The Desperado Who Stole Baseball by John Ritter

Author:John Ritter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group

20

They’re here! They’re here!” Several young boys, yelling in glee, pointed down the street toward the high mountain road leading into town. “The Chicago White Stockings are here!”

Out in the distance, Jack could see three red stagecoaches with four horses each, kicking up dust. Men fired their guns throughout the town as boys and girls raised their voices in jubilee, running off toward the parade of coaches. Soon they came rolling down Maine Street, with children running alongside and men and women cheering them on. Slowing to a trot, the horses pulled up in front of Coleman’s 4-Bagger Hotel.

“Want to go see them?” Jack asked Billy.

“Suppose I might. Pulling up next to a poker game, aren’t they?”

It seemed the entire town had sprung into action. Out of the hotel emerged a five-piece brass band of trombones and trumpets, followed by three drummer boys, and they were all playing a raucous tune that occasionally resembled “Turkey in the Straw.”

By the time Jack and Billy drew close, each Chicago ballist had disembarked into the throng carrying a satchel upon which the player had his name engraved in silver. All of a sudden, as if in a dream, ball-yard heroes, with names from the St. Louis Post and Dispatch headlines, took on human form and were standing right there in front of Jack.

The band played on. This time the drummers shouted out some of the players’ names in a song.

“King Kelly, Cap Anson,” they sang. “George Gore, time for dancin’!”

Men and women locked arms and slide-stepped on the boardwalk. Children skipped in rhythm. It was a carnival.

“Cap Anson,” Jack heard himself say, reading the silver lettering on the man’s leather case. “He is a living legend, Billy. Just like Uncle John, he plays first base and runs the team. And he’s shrewd as can be.”

Jack read another case. “There’s Joe Quest! One of the finest second baggers around.” He ran forward, turned, and beckoned Billy to come closer. “I want you to see these fellows.”

“I can see.”

The song went on. “Corcoran, Burns, Cal McVey, and Silver Flint are here today!” It was a tricky little tune, Jack thought, catchy and right clever.

“Yonder is Cal McVey,” he shouted as he read that player’s name. “First man ever to get six hits in one game, and he did it twice in the same week. And I see George Gore! He’s a top-notch striker. He batted .360 last season.”

Billy smiled. “You don’t say.”

“This is going to be the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. I never dreamed I would ever get to see—” Jack stopped as one particular player caught his eye. Dressed in flashy brown and yellow calico pants, a puffy white shirt, and a blue silk vest was Mike “King” Kelly, the grandest base stealer of all time, not to mention a .300 hitter.

“Mr. Kelly!” Jack ran up, unable to stop himself. “I am a big, big admirer of yours.”

Mr. Kelly, appearing woozy from the trip, squinted sternly at Jack. “Are ye

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