Ginger called all and sundry by their first names; all, that is, save Gus Cousins and Manager Naylor. Gus was “Mister Coach” and Naylor was just “Mister.” There was no hint of disrespect in Ginger’s address, and the word “sir” was seldom absent. It was on one of those homeward walks after a Friday practice that Babe learned about all there was to be learned of his admirer. Ginger lived with his father, who was a mason, in a two-room tenement. His mother had died when he was a baby. There had been a small sister once, but she, too, had died. Ginger went to high school and didn’t mind studying—much. When he grew up he was going to be a baseball player until he had made enough money to buy a team of his own. He had played ball since he was seven, or maybe eight, on the back lots or down by the railroad yards. He’d had a team of his own last summer and had licked about every other team of its age in the neighborhood. He pitched sometimes, but generally he played second[188] base or shortstop. Maybe he would get a nine together again this summer, but he wanted to learn all the baseball he could, which was why he had sought the privilege of toiling without remuneration for the school team. Once he had saved up some money and gone to the city and seen a Big League game, but it hadn’t been much of a game, after all: “them fellows pulled a lot of bone-head plays that day!” To all appearances Ginger had attached himself to a losing cause when he had thrown in his lot with the Holman’s team. Since early April the Light Green had won ten and lost seven; not a very good performance for the nine whose two straight over Munson Academy last spring had completed a record of fourteen victories out of eighteen contests. Holman’s though, had lost seriously by graduation and only Dave, Babe, Captain Hal Norwin, Joe Kenton and “Mac” Torrey remained of those who had played against Munson. It was a good fielding team, but batting was a lost art to it and the pitching staff was a weak support. For one of Holman’s four twirlers to go nine innings was exceptional; usually it took three to land a victory. Dave, a left-hander, was having tragic lapses from his last year’s cunning. Bellows, slow-ball artist, had yet to survive a seventh inning. Jones, last year’s freshman southpaw, was streaky[189] and explosive. Meadows, more nerve than experience, was as yet but a promising cub. Coach Cousins, though, wasn’t discouraged, and still hoped to capture the Munson series; and if the Light Green triumphed over the Blue-and-Gold all that had gone before was as nothing. To such a situation, then, did Ginger Burke attach himself.
Two days after Ginger’s advent Holman’s was beaten once more, this time by Milton. Then, the following Wednesday, she faced the Benson Athletics, a hard-hitting aggregation of mill employees. Tom Meadows lasted an inning and a half, after which Dave Cochran carried the game through to a 4 to 2 victory. That victory seemed to turn the tide for the Light Green. Holman’s entered on a winning streak as startling as it was gratifying. Bordentown, State Agricultural, Ogden and Louisburg were defeated; after which Holman’s journeyed to Wayne City and won a hard contest from Deacon College. Three days later another pilgrimage resulted less satisfactorily, for the Light Green fell before the superior batting prowess of Jamesville and her winning streak was broken. But the next Wednesday found her on the long end of a 9 to 3 score against St. John’s, which, since St. John’s had beaten her badly earlier in the season, was a gratifying and encouraging event. The next game also went Holman’s way, although eleven[190] innings were required to convince Townsend that she was beaten.
It was during the Ogden game that Joe Kenton, second baseman, awaiting his turn at bat, watched Wentworth’s two-bagger go screeching over second and observed to the bench at large: “There goes their old ball game!” Then, when Charlie Prince and Ted Purves had sped across the rubber, Joe winked at Babe and addressed Ginger, squatting at Babe’s feet.
“Ginger,” said Joe, “you sure brought us luck. As a mascot I’ll say you’re a wonder!”
Ginger looked back over his shoulder gravely and, after an infinitesimal pause, replied convincedly: “You guys was sure needing a mascot when I come!”
That was as close as any one ever got to making Ginger claim the credit for the team’s success, but they all had the conviction that modesty alone held him back, and since baseball players, even school amateurs, are all leavened with harmless superstition there were plenty among them who would listen to no argument against the mascot theory. Babe said loudly and often that it was a great day for the old school when Ginger came on the scene! By this time the red-haired bat boy was a school institution, in a manner of speaking. He was as much a part of the team as—well, almost as much a[191] part as Captain Hal Norwin himself. He had even attained literary celebrity in the columns of the school monthly. Holman’s had taken him for her own and was proud of him; and rendered him the respect due one who, even if you said it only in jest, had put the school back on the baseball map. Ginger now appeared appropriately attired at the games. A discarded shirt of Babe’s, bearing a green H on one breast, had been cut down to fit him, and from Captain Hal had come the breeches. The latter, so long as Ginger didn’t bend too far forward, were quite presentable. Ginger also had a cap and a pair of green stockings, and thus attired, feet widely spread, arms akimbo, eyes attentively on the game, he presented a notable appearance. And when, thrusting back his cap—an action induced by excitement—he revealed that unbelievably red thatch of his the picture was almost epic!
June came on the scene with a fine run of blue skies and hot sunshine, and the Holman’s team went on winning ball games. Of course she lost now and then. When you came to investigate matters closely you wondered why she didn’t lose a lot more. The pitchers were doing better, but not so much better, the batting showed improvement but was still well under last year’s percentage. Perhaps Fortune was rooting for the Light Green, or perhaps the team had found faith in itself. Certain it is that[192] the breaks of the game went often to Holman’s those days, and any one knows that it’s better to be lucky than rich.
In the matter of batting, Holman’s was a weak crowd. Outside Captain Hal Norwin and Ted Purves and Joe Kenton, there wasn’t a dependable hitter on the team. Sometimes Bud Thomas came across with a needed wallop, and occasionally little Charlie Prince, demon third baseman, laid down a nice bunt. But for the rest—why, as Ginger phrased it to himself, “junk!” They tried hard enough, both at practice and in games, and they almost wore out a brand-new batting net, but all to very little purpose. If they had the eye they didn’t have the swing, and vice versa. There was Babe, for instance. Babe was a corking catcher, big enough to block off a runner at the plate, quick enough to cover the whole back-lot on fouls, an unerring shot to second and steady under almost any provocation to be otherwise. But at the bat he was Samson shorn. Babe was a slugger, which is to say that he took a long swing and a hard one and, having connected with the ball, was likely to smash it out into the cinder piles that intervened between the ball field and Conyer’s Creek. The cinder piles meant three bases always, usually four. But, like many other sluggers, Babe was an infrequent hitter. If pitchers would put the ............