``We had the game on ice!'' one cried.
``Get him a basket!''
New York men got on bases in the ninth and
made strenuous efforts to cross the plate, but it
was not to be. Philadelphia opened up with two
scorching hits and then a double steal. Burt came
up with runners on second and third. Half the
crowd cheered in fair appreciation of the way fate
was starring the ambitious young outfielder; the
other half, dyed-in-the-wool home-team fans, bent
forward in a waiting silent gloom of fear. Burt
knocked the dirt out of his spikes and faced
Duveen. The second ball pitched he met fairly and
it rang like a bell.
No one in the stands saw where it went. But
they heard the crack, saw the New York shortstop
stagger and then pounce forward to pick up the
ball and speed it toward the plate. The catcher
was quick to tag the incoming runner, and then
snap the ball to first base, completing a double
play.
When the crowd fully grasped this, which was
after an instant of bewilderment, a hoarse crashing
roar rolled out across the field to bellow back
in loud echo from Coogan's Bluff. The grand
stand resembled a colored corn field waving in a
violent wind; the bleachers lost all semblance of
anything. Frenzied, flinging action--wild chaos
--shrieking cries--manifested sheer insanity of
joy.
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