The Young Pitcher by Zane Grey (e book free reading txt) 📖

wood for a plate and stepped off so many paces and placed another piece of wood to mark the pitcher's box. Then he donned the mitt.

“Peg, somethin's comin' off. I know it. I never make mistakes in sizin' up pitchers. But I've had such hard luck this season that I can't believe my own eyes. We've got to prove it. Now you go out there and pitch to me. Just natural like at first.”

Ken pitched a dozen balls or more, some in-curves, some out-curves. Then he threw what he called his drop, which he executed by a straight overhand swing.

“Oh—a beauty!” yelled Worry. “Where, Peg, where did you learn that? Another, lower now.”

Worry fell over trying to stop the glancing drop.

“Try straight ones now, Peg, right over the middle. See how many you can pitch.”

One after another, with free, easy motion, Ken shot balls squarely over the plate. Worry counted them, and suddenly, after the fourteenth pitch, he stood up and glared at Ken.

“Are you goin' to keep puttin' 'em over this pan all day that way?”

“Mr. Arthurs, I couldn't miss that plate if I pitched a week,” replied Ken.

“Stop callin' me Mister!” yelled Worry. “Now, put 'em where I hold my hands—inside corner... outside corner... again... inside now, low... another... a fast one over, now... high, inside. Oh, Peg, this ain't right. I ain't seein' straight. I think I'm dreamin'. Come on with 'em!”

Fast and true Ken sped the balls into Worry's mitt. Seldom did the coach have to move his hands at all.

“Peg Ward, did you know that pitchin' was all control, puttin' the ball where you wanted to?” asked Worry, stopping once more.

“No, I didn't,” replied Ken.

“How did you learn to peg a ball as straight as this?”

Ken told him how he had thrown at marks all his life.

“Why didn't you tell me before?” Worry seemed not to be able to get over Ken's backwardness. “Look at the sleepless nights and the gray hairs you could have saved me.” He stamped around as if furious, yet underneath the surface Ken saw that the coach was trying to hide his elation. “Here now,” he shouted, suddenly, “a few more, and peg 'em! See? Cut loose and let me see what steam you've got!”

Ken whirled with all his might and delivered the ball with all his weight in the swing. The ball seemed to diminish in size, it went so swiftly. Near the plate it took an upward jump, and it knocked Worry's mitt off his hand.

Worry yelled out, then he looked carefully at Ken, but he made no effort to go after the ball or pick up the mitt.

“Did I say for you to knock my block off?... Come here, Peg. You're only a youngster. Do you think you can keep that? Are you goin' to let me teach you to pitch? Have you got any nerve? Are you up in the air at the thought of Place and Herne?”

Then he actually hugged Ken, and kept hold of him as if he might get away. He was panting and sweating. All at once he sat down on one of the braces of the bleachers and began mopping his face. He seemed to cool down, to undergo a subtle change.

“Peg,” he said, quietly, “I'm as bad as some of 'em fat-head directors.... You see I didn't have no kind of a pitcher to work on this spring. I kept on hopin'. Strange why I didn't quit. And now—my boy, you're a kid, but you're a natural born pitcher.”

State University Game

Arthurs returned to the diamond and called the squad around him. He might have been another coach from the change that was manifest in him.

“Boys, I've picked the varsity, and sorry I am to say you all can't be on it. Ward, Dean, McCord, Raymond, Weir, Graves, Ray, Homans, Trace, Duncan, and Schoonover—these men will report at once to Trainer Murray and obey his orders. Then pack your trunks and report to me at 36 Spring Street to-night. That's all—up on your toes now.... The rest of you boys will each get his uniform and sweater, but, of course, I can't give you the varsity letter. You've all tried hard and done your best. I'm much obliged to you, and hope you'll try again next year.”

Led by Arthurs, the players trotted across the field to Murray's quarters. Ken used all his eyes as he went in. This was the sacred precinct of the chosen athletes, and it was not open to any others. He saw a small gymnasium, and adjoining it a large, bright room with painted windows that let in the light, but could not be seen through. Around the room on two sides were arranged huge box-like bins with holes in the lids and behind them along the wall were steam-pipes. On the other two sides were little zinc-lined rooms, with different kinds of pipes, which Ken concluded were used for shower baths. Murray, the trainer, was there, and two grinning negroes with towels over their shoulders, and a little dried-up Scotchman who was all one smile.

“Murray, here's my bunch. Look 'em over, and to-morrow start 'em in for keeps,” said Arthurs.

“Well, Worry, they're not a bad-looking lot. Slim and trim. We won't have to take off any beef. Here's Reddy Ray. I let you have him this year, Worry, but the track team will miss him. And here's Peg Ward. I was sure you'd pick him, Worry. And this is Homans, isn't it? I remember you in the freshmen games. The rest of you boys I'll have to get acquainted with. They say I'm a pretty hard fellow, but that's on the outside. Now, hustle out of your suits, and we'll give you all a good stew and a rub-down.”

What the stew was soon appeared plain to Ken. He was the first player undressed, and Murray, lifting up one of the box-lids, pushed Ken inside.

“Sit down and put your feet in that pan,” he directed. “When I drop the lid let your head come out the hole. There!” Then he wrapped a huge towel around Ken's neck, being careful to tuck it close and tight. With that he reached round to the back of the box and turned on the steam.

Ken felt like a jack-in-the-box. The warm steam was pleasant. He looked about him to see the other boys being placed in like positions. Raymond had the box on one side, and Reddy Ray the one on the other.

“It's great,” said Ray, smiling at Ken. “You'll like it.”

Raymond looked scared. Ken wondered if the fellow ever got any enjoyment out of things. Then Ken found himself attending to his own sensations. The steam was pouring out of the pipe inside the box, and it was growing wetter, thicker, and hotter. The pleasant warmth and tickling changed to a burning sensation. Ken found himself bathed in a heavy sweat. Then he began to smart in different places, and he was hard put to it to keep rubbing them. The steam grew hotter; his body was afire; his breath labored in great heaves. Ken felt that he must cry out. He heard exclamations, then yells, from some of the other boxed-up players, and he glanced quickly around. Reddy Ray was smiling, and did not look at all uncomfortable. But Raymond was scarlet in the face, and he squirmed his head to and fro.

“Ough!” he bawled. “Let me out of here!”

One of the negro attendants lifted the lid and helped Raymond out. He danced about as if on hot bricks. His body was the color of a boiled lobster. The attendant put him under one of the showers and turned the water on. Raymond uttered one deep, low, “O-o-o-o!” Then McCord begged to be let out; Weir's big head, with its shock of hair, resembled that of an angry lion; little Trace screamed, and Duncan yelled.

“Peg, how're you?” asked Murray, walking up to Ken. “It's always pretty hot the first few times. But afterward it's fine. Look at Reddy.”

“Murray, give Peg a good stewin',” put in Arthurs. “He's got a great arm, and we must take care of it.”

Ken saw the other boys, except Ray, let out, and he simply could not endure the steam any longer.

“I've got—enough,” he stammered.

“Scotty, turn on a little more stew,” ordered Murray, cheerfully; then he rubbed his hand over Ken's face. “You're not hot yet.”

Scotty turned on more steam, and Ken felt it as a wet flame. He was being flayed alive.

“Please—please—let me out!” he implored.

With a laugh Murray lifted the lid, and Ken hopped out. He was as red as anything red he had ever seen. Then Scotty shoved him under a shower, and as the icy water came down in a deluge Ken lost his breath, his chest caved in, and he gasped. Scotty led him out into the room, dried him with a towel, rubbed him down, and then, resting Ken's arm on his shoulder, began to pat and beat and massage it. In a few moments Ken thought his arm was a piece of live India rubber. He had never been in such a glow. When he had dressed he felt as light as air, strong, fresh, and keen for action.

“Hustle now, Peg,” said Arthurs. “Get your things packed. Supper to-night at the trainin'-house.”

It was after dark when Ken got an expressman to haul his trunk to the address on Spring Street. The house was situated about the middle of a four-storied block, and within sight of Grant Field. Worry answered his ring.

“Here you are, Peg, the last one. I was beginnin' to worry about you. Have your trunk taken right up, third floor back. Hurry down, for dinner will be ready soon.”

Ken followed at the heels of the expressman up to his room. He was surprised and somewhat taken back to find Raymond sitting upon the bed.

“Hello! excuse me,” said Ken. “Guess I've got the wrong place.”

“The coach said you and I were to room together,” returned Raymond.

“Us? Room-mates?” ejaculated Ken.

Raymond took offence at this.

“Wull, I guess I can stand it,” he growled.

“I hope I can,” was Ken's short reply. It was Ken's failing that he could not help retaliating. But he was also as repentant as he was quick-tempered. “Oh, I didn't mean that.... See here, Raymond, if we've got to be room-mates—”

Ken paused in embarrassment.

“Wull, we're both on the varsity,” said Raymond.

“That's so,” rejoined Ken, brightening. “It makes a whole lot of difference, doesn't it?”

Raymond got off the bed and looked at Ken.

“What's your first name?” queried he. “I don't like ‘Peg.’”

“Kenneth. Ken, for short. What's yours?”

“Mine's Kel. Wull, Ken—”

Having gotten so far Raymond hesitated, and it was Ken who first offered his hand. Raymond eagerly grasped it. That broke the ice.

“Kel, I haven't liked your looks at all,” said Ken, apologetically.

“Ken, I've been going to lick you all spring.”

They went down-stairs arm in arm.

It was with great interest and curiosity that Ken looked about the cozy and comfortable rooms. The walls were adorned with pictures of varsity teams and players, and the college colors were much in evidence. College magazines and papers littered the table in the reading-room.

“Boys, we'll be pretty snug and nice here when things get to runnin' smooth. The grub will be plain, but plenty of it.”

There were twelve in all at the table, with the coach seated at the head. The boys were hungry, and besides, as they had as yet had no chance to become acquainted, the conversation lagged. The newness and strangeness, however, did not hide the general air of suppressed gratification. After dinner Worry called them all together in the reading-room.

“Well, boys, here we are together like one big family, and we're shut in for two months. Now, I know you've all been fightin' for places on the team, and have had no chance to be friendly. It's always that way in the beginnin', and I dare say there'll be some scraps among you before things straighten out. We'll have more to say about that later. The thing now is you're all varsity men, and I'm puttin' you on your word of honor. Your word is good enough for me. Here's my rules, and I'm more than usually particular this year, for reasons I'll tell later.

“You're not to break trainin'. You're not to eat anything anywhere but here. You're to cut out cigarettes and drinks. You're to be in bed at ten o'clock. And I advise, although I ain't insistin', that if you have any leisure time you'll spend most of it here. That's all.”

For Ken the three days following passed as so many hours. He did not in the least dread the approaching game with State University, but his mind held scarcely anything