CHAPTER IX
A GAME WITH BOXER HALL
The grandstand was filled with cheering students. In one section were the cohorts of Randall College, led in giving their cries by "Bean" Perkins, who had a voice like unto that of some fog horn. There was a mass of glowing colors as flags and streamers were waved in the wind.
In another part of the stand a smaller but no less enthusiastic throng sent up exultant cries of rivalry, calling out repeatedly: "Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!"
Scattered among the students in each of the two divisions of the stand were girls and more girls, all of them pretty, at least in the eyes of their admirers, and all of them sporting one college colors or the other.
The bleachers were filled by ardent supporters of the game who were not so particular about having a roof over their heads and who, for one reason or another, had to look to the difference in cost between a grandstand ticket and one on the side benches.
It was the occasion of the first regular game of the season in the Tonoka Lake League between Randall College and Boxer Hall. As the opposing players came out for warm-up practice the yells, cheers and cries were redoubled, and the stands seemed a waving riot of colors, like some great bed of flowers.
The sounds of balls impinging on thick mitts, of willow bats cracking out hot liners or lofty flies were heard all over the diamond. Never had the grass seemed greener and never had the field looked so inviting. It was a perfect day for the game.
There was not a little anxiousness on the part of the Randall players as they "sized up" their opponents. They found them a sturdy lot of youngsters.
"They're playing snappy ball," observed Coach Lighton to Captain Woodhouse.
"Yes, and so will we," predicted Kindlings. "Just watch us."
"I intend to. That's why I'm out here. Now let me give you and Langridge a few pointers," and he called the pitcher to him, the three strolling off to one side of the field.
Tom Parsons was on hand, and it does him no discredit when it is stated that there was a feeling of envy in his heart. But it was honest envy. He wanted to get out on the diamond and do his share in helping the Randall team to win. But he could only look on and cheer with the others.
To win or lose the first game meant much to either team. Not so much to Boxer Hall, perhaps, as that team had run Fairview Institute a close second for the championship, but to Randall the winning of the game might put the necessary "snap" into the lads, while to lose it might so discourage them that it would be well on in the season before they would "take a brace."
So it is no wonder that there was a feeling of nervousness on the part of the coach and the players.
The practice was over. The preliminaries had been arranged, the home team, Randall, having the privilege of being last to bat. Langridge, with final instructions from the coach, took his place in the box.
"Play ball!" fairly howled the umpire, and the game was on.
"Ping!" That was the sound of the bat colliding with the ball, the first ball that Langridge threw. Describing a graceful curve, the white sphere sailed up into the air. Ed Kerr, hoping it might be a foul, had thrown off his mask and was wildly looking for it, but it was winging its way toward Jerry Jackson in right field. A yell went up from the two hundred college supporters of Boxer Hall, but it was changed to a groan when one of the Jersey twins neatly gathered in the fly and put the runner out. Langridge breathed a sigh of relief and struck out the next two men.
Not a man got to first on the Randall team in the initial inning. Kerr knocked a pop fly, but it was caught by the pitcher, who repeated Langridge's trick and sent the next two men to the bench in short order.
The next three innings saw goose eggs in the squares of both teams, the only hitting that was done being foul tips.
"It's a pitchers' battle," began to be whispered from seat to seat, and so it seemed. In the sixth inning Randall succeeded in getting a man to first on balls, and then began an attempt on the part of the onlooking students of that college to get the pitcher's "goat," which, being interpreted, meant to "rattle" him. That he had a "glass arm" was the mildest epithet hurled at him, but Dave Ogden, who was doing the twirling for Boxer Hall, only smiled in a confident sort of way and struck out the next man.
He was not so successful with Kindlings Woodhouse, and the captain hammered out a pretty fly that was good for two bases and sent Bricktop Molloy to third. The Randall boys were rejoicing now, for they saw a chance to score the first run. And the run itself was brought in by the blue-eyed and red-haired Molloy a moment later, when Phil Clinton knocked a hot liner right between the Boxer Hall shortstop and the third baseman. But that ended the fun, though the score was 1 to 0 in favor of the home team.
This may have been an incentive to the visitors, for straightway they began pounding Langridge, and when the seventh inning ended the score was 4 to 2 in favor of Boxer Hall.
"Boys, we've got to down 'em!" said Woodhouse fiercely. "Don't let them put the game on ice this way. Don't do it. Take a brace."
In the eighth inning it looked as if there was going to be a slump in Randall stock. Langridge seemed to go to pieces and issued walking passes to two men, while he was batted for a two-bagger and a three-base hit. But with a gritting of their teeth the others rallied to his support, and though the visitors tucked away two more runs, making the score 6 to 2, at which their cohorts went into a fine frenzy, that was all they could do.
"Fellows, we're going to win!" cried Captain Paul, or "Pinky" Davenport, of the Boxers.
"Wait a bit, son," advised Kindlings dryly.
In the ending of the eighth there was a look of "do or die" about the Randall players. Tom Parsons felt himself gripping the sides of the seat until the board hurt his hands.
"Oh, if I could only get down there and play!" he whispered to himself. "Why can't I? why can't I?" But he couldn't and he knew it.
Rather to their own surprise the Randall lads began finding the ball with surprising regularity. They batted it out "for keeps," as Molloy said, and they managed to tie the score. Then came the ever nerve-thrilling ninth inning in a close game. By great good luck, after he had given one man his base on balls, Langridge retired a trio in one-two-three order, and the score still stood a tie.
"Now, fellows, slam it into them. Wallop the hide off 'em—sting 'em—souse 'em—put 'em in brine for next year!" implored Holly Cross. "I'm first up, and I'm going to give you a correct imitation of a man making a home run."
But he didn't. Holly struck out miserably and he went away into a far corner and thought gloomy thoughts. Not for long, however. A resounding crack of the bat told him some one had knocked a fly. It was Phil Clinton, and he started for first like a deer with the hounds after it.
"My, but he can run!" exclaimed Tom in admiration. "Wouldn't he be fine covering the gridiron with the ball tucked under his arm? Go on! go on! That's the stuff, Phil! Pretty! pretty! That's a beaut! that's a beaut!"
Tom was on his feet yelling at the top of his voice. So were hundreds of other lads and girls also. But the Boxer third baseman was right near the ball. He gathered it in and hurled it to first. It would have been all over with Phil, in spite of his magnificent run, except that the first baseman missed it, and Phil, amid a riot of cheers, kept on to second.
That sealed the fate of the Boxers. They "slumped" and went to pieces badly. The Randall lads garnered a run and so they won the game—the first of the season—by a score of 7 to 6.
And then what cheering there was!