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.
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.Burt lunged forward and upwards;the ball lit in his hands and stuck there as he plunged over the ropes into the crowd.White had leisurely trotted half way to third; he saw the catch, ran back to touch second and then easily made third on the throw-in.The applause that greeted Burt proved the splendid spirit of the game.Bell placed a safe little hit over short, scoring White.Heaving, bobbing bleachers--wild, broken, roar on roar!
Score four to three--only one half inning left for Philadelphia to play--how the fans rooted for another run! A swift double-play, however, ended the inning.
Philadelphia's first hitter had three strikes called on him.
``Asleep at the switch!'' yelled a delighted fan.
The next batter went out on a weak pop-up fly to second.
``Nothin' to it!''
``Oh, I hate to take this money!''
``All-l o-over!''
Two men at least of all that vast assemblage had not given up victory for Philadelphia.I had not dared to look at Old Well-Well for a long, while.I dreaded the nest portentious moment.
I felt deep within me something like clairvoyant force, an intangible belief fostered by hope.
Magoon, the slugger of the Phillies, slugged one against the left field bleachers, but, being heavy and slow, he could not get beyond second base.Cless swung with all his might at the first pitched ball, and instead of hitting it a mile as he had tried, he scratched a mean, slow, teasing grounder down the third base line.It was as safe as if it had been shot out of a cannon.Magoon went to third.
The crowd suddenly awoke to ominous possibilities;sharp commands came from the players'
bench.The Philadelphia team were bowling and hopping on the side lines, and had to be put down by the umpire.
An inbreathing silence fell upon stands and field, quiet, like a lull before a storm.
When I saw young Burt start for the plate and realized it was his turn at bat, I jumped as if Ihad been shot.Putting my hand on Old Well-Well's shoulder I whispered: ``Burt's at bat:
He'll break up this game! I know he's going to lose one!''
