"Fade-away, of course."
"Show me how you hold the ball when you throw it."
Joe did so. The old pitcher studied a moment, and then said:
"Joe, you've got it wrong. Have you been pitching that way all the while?"
"Always."
"No wonder they have been hitting you. Let me show you something. Stand behind me."
The old pitcher threw at the fence. Joe was amazed at the way the ball behaved. It would have puzzled the best of batters.
"How did you do it?" asked Joe, wonderingly.
"By using a different control, and holding the ball differently. I'll show you. You need a new hold."
CHAPTER XX
JOE'S TRIUMPH
Then began a lesson, the learning of which proved of great value to Joe in his after life as a ball player. If Old Pop Dutton had not the nerve to "come back" as a pitcher in a big league, at least he could show a rising young one how to correct his faults. And a fault Joe certainly had.
For several years he had been throwing the fade-away ball in the wrong manner. Not entirely wrong, to be sure, or he never would have attained the results he had, but it was sufficiently wrong to prevent him from having perfect control of that style of ball, and perfect control is the first law of pitching.
For some time the two practiced, unobserved, and Joe was glad of this.
He felt more hopeful than at any time since his team had commenced to "slump."
"Am I getting there?" Joe anxiously asked of the veteran, one day.
"Indeed you are, boy! But that's enough for to-day. You are using some new muscles in your arm and hand, and I don't want you to tire out.
You'll probably have to pitch to-morrow."
"I only wish I could use this style ball."
"It wouldn't be safe yet."
"No, I suppose not. But I'm going to keep at it."
It was not easy. It is always more difficult to "unlearn" a wrong way of doing a thing, and start over again on the right, than it is to learn the proper way at first. The old method will crop up most unexpectedly; and this happened in Joe's case more times than he liked.
But he persisted and gradually he felt that he was able to deliver the fade-away as it ought to come from a pitcher's hand. Now he waited the opportunity.
Meanwhile baseball matters were going on in rather slow fashion. All the teams, after the fierce rush and enthusiasm of the opening season, had now begun to fall off. The dog-days were upon them, and the heat seemed to take all the energy out of the men.
Still the games went on, with Pittston rising and falling on the baseball thermometer from fourth to second place and occasionally remaining stationary in third. First place was within striking distance several times, but always something seemed to happen to keep Joe's team back.
It was not always poor playing, though occasionally it was due to this.
Often it was just fate, luck, or whatever you want to call it. Fielders would be almost certain of a ball rolling toward them, then it would strike a stone or a clod of dirt and roll to one side.
Not much, perhaps, but enough so that the man would miss the ball, and the runner would be safe, by a fraction of time or space. It was heart-breaking.
Joe continued to work at the proper fade-away and he was getting more and more expert in its use. His control was almost perfect. Still he hesitated to use it in a game, for he wanted to be perfect.
A new pitcher--another south-paw, or left-hander--was purchased from another league club, at a high price, and for a time he made good. Joe was fearful lest he be given his release, for really he was not doing as well as he had at first. Truth to tell he was tired out, and Gregory should have realized this.
But he did not until one day a sporting writer, in a sensible article telling of the chances of the different teams in the Central League for winning the pennant, wrote of Joe:
"This young pitcher, of whom bright things were predicted at the opening of the season, has fallen off woefully. At times he shows brilliant flashes of form, but it seems to me that he is going stale. Gregory should give him a few days off."
Then the manager "woke up."
"Joe, is this true?" he asked, showing the youth the article.
"Well, I am a bit tired, Gregory, but I'm not asking for a vacation,"
answered Joe.
"I know you're not, but you're going to get it. You just take a run home and see your folks. When you come back I'm going to pitch you in a series of our hardest games. We go up against Clevefield again. You take a rest."
Joe objected, but half-heartedly, and ended by taking the train for home.
His heart felt lighter the moment he had started, and when he got to Riverside, and found his father much improved, Joe was more like himself than at any time since the opening of the ball season. His folks were exceedingly glad to see him, and Joe went about town, renewing old acquaintances, and being treated as a sort of local lion.
Tom Davis, Joe's chum, looked at the young pitcher closely.
"Joe," he said, "you're getting thin. Either you're in love, or you aren't making good."
"Both, I guess," answered Joe, with a short laugh. "But I'm going to make good very soon. You watch the papers."
Joe rejoined his team with a sparkle in his eye and a spring in his step that told how much good the little vacation had done him. He was warmly welcomed back--only Collin showing no joy.
Truth to tell Collin had been doing some wonderful pitching those last few days, and he was winning games for the team. The advent of Joe gave him little pleasure, for none knew better than he on how slim a margin a pitcher works, nor how easily he may be displaced, not only in the affection of the public, always fickle, but in the estimation of the manager.
"Hang him! I wish he'd stayed away!" muttered Collin. "Now he's fresh and he may get my place again. But I'll find a way to stop him, if Gregory gives him the preference!"
Joe went back at practice with renewed hope. He took Gregory and the catchers into his confidence, and explained about the fade-away. They were enthusiastic over it.
"Save it for Clevefield," advised the manager.
The day when Pittston was to play the top-notchers arrived. There were to be four games on Pittston's grounds, and for the first time since his reformation began, Pop Dutton was allowed to play in an important contest.
"I'm depending on you," Gregory warned him.
"And you won't be disappointed," was the reply. Certainly the old player had improved greatly. His eyes were bright and his skin ruddy and clear.