When the noise subsided, one fan, evidently
a little longer-winded than his comrades, cried out
hysterically:
``O-h! I don't care what becomes of me--
now-w!''
Score tied, three to three, game must go ten
innings--that was the shibboleth; that was the
overmastering truth. The game did go ten innings--
eleven--twelve, every one marked by masterly
pitching, full of magnificent catches, stops
and throws, replete with reckless base-running
and slides like flashes in the dust. But they were
unproductive of runs. Three to three! Thirteen
innings!
``Unlucky thirteenth,'' wailed a superstitious
fan.
I had got down to plugging, and for the first
time, not for my home team. I wanted Philadelphia
to win, because Burt was on the team. With
Old Well-Well sitting there so rigid in his seat,
so obsessed by the playing of the lad, I turned
traitor to New York.
White cut a high twisting bounder inside the
third base, and before the ball could be returned
he stood safely on second. The fans howled with
what husky voice they had left. The second hitter
batted a tremendously high fly toward center field.
Burt wheeled with the crack of the ball and raced
for the ropes. Onward the ball soared like a sailing
swallow; the fleet fielder ran with his back to
the stands. What an age that ball stayed in the
air! Then it lost its speed, gracefully curved and
began to fall.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228