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Updated: May 15, 2025
"He's not shown at all what's in him. The blamed hayseed is up in the air. He's crazy. He doesn't know what he's doing. I tell you, Con, he may be scared to death, but he's dead in earnest." Suddenly I recalled the advice of the pleasant old fellow at Rickettsville. "Spears, you're the captain," I said, sharply. "Go after the rube. Wake him up. Tell him he can't pitch.
Raddy was an old pitcher and had seen the rise of a hundred stars. I told him about the game at Rickettsville and what I thought of Rube, and frankly asked his opinion. "Con, you've made the find of your life," said Raddy, quietly and deliberately. This from Radbourne was not only comforting; it was relief, hope, assurance.
"His name's Hurtle Whitaker Hurtle. Whit fer short. He hain't lost a gol-darned game this summer. No sir-ee! Never pitched any before, nuther." Hurtle! What a remarkably fitting name! Rickettsville chose the field and the game began. Hurtle swung with his easy motion. The ball shot across like a white bullet. It was a strike, and so was the next, and the one succeeding.
Then I breathed a long, deep breath; the first one for weeks. Something told me that with Hurtle's signature in my pocket I had the Eastern League pennant. Then I invited all concerned down to the Rickettsville hotel. We made connections at the railroad junction and reached Worcester at midnight in time for a good sleep. I took the silent and backward pitcher to my hotel.
He scarcely heard me and made no move to take the proffered cigar. All at once it struck me that the rustic simplicity which had characterized him had vanished. "Whit, old fellow, what was wrong today?" I asked, quietly, with my hand on his arm. "Mr. Connelly, I want my release, I want to go back to Rickettsville," he replied hurriedly. For the space of a few seconds I did some tall thinking.
After I had given up in hopelessness it came in the shape of a notice I read in one of the papers. It was a brief mention of an amateur Worcester ball team being shut out in a game with a Rickettsville nine. Rickettsville played Sunday ball, which gave me an opportunity to look them over. It took some train riding and then a journey by coach to get to Rickettsville.
I was too wise to make myself known before I had sized up the merits of my man. So, before the players came upon the field I amused myself watching the rustic fans and listening to them. Then a roar announced the appearance of the Rickettsville team and their opponents, who wore the name of Spatsburg on their Canton flannel shirts.
The uniforms of these country amateurs would have put a Philadelphia Mummer's parade to the blush, at least for bright colors. But after one amused glance I got down to the stern business of the day, and that was to discover a pitcher, and failing that, baseball talent of any kind. Never shall I forget my first glimpse of the Rickettsville twirler.
He could not throw anything but strikes, and it seemed the Spatsburg players could not make even a foul. Outside of Hurtle's work the game meant little to me. And I was so fascinated by what I saw in him that I could hardly contain myself. After the first few innings I no longer tried to. I yelled with the Rickettsville rooters. The man was a wonder. A blind baseball manager could have seen that.
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