Highpockets (12 page)

“Hey, there, Highpockets, you bum, you ...”

“Oh, dogface, oh, Highpockets, you ...”

He stood motionless, giving them nothing, never moving while abuse poured on him from every part of the big park. They kept at it until the first Cub hitter whiffed on three of Bonesey’s shoots and then the noise died suddenly away. Yet they were on Highpockets more or less throughout the entire game.

He had no chances in the field, struck out in the fourth to the delight of the fans, and in the seventh came to bat with one out and Young and Swanny on second and first. The game was a scoreless tie, and a single meant a run, a big run. A homer, one of Highpockets’ specialties, would sew it up.

Spike jumped from the dugout, went up to him in the circle, and whispered in his ear. Highpockets nodded as the infield slipped around into their customary defensive setup, and the fans yowled with pleasure. He strode to the plate, lugging the two bats, and tossed the leaded one to the side; then, smoothing the spike wounds made by the previous hitters in the dirt of the box, he stepped in.

The Chicago pitcher was tiring. His fast ball was not rising; his curve or what passed for a curve started to hang in there. Highpockets had noticed this from the bench the inning before; now it was apparent enough. Three hundred and fifty feet away was the low right field wall, and a lift over the fence would put the game on ice. The temptation to lean into the ball and bang one of those slants was terribly strong.

It was stronger still when the first pitch came across and he took it amid the jeers from the mob. The next was high inside, forcing him back. The third was a perfect ball on which to level off, a fast ball, waist high, one that he invariably crashed to deep right. Instead he obeyed orders. Taking two steps forward, he laid down a perfect bunt toward third base, just inside the foul line. The third baseman was on his heels, the pitcher asleep in the box.

The infielder rushed in, scooped up the ball, and threw too quickly. It bounced into the dirt after Highpockets had crossed the bag. The first sacker half stopped the throw which rose in the air behind him. He turned, searching for it, and before he recovered the ball Lester was over with the first tally of the game.

Swanny scored later on Spike’s stinging single to center, and the Dodgers reached the ninth a couple of runs to the good. The Cub lead-off man in their half hoisted one of Bonesey’s fast balls into the left field bleachers for the first Chicago run. The next batter worked a pass, and another hurler rose to join the two men throwing in the Brooklyn bullpen in right.

With all his skill and cunning, with all his patience, Bonesey went to work. The count on the batter reached three and two. Then he hit a ball into foul territory between third base and left field. The three men raced over; but it was Spike who took it for the first out of the inning.

The next batter was dangerous, with the tieing run still on first. He stood waiting for the fat pitch, fouling off ball after ball that kicked into the stands. Finally he caught one squarely and laced it just over Lester Young’s mitt on first. Highpockets was off. Charging in fast, he neared the sinking liner and made a desperate forward dive. Reaching out, he speared it with his glove and tumbled to the ground.

Up he came. Instead of holding the ball aloft for the whole ballpark to see, he immediately recovered balance, yanked back his arm, and fired on a line to Spike over second to prevent the baserunner from taking any liberties. Spike caught the ball as the Chicago player slid frantically back to first. Two out and the tieing run still on the sacks.

The manager slapped the ball several times in his glove, looked toward the bullpen to see that his relief men were throwing hard, and walked slowly over toward the mound, while the stands applauded Highpockets for his stab in the field. By golly, thought Spike, this time the boy means business. Now he’s strictly business, the manager said to himself as he handed the ball to his pitcher in the box. The next man popped up and the game was over.

Seated at a desk in the club car of the
American
en route to St. Louis that night after dinner, Highpockets was catching up on his correspondence. The first letter was to his mother at home. The second to a boy in Brooklyn.

D
EAR
D
EAN
,

Mighty happy to have good news about you this afternoon and know you are getting ahead. That’s swell. Now, you do whatever Miss Simpson tells you, and before the club gets home you’ll sure be out of the hospital. We sure had a hot one today, tough game which we copped two to one. The pitchers are holding up just fine. I didn’t start this afternoon but managed to bust into the line-up, and caught a hard one in the ninth, and helped bring the winning run across.

Hold on, now. That don’t say a thing to that kid. Why, he won’t have any idea what I’m a-driving at. He’s not interested in baseball; he likes stamps. Funny, his living in Brooklyn like that and not being hot about baseball. Well, that’s how things are. Let’s see ...

He took the letter in his hand and read what he had written, read it with care. There he sat, holding the sheet, examining the words critically. Then he tore it into four pieces. They dropped to the floor. He took up a fresh sheet of writing paper.

D
EAR
D
EAN
,

Mighty glad to have good news of you this afternoon and know you are making real progress. That’s swell news. Be sure and do whatever Miss Simpson says, and you’ll be up and out of the hospital when the club gets back to Brooklyn.

I intend to look real hard on this trip for that Gibraltar, the one penny rose you mentioned last time I was in to see you, for I know just how bad you need it to complete that page. We must find it somehow. Next week we move on to Cincinnati where they tell me there’s a very good stamp dealer, and I hope to pick it up there. If not, in Chicago, at Marshall Fields, a big department store that has a first class stamp section. Think I told you about the Tasmanian Queen Victoria I snagged at that auction. That sure was a find. Now, you be sure and do what Miss Simpson tells you... .

Raz Nugent came into the car and leaned over his desk. “Hi there, big fella, still writing? Seems to me like you’re writing letters all the time. Whatcha got, some dame back there in Brooklyn?”

H
IS TEAMMATES, BEING CLOSEST
to him, naturally noticed the change first of all. And first of them to notice it was keen-eyed old Fat Stuff, the coach; then Spike Russell; finally the entire club was talking about Highpockets behind his back.

“What on earth has happened to the guy?” they asked each other. “Something has changed him,” they agreed, as they discussed their teammate at meals or watched him from the bench while he took his raps. “Something or somebody has rocked old Highpockets for fair; he ain’t the same busher he once was. Why, he’s not a loner any more; he’s really playing for the team now.” They kidded behind his back, too, about his girl in Brooklyn and how he had become a different person. Almost human, at times, they said.

The fans across the circuit observed the change also. In the bleachers in right field in St. Loo, in the upper stands in Pittsburgh, in the jury box in Boston, under the scoreboard in deep center in Wrigley Field where the Babe once parked his homers, folks who really knew the game turned to their neighbors. “Looka that-there Highpockets,” they said, as he suddenly began to slash sizzling grasscutters into the hole where the shortstop ordinarily played. “Looka that guy, will ya! What’s happened to him?”

The pitchers all over the league noticed it soon, too. “Say, what’s cooking with this McDade of the Dodgers?” they asked each other. “He usta be a pushover for that defensive shift in right. Now he’s no cinch to bang the ball straight into right field. What’s cooking with him? You never know what he’ll do nowadays; must be he’s getting foxy all of a sudden. What say, Skip, maybe we just better change that shift on Highpockets today?”

The Dodgers did better as they went through the West. Little by little they improved their standing, picking up a game here and a game there, until they returned in third place by a couple of percentage points, the highest they had been since April.

Dean Kennedy was still in the hospital when the club returned to New York and, as it was an open date, Highpockets went to see him immediately after lunch. The youngster was alone in his room, working as usual on his stamps, the big album spread upon his lap. He looked up.

“Gee, Mr. McDade, I’ve been waiting for you and waiting for you all day long.”

The face was rounder and fuller now, and there was a smile and a warming look of welcome on it that made the ballplayer warm also. He shuffled over and ran his long fingers through the kid’s hair, the hair which had grown and was again falling down over his forehead. Like Henry Lee’s hair, it was uncombed. Boys never comb their hair; why on earth should they?

“Gee, Mr. McDade, I’m awful glad you’re back again. I’ve been waiting for you so long.”

“Train was late, Dean. Seems there was a hotbox up near Syracuse that delayed us. We never got into Grand Central until just before noon, and I came over soon’s I had my feed. How you feeling, son?”

“Me? Swell. I’m going home tomorrow. They promised me I could go home tomorrow. Look, now you can help me with my stamps, can’t you?”

“You betcha, Dean. I’ve got the whole day. We’re off this afternoon, you know, an open date. And I’ve got something for you, yessuh, I shore have. Found the one penny rose, that Gibraltar you needed. Well, I picked it up in an auction in Cincinnati like I told you I would if I could.” He opened the suitcase on the chair, and rummaged in the cover. Finally he discovered the package of stamps inside. The eyes of the boy were dancing. “Here y’are, son.”

Dean opened the packet carefully. “Gee! The one penny rose! I didn’t hardly expect you’d ever get that one. Oh, boy! And this set ... Say, that’s really something.” He fingered them with reverence, turning each stamp gently back on its hinges, looking it over with attention, examining it closely, like the expert he was. Condition? Good. Gum? Excellent. Perforation? Even. Cancellation? Light. “Gee! Thanks, Mr. McDade, you’re swell to me. Thanks a whole lot. I guess that about fills my Gibraltar page. This sure makes me look good, doesn’t it? I’ve got about the best Gibraltars of any of the gang now.”

They worked over the album together, inspecting the new stamps with care, pasting them away slowly in the empty spaces in the book, lining up the St. Lucia, 1889, set, tasting the pleasure only a collector knows over a sudden and unexpected find.

Then all at once the boy closed the volume with a snap. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“Y’know what? I wish I could work on my stamps alla time. I sure do. Wish I didn’t have to go back to school next month. Look, Mr. McDade, is it true that Washington didn’t do so good in school when he was a boy?”

Highpockets was astonished. He hesitated. Say, what’s all this? Washington in school! How do I know what Washington did when he was a boy in school? We never learned that in history class, that I remember.

“Well, now, Dean, I really wouldn’t know for sure about that, I really wouldn’t. But Edison, he didn’t do so well. I know he didn’t do so good, and look at him. Just see what happened to Edison. So don’t you let it get you down, boy, even if you don’t like it. Stick in there. See now, you hafta go to school; everyone has to, y’know.”

“Why?”

Yes, why? Why do kids have to go to school? To keep them busy, to keep them out of their mother’s way at home? Or to get an education? If so, what is an education? What does that mean? Highpockets was puzzled as he sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the wide-eyed boy who asked such difficult questions. If the kid didn’t get by at school, it surely wasn’t because he was stupid. Then whose fault was it? The ballplayer sat there biting his lip, remembering that this was a question he had often asked himself, especially in high school when he wanted to be outdoors in the Carolina spring sunshine, practicing with the baseball team. Why do boys and girls have to go to school? He felt differently about school now, yet once he felt just as this boy felt today. How could it be explained? How can I say it so this youngster will understand.

“I guess it’s something like this, Dean. School, well, it sort of teaches you to use your bean. It teaches you to think. No matter what you do later on, see, effen you was to be a stamp dealer, you gotta be sharp, you gotta learn how to think.”

The boy’s nose wrinkled. He was unconvinced. “Yeah. I don’t want to go back to school next month. I hate it. Look. Mr. McDade,
you
don’t have to think. You’re a ballplayer. All you hafta do is hit home runs.”

That struck home, and Highpockets was excited. He rose and walked up and down the room, concentrating upon this problem, feeling that perhaps he had the answer at last. The answer to a problem that was now unimportant to him, but that had once been terribly important, and was now to this youngster who wanted to work with his stamps instead of studying English and history and algebra. That’s really it; the purpose of a school is to teach you to think. Some time he ought to say all these things to Henry Lee, the lazy little rascal who was always outdoors playing ball in the long spring evenings instead of doing his home work under the living room light.

“Boy, you was never so wrong in your life. One thing a ballplayer has to do is think, think every sec, alla time. Now when I’m a-hittin’ in there, I’m tryin’ to outguess that pitcher, and he, why, he’s tryin’ to do the same doggone thing. See now, it’s his brain against mine. Then in the field, too, just the same, you must be thinking every single moment. Ever hear of Babe Ruth? You didn’t? You did? Good! Well, now, there was a gent in baseball for twenty years more or less, and never once threw to the wrong base. Not once.”

He could see the boy hadn’t the slightest idea of what he meant. So he grabbed a sheet of paper from the table and drew a baseball diamond on it. “Here, lemme explain what I’m a-sayin’. See, here’s first ... second ... third base. Here’s home plate. Get it? O.K. Now then, from home to first, from here to here, is ninety feet; that’s thirty yards; that’s about one third the length of a football gridiron. O.K. It takes a speedy man in baseball clothes a little over three seconds to cover that ninety feet. Happen you’ve got a fast runner on base, on first, and the batter smacks a line single out your way into right field. Then what? Will the man on first try to stretch it? Will he go for third? Will he run from here, see, to here? Shall you throw to third base to cut him off? If so, and your throw is the least bit wild or gets away, he’ll be safe; and what’s more, the batter will probably grab off an extra base and come safely into second.”