"Mr. Wilbur, I'm
sorry to leave so sudden, but I'm goin' to Chicago tomorrow."
The
furniture store owner looked up from the chair he was staining to see his assistant’s apologetic, but shining face. Billy Sunday handed his boss a telegram.
“So
you’re going to play baseball for the Chicago White Stockings,” said the taciturn man.
“Sure
hope to. They want me to try out for the team.”
Mr. Wilbur’s
face split into the widest smile Billy had ever seen. “Well, you never
will be any good at makin’ furniture,” he said, shaking Billy’s hand heartily, “but I’d bet
my last dollar that you’re one of the best ballplayers around. You’ll
make us all proud!”
***
Maybe I’m
crazy. Maybe nothin’ will come of it, nothin’ at all. Billy hardly dared to breathe as he rode the train. He
didn’t want to break the spell that the telegram had cast on him.
Ma was
happy, but she was worried about my leaving a steady job. Ed said Chicago
was a bad place—no place for an Iowa
farm boy to live. But everybody thinks I can play on the White Stockings team. Everybody.
Billy
fingered the dollar in the pocket of his green six-dollar suit and clutched the handle of his valise tightly. In a few more hours, he’d arrive in Chicago.
Can I do
it? I’ll soon know.
***
“Billy,
I want to you race Fred Pfeffer, our second baseman.” Cap Anson, the hard-hitting
first baseman and outfielder, was not only the team leader; he also functioned as manager for the White Stockings. The team president, A.G. Spaulding, depended on Anson’s judgment in finding new talent.
To the other
White Stockings’ amusement, Billy removed his shoes and waited for instructions.
Mike “King” Kelly, the team’s legendary catcher and Ned Williamson, a powerful hitter, exchanged
glances.
Probably
can’t even grow a mustache, thought Kelly, scrutinizing the blond youngster.
At twenty, Billy stood five feet ten inches and weighed 160 pounds. Not
near big enough to hit a ball. What can Cap be thinking of? Pfeffer will finish
off this hayseed real quick. The King knew that the second baseman ran the
bases faster than anyone else on the team.
Anson
set the boundaries of the one-hundred-yard dash. Billy and Pfeffer lined up.
“Ready.”
“Set.”
“GO!”
Billy shot
in front of the astonished Pfeffer almost immediately, finishing the race well ahead of him.
The rest of the White Stockings stood motionless, too amazed to cheer.
Cap Anson
chuckled. “Told you boys we grow ’em good in Marshalltown!”
King Kelly
sauntered over to the boy, who was brushing off his pants, and stuck out his big hand.
“Glad
you come to see us, lad,” he said, as the other players followed suit. “Welcome
to the Chicago White Stockings.”
