Understand, I do not deny the evidence of written records. That would be useless. I know that talkative Andy Gregg was on the mound for the Bears that day. I realize that he was credited with the victory which brought to the club the first pennant we ever flaunted along the coast. And I agree that he deserved the credit. For all practical purposes the voluble lad had labored nine full innings, giving one of the most sensational exhibitions of hurling ever witnessed. Nevertheless, I insist that Silent Smith pitched the Bears into that pennant as surely as his death occurred two hours before the game was called.
Let us see:
Silent Smith had been our twirling Ace the greater part of the season. Anyone who ever saw him in action will tell you he was a pitching marvel. He would work in turn every fourth day, do relief duty in between when called upon and still win the vast majority of his games. Notwithstanding his proclivity for hard work, he was strangely lacking in enthusiasm and possessed no more sociability than an ancient tombstone.
Mind, I do not profess to have any first hand knowledge as to the sociability of a tombstone. My head never rested within the shadow of one. It may be that their communion is confined solely to the realm of departed spirits, but so far as the human eye can see they are extremely unsociable objects. And so was Silent.
I well remember the veil of gloom which accompanied his advent into our Spring training camp. He came wandering out upon the field like a lost sheep, trailing a big, black bat—the most dismal looking rookie I ever laid eyes upon. His face was a masterpiece of dark despair, sketched in deep, weary lines ill fitted to carry a smile. Shrouded in sack-cloth. he could have done justice to the role of chief mourner at anybody's funeral.
The chief had been busy all morning, looking over a number of "promising" young pitchers whose efforts would have ruined the disposition of any trainer. We had been banging their offerings all over the park. Not one of them had enough stuff to last in a triple-A league. The chief's ire had been mounting accordingly, and the sight of Silent gazing dismally on had no soothing effect om his temper.
"Say, Smith," he growled, "you're supposed to be a pitcher, not a monument. Snap out of it! Let's see your stuff!"
Silent produced a ball from his hip pocket and nursed it sadly for a moment or two. I thought he was going to cry. Instead, he answered the chief in a very meek and tired voice:
"Yes—sir, Mr. Morkan!"
Some of us may have grinned in secret, but no one laughed outright. We knew the chief too well. He was fairly boiling inwardly and the lid was due to pop at any moment.
Silent, however, paid absolutely no attention to him. After uttering those surprising words, he ignored the chief completely. Slowly he made his way out on to the vacant mound and started a slower wind-up. The chief swore that this latest addition must have served a term on the box of a funeral cab.
Slow-motioned or not, the lad was uncommonly graceful for a southpaw. That we could see; but what he did to the ball no one ever knew. The thing he threw with that left arm of his was the biggest puzzle I ever stood up against. As if encased in gobs of gloom, the ball came floating up to the plate and drooped dejectedly into the catcher's mitt. It was more like a sigh than any soundless thing I can think of. It eluded our bats like a soaring phantom and had us doubled in knots in our efforts to deal it solid blow.
Within fifteen minutes the chief knew that he had a marvel in tow. I could see him melt as he watched the lad's solemn performance and his face began to beam.
"All right, buddy," he sang out genially. "But what do you call it?"
This time Silent made no answer. At least, he did not speak. He merely raised his shoulders and sighed—a long, deep sigh. That settled it.
"The sigh-ball," someone suggested.
And the "sigh-ball" it was henceforth.
THE boy could likewise hit. Not that he ever set the league on fire as a slugger, but he revealed a deadly punch with his big, black bat which made him a prince among pinch hitters.
This uncanny ability of his in a pinch was first demonstrated in our opening game of the season. Up until the eighth inning his batting performance had naturally classed him as another weak hitting pitcher. He had struck out on two occasions and had raised a puny fly in a third attempt. The fourth time he stepped into the box, however, the winning run was resting on third and he brought it in with a pretty single.
How he did it was as much of a mystery as his sigh-ball. His woeful stance at the plate certainly would never have labeled him a batter of any quality. The picture he presented as he clung to his big, black bat was one of utter hopelessness and might have been captioned "The End." Yet, in a pinch he could deliver.
We simply had to accept Silent as he was. There was no changing him. His actions were entirely too unexpected and unnatural to be fathomed. He could strike a batter out and look painfully unhappy over the deed. He could win a game with a timely drive and go into mourning. His normal atmosphere was gloom—deep and mysterious—and it never varied.
With our first swing around the circuit the fame of Silent Smith began to spread. That left arm of his slow-balled its way into the hearts of thousands of fans along the coast. The wild enthusiasm with which his appearance in the box was greeted amounted to a mania and his sigh-ball became the topic of household discussions.
There could be no doubt as to his popularity. He was the biggest drawing card in baseball anywhere at the time. It may have been the sad appeal of his miserable existence which intrigued; it may have been the veil of mystery shrouding his character which fascinated but, win or lose, he was idolized.
Behind his spectacular hurling we climbed to heights we had never known before. The completion of three-fourths of our schedule found us treading closely on the heels of the flying Leafs who had been perched proudly at the top all season. Small wonder that the town went baseball mad. For the first time in our history we had pennant visions.
Then came the set-back and our visions went a-glimmering. Silent Smith was drafted. With the spreading of the news a howl of disapproval went up along the coast. From three states came the same cry—"crooked baseball!"—and the very popularity of the sport itself was threatened. Outside efforts were made to have Silent recalled, but the trade had been consummated. Our Ace was lost.
With the passing of Silent, the Bears fell upon evil days. We developed a losing streak which threatened to force us out of the running. Even the despised Bisons made a clean sweep of a four game series and a pall of gloom spread o'er the camp.
Both the press and the paying public added to our misery. "Only a flash! The Bears have hit their stride!" That was the consensus wherever fans collected. The thing began to peeve the chief, and in an effort to redeem the club he went out into the sticks and brought back Andy Gregg.
