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Show He and Clyde'd had no opportunity to agree on signals. So all the gestures and signs Phil made were useless imitations of catchers he had worshipped in AAA games on the Coast. Now understand: no doubt I still am jealous of the veneer of showmanship Phil had, and of his undoubted nerve in catching a game against grown men and without a mask or chest protector. But he carried his airs to the point of the ridiculous. For example, if Clyde "fed" the batter a bad ball now and then in hope of getting the man to bite at something impossible, and if Phil could catch the ball, he would twitch his mitt to the middle of the strike zone. I've seen even major league catchers try that, but I suspect they did it out of habit or infrequently when they hoped the umpire was not focusing completely on the course of the ball. But Phil's hand was not quicker than the eye, especially when he almost dragged the ball out of the dirt and pulled it up into the strike zone. The gesture was too obvious. Phil's cry of triumph as he held the "bad" ball did not fool the umpire either. Clyde refused to be disconcerted. He just pitched. That first inning there was nothing like a Lund hit. Clyde would wind up and deliver, and burn it over. The batter must have felt the breeze and he could hear the flack of impact on Phil's mitt-the speed must have burned the boy's hand. But the ball was only a whiz and a blur to the batter. When we went to bat, Pete Couch in his overalls singled, stole second with unexpected speed and abandon, and came home on Vernon's single. We made only one run that inning. But I began to give our team a grudging respect. |