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Show It was the lack of face masks, chest guards, and shin protectors that induced Father,$ to attend as "team physician." He was horrified at the lack of safeguards. At 3 p.m. Lund declared itself all warmed up and ready to start. We still lacked two players, and the "flat*' of soft drinks Father had contributed were consumed. Then Steve Stephenson drove up in a Model T with the oldest Couch "boy," who had played a little shortstop when he was in the army. Steve had argued for more than an hour to win him over. He made the eighth man. You can guess my rating as a ballplayer by this fact, that even with the Lund team growing irritable at the delay, I wasn't pressed into service. Phil Costello was only a few months older than I but at least he talked a good game. He knew all the lingo. He'd seen lots of Coast League ball in Los Angeles and had played in the grades and early high school against stiff competition. Also he was the only player eager to catch without a mask, chest protector and shin guards. Finally a small cheer rose: Shorty Stephenson's car roared up the trail from Blue Mountain and he had Clyde Bangle with him. Herd had to strain his power of persuasion to talk Clyde into it. Son of a tall, gaunt lay preacher from the Ozarks, Clyde was even taller a and lankier, Iantern-jawed, round-shouldered. He wasksolemn, silent young man, intensely religious and serious about developing his homestead. But without him, Vernon Johnson confided to me, "Nada wouldn't have a prayer." "That may be all he can do," I sneered in envy. I was judging Clyde by his father. The old gentleman had called at the store just the day before, lengthening his tramp around his trapline to get his |
