But the Rube
pitched, on, tireless, irresistibly, hopeful, not
forgetting to call a word of cheer to his fielders.
It was one of those strange games that could
not be bettered by any labor or daring or skill.
I saw it was lost from the second inning, yet so
deeply was I concerned, so tantalizingly did the
plays reel themselves off, that I groveled there
on the bench unable to abide by my baseball sense.
The ninth inning proved beyond a shadow of
doubt how baseball fate, in common with other
fates, loved to balance the chances, to lift up one,
then the other, to lend a deceitful hope only to
dash it away.
Providence had almost three times enough to
win. The team let up in that inning or grew over-
confident or careless, and before we knew what
had happened some scratch hits, and bases on
balls, and errors, gave us three runs and left two
runners on bases. The disgusted bleachers came
out of their gloom and began to whistle and
thump. The Rube hit safely, sending another run
over the plate. McCall worked his old trick,
beating out a slow bunt.
Bases full, three runs to tie! With Ashwell up
and one out, the noise in the bleachers mounted
to a high-pitched, shrill, continuous sound. I got
up and yelled with all my might and could not
hear my voice. Ashwell was a dangerous man in
a pinch.
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