He put his hands over his ears to shut out
some of the uproar. And he watched that little
yarn ball fly and shoot and bound and roll to
crush his fondest hopes. Not one of his players
appeared able to hold it. And Grace had holes
in his hands and legs and body. The ball went
right through him. He might as well have been
so much water. Instead of being a shortstop he
was simply a hole. After every hit Daddy saw
that ball more and more as something alive. It
sported with his infielders. It bounded like a
huge jack-rabbit, and went swifter and higher at
every bound. It was here, there, everywhere.
And it became an infernal ball. It became
endowed with a fiendish propensity to run up a
player's leg and all about him, as if trying to hide
in his pocket. Grace's efforts to find it were
heartbreaking to watch. Every time it bounded
out to center field, which was of frequent
occurrence, Tom would fall on it and hug it as if he
were trying to capture a fleeing squirrel. Tay
Tay Mohler could stop the ball, but that was no
great credit to him, for his hands took no part in
the achievement. Tay Tay was fat and the ball
seemed to like him. It boomed into his stomach
and banged against his stout legs. When Tay saw
it coming he dropped on his knees and valorously
sacrificed his anatomy to the cause of the game.
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