Zane Grey

The Redheaded Outfield Zane Grey

It was the most critical time I had yet experienced in my career as a baseball manager. And therewas more than the usual reason why I must pull the team out. A chance for a business dealdepended upon the good-will of the stockholders of the Worcester club. On the outskirts of thetown was a little cottage that I wanted to buy, and this depended upon the business deal. My wholefuture happiness depended upon the little girl I hoped to install in that cottage. Coming to the Worcester Eastern League team, I had found a strong aggregation and anenthusiastic following. I really had a team with pennant possibilities. Providence was a strong rival, but I beat them three straight in the opening series, set a fast pace, and likewise set Worcesterbaseball mad. The Eastern League clubs were pretty evenly matched; still I continued to hold thelead until misfortune overtook me. Gregg smashed an umpire and had to be laid off. Mullaney got spiked while sliding and was outof the game. Ashwell sprained his ankle and Hirsch broke a finger. Radbourne, my great pitcher, hurt his arm on a cold day and he could not get up his old speed. Stringer, who had batted threehundred and seventy-one and led the league the year before, struck a bad spell and could not hit abarn door handed up to him. Then came the slump. The team suddenly let down; went to pieces; played ball that would havedisgraced an amateur nine. It was a trying time. Here was a great team, strong everywhere. A littlehard luck had dug up a slump-and now! Day by day the team dropped in the race. When wereached the second division the newspapers flayed us. Worcester would never stand for a seconddivision team. Baseball admirers, reporters, fans-especially the fans-are fickle. The admirers quit, the reporters grilled us, and the fans, though they stuck to the games with that barnacle-like tenacitypeculiar to them, made life miserable for all of us. I saw the pennant slowly fading, and thesuccessful season, and the business deal, and the cottage, and Milly--But when I thought of her I just could not see failure. Something must be done, but what? I wasat the end of my wits. When Jersey City beat us that Saturday, eleven to two, shoving us down tofifth place with only a few percentage points above the Fall River team, I grew desperate, andlocking my players in the dressing room I went after them. They had lain down on me and needed ajar. I told them so straight and flat, and being bitter, I did not pick and choose my wor