, moving plenty fast, even with all that gear, and his red hair was flying in the wind, and he hauled it down about 2 feet from the fence. That was 2 down but Casey Sharpe at bat and trouble in the wind, for he is a dangerous man every day of the week. He fouled a couple off, and then Sam struck him out with the screw, and 3 was down and I turned to the moaning fellow and I said, “Who is so washed up? How many times did you ever strike out Casey Sharpe?”
We bought red-hots and soda, and the Mammoths went down 1-2-3 in their half of the first. Fred Nance was working for Boston, a righthander that then had plenty of speed but now relies a good deal more on curves and brains. It was no score for 5 innings. The fellow behind said he wished somebody would score, for he was running out of zeros on his card, and me and Pop got a laugh out of that.
I did not keep score in the regular way, but I kept a careful track of what Sam throwed to each batter. You could see his brain at work. He mixed his pitches plenty, keeping Boston guessing, now speed, now a curve, now a change-up, now a screw, now high, now low, never the same thing twice except when you least expected it.
Nance batted first for Boston in the sixth. He got a good hand, for people usually always give the pitcher a hand, knowing how hard he works, and Nance slapped a single into right and the crowd begun to whoop it up a bit. Behind me this fellow shouted, “Say, son, I will bet you a bag of peanuts Boston scores,” and I said I would bet him 10 against his 1, and he took me up, and Sam
He scooped it up and went to the mound and stood looking down at the ball in his hand. He studied it some, and he seen that it was scuffed, and he throwed it to the umpire for he will not use a ball that don’t suit him no matter if the mayor or the President or the King of England or anyone else has smudged it up. The umpire slapped a new ball in Red Traphagen’s mitt, and Red whipped it down to Sam, and Sam looked all about him to see that everyone was in the exact position they ought to be. Then his eye caught something over near the box that the mayor was in, and he pointed, and the mayor himself come out of the box onto the grass and picked up a flash bulb that 1 of the photographers dropped. He put it in his pocket and went back in and took his seat, and there was a big laugh all around.
Then Sam got his sign and wound and throwed, a fast curve about knee-high that Black, the Boston batter, drilled out into center for a single. We was sitting right behind the plate, and I seen Black start to swing and then hold it and then swing after all, so it was pure luck that he connected a-tall, and Pop turned to me and said, “He was the most surprised person in the park,” meaning Black, for Pop had saw what I saw. Behind us some fellow begun to moan, “Old Sad Sam is all washed up,” and he begun to sing a song, “Oh the old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be,” and I turned in my seat and shouted at him, “You have got your brains in your shoes.”
“Who says so?” said he.
“I said so,” I said.
“Okay,” said he. “I was just wondering.”
Granby moved Black along to second with the sacrifice.
With a 1-1 count on him Fielding cut under a letter-high fast ball and fouled it behind the plate. Red Traphagen come racing back. It did not look like he had a chance, but if you know Red you know that he is the type of a ballplayer that makes his play and stops to think about his chances afterward, and off come the mask, and the cap with it, and Red come roaring towards the fence, moving plenty fast, even with all that gear, and his red hair was flying in the wind, and he hauled it down about 2 feet from the fence. That was 2 down but Casey Sharpe at bat and trouble in the wind, for he is a dangerous man every day of the week. He fouled a couple off, and then Sam struck him out with the screw, and 3 was down and I turned to the moaning fellow and I said, “Who is so washed up? How many times did you ever strike out Casey Sharpe?”
We bought red-hots and soda, and the Mammoths went down 1-2-3 in their half of the first. Fred Nance was working for Boston, a righthander that then had plenty of speed but now relies a good deal more on curves and brains. It was no score for 5 innings. The fellow behind said he wished somebody would score, for he was running out of zeros on his card, and me and Pop got a laugh out of that.
I did not keep score in the regular way, but I kept a careful track of what Sam throwed to each batter. You could see his brain at work. He mixed his pitches plenty, keeping Boston guessing, now speed, now a curve, now a change-up, now a screw, now high, now low, never the same thing twice except when you least expected it.
Nance batted first for Boston in the sixth. He got a good hand, for people usually always give the pitcher a hand, knowing how hard he works, and Nance slapped a single into right and the crowd begun to whoop it up a bit. Behind me this fellow shouted, “Say, son, I will bet you a bag of peanuts Boston scores,” and I said I would bet him 10 against his 1, and he took me up, and Sam
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