I divined the importuning of his old habit
to greet his team with the yell that had made him
famous. I expected him to get up; I waited for
it. Gradually, however, he became quiet as a man
governed by severe self-restraint and directed his
attention to the Philadelphia center fielder.
At a glance I saw that the player was new to
me and answered the newspaper description of
young Burt. What a lively looking athlete! He
was tall, lithe, yet sturdy. He did not need to
chase more than two fly balls to win me. His
graceful, fast style reminded me of the great Curt
Welch. Old Well-Well's face wore a rapt
expression. I discovered myself hoping Burt would
make good; wishing he would rip the boards off
the fence; praying he would break up the game.
It was Saturday, and by the time the gong
sounded for the game to begin the grand stand
and bleachers were packed. The scene was glittering,
colorful, a delight to the eye. Around the
circle of bright faces rippled a low, merry
murmur. The umpire, grotesquely padded in front
by his chest protector, announced the batteries,
dusted the plate, and throwing out a white ball,
sang the open sesame of the game: ``Play!''
Then Old Well-Well arose as if pushed from his
seat by some strong propelling force. It had been
his wont always when play was ordered or in a
moment of silent suspense, or a lull in the
applause, or a dramatic pause when hearts heat high
and lips were mute, to bawl out over the listening,
waiting multitude his terrific blast: ``Well-Well-
Well!''
Twice he opened his mouth, gurgled and
choked, and then resumed his seat with a very
red, agitated face; something had deterred him
from his purpose, or he had been physically
incapable of yelling.
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