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Show whiffs of his bat, hearing also the groans of his fellow townsmen reduced to abject shame! The Nada section foreman was umpire. He was assumed to be impartial because both teams included "railroad men." Full of bounce and cockiness, Lund went to bat. And our odds and ends of who-knew-what shambled out on the field looking about as spirited and cohesive as nine dornicks of so many shapes and sizes lost in the weeds of a neglected pasture. Clyde Bangle, who'd taken his warm-up throws, began to pitch. He no longer appeared sheepish and retiring. He knew what he was doing. He was not enthusiastic about it-he left that to Catcher Phil Costello who incessantly shouted encouragement from behind the plate. Phil drew upon a wealth of lingo learned from haunting the battered old-timers and eager young hopefuls of the Pacific Coast League. But Clyde simply went to work. He had undertaken a job and he threw himself into it with concentration, almost fierceness, because he wanted to get it over with and get home. He fanned the first man up. We spectators admired the way Clyde wound up and whipped the ball over the plate or near it. Obviously he knew his business. But we weren't sure whether that first strikeout was a happy accident or not. Clyde let nothing disturb an iron poise that enveloped him like armor. Nothing unsettled him, not when the nervous third baseman muffed an easy catch of a foul ball, not even when Phil displayed all sorts of acting tricks behind the plate. Phil made elaborate signals concealed behind his mitt. These meant nothing. Phil did not know the strengths and weaknesses of the Lund players. |