Highpockets (14 page)

T
HE NEXT DAY AFTER
the game, Highpockets sat on the rubbing table stripped to the waist while the Doc worked with concentration on the sore elbow, a worried look on his face. There was a pad around the elbow with several straps of surgeon’s plaster holding it. Lester Young moved past just as the Doc was finishing.

“How’s the old flipper, Cecil?”

“O.K., I reckon, Lester. O.K., thanks.”

“Now you watch yerself, laddie. We need you out there,” remarked the big first baseman, moving along. Several sportswriters sauntered up, and Highpockets greeted them as he slipped from the table.

“Why, hello, Tommy. Hello there, Casey, how are ya?”

Casey glanced quickly at his colleagues, who returned the look. “Why, thanks, Highpockets, I’m all right for an old guy. How are
you
? Think that elbow will straighten out before Jimmie Duveen and the Cards hit town, Doc?”

The Doc grunted. The grunt said anything at all you wished it to say. It said nothing whatever about the condition of the ailing arm or the team or the club’s chances in those last few days of the season. Or it could mean a whole column starting like this:

“Doc Moran, the able and indefatigable trainer of the Brooklyn Dodgers, thinks his boys look better every day for the pennant ...” And so forth for a thousand words.

“What’s that thing? What ya got on that-there arm of his, Doc?” asked Tommy Revere of the
Times.

“Epsom salt pad,” said the Doc, always brief of speech, and more than usually curt with the reporters, whom he tolerated but did not cherish. He slapped Highpockets affectionately on the shoulder, the left shoulder. “Now, my boy, watch yourself tonight. Change it at least twice, remember; oftener if it gets dry. Razzle! Come here! Lemme have a look at your ankle.”

Highpockets slipped from the table and went over to his locker, followed by the two sportswriters. Bob Russell reached up from his bench and caught at him as he passed.

“Hey, Cecil, hey there. What’s he say about yer arm?”

“Coming round O.K., thanks, Bob.”

They reached his locker and Casey remarked casually, “Just how did it happen, Highpockets?”

“Why, it was a slider that broke in on me. I tried to duck. I turned and got it full on the point of the elbow. Hurt? You bet it did! Thought I could shake it off, but the arm swelled fast and was pretty darn painful last night.”

“Can you bat? That handicapped your batting today, didn’t it?”

“I can hit O.K., but throwing, that’s something else. Lucky I didn’t have to throw. That might have hurt more than swinging a bat. But if the Cards think I can’t throw, just let ’em try when they come in. I may fool ’em a little.”

“Say, Highpockets, the crowd sure gave you a raspberry out there today. They wanted a hit the worst way your last time at bat. They hated to see you sacrifice.”

He sat down and began yanking at his sock with one hand. “Shucks, I never feel at home here in Brooklyn less’n the crowd gives me a nice fat boo. Kinda peps me up, kinda.”

“I figgered you’d go all out for a hit. I thought you’d want to preserve that record. I thought you’d try to meet the ball your last time up, Highpockets.”

Before he could reply, Sandy Dockler of the
Telegram
joined them, one arm on Casey’s shoulder, as he remarked: “Hey, there, Highpockets, how you feel about breaking your hitting streak? What you think about going hitless today?”

Highpockets leaned toward the locker, using his left arm and taking his shirt off a hook. There was an annoyed tone in his voice. “Think! I don’t think anything, one way or another. We won the game, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, sure. Only you had a chance for DiMag’s record, didn’t you know that?”

He drew his shirt on clumsily, favoring his right arm. “Look, boys, I’m not thinking ’bout records. I’m trying to play right field on a team. Last of the eighth, men on first and second, one run behind. They tell me to sacrifice. O.K. I sacrifice. What’s records got to do with it? We won the game, didn’t we? We’re crawlin’ up on them Cards, ain’t we?”

There was a queer silence among the three sportswriters. And sportswriters are seldom at a loss for words.

“Oh,” said Casey.

“Oh, yeah,” said Dockler.

“Oh, I see,” said Tommy Revere.

They looked at each other. They turned away.

That evening Highpockets was standing in the lobby of their hotel with Alan Whitehouse, short, swarthy, and the homeliest man on the club. A youngster edged up for an autograph. “Which one of you is Highpockets McDade?” he asked.

Raz Nugent, reading an evening paper a few feet away, saw the kid and heard his query. Instantly he stepped forward. “Why, now, I’m Highpockets,” he said, taking the paper and signing for the boy. As the official jokester for the squad, Raz was overjoyed at the incident, and went round telling everyone how Alan, the homeliest man in Brooklyn, had been taken for Highpockets McDade.

An hour later Highpockets decided to call it a night, and went upstairs in the elevator. He was amazed to have the boy address him as Mr. Whitehouse and ask for his autograph. During the next twenty-four hours it seemed as if everyone in the hotel and outside made the same mistake. Waitresses in the Coffee Shoppe, elevator starters, bellboys, attendants at the ballpark, vendors, and autograph hounds of all sorts kept insisting he was Alan Whitehouse and demanding his signature. He was exasperated after a while.

It wasn’t until he reached the field that he discovered the truth. Sitting on the bench with Fat Stuff before the game, the oldster chuckled and laughed when he heard about the confusion.

“Why, sure now, Cecil, it’s a gag, that’s all. Jest one of Raz Nugent’s silly jokes, sort of thing he’s always doing. Didn’t you catch on? I seen him round last night, slipping bellboys half a buck to ask you that question. Don’t let it bother you none, son.”

Highpockets flushed. He was annoyed and slightly ashamed he had fallen so completely for Razzle’s trick. Then the annoyance vanished, and a feeling of warmth and gratitude came over him. Now he was one of them, for they only played gags on those they liked. At last he was a part of the team, not just a long-ball hitter out there slugging for himself.

“Shucks, Fat Stuff! I was a sap, wasn’t I now? I shore was. Dunno, though, it’s kinda nice at that. Makes a fella feel he’s one of the boys. Y’know, I’m real glad I didn’t see through that gag, I really am.

The old coach yanked at the brim of his cap, peering out across the sun-swept diamond. “Yeah, you’re one of ’em now, all right. Some ballplayers, they jest never do get to be one of the gang. Seems like they ain’t team players nor ever will be. Then they wonder why they end up in Elmira or Duluth. You, now, you’re out there risking that throwing arm of yours ’cause you’re one of ’em. You don’t hesitate. You go out and take chances for the team. Say, don’t think the boys aren’t wise, either. They know what that doc told you. Yes, sir, you bet they do.” He spat into the dirt before the dugout. “That’s the trouble with this country nowadays, everyone out for himself, aiming to hit the long ball over the fence.”

Spike Russell came tramping in. He spoke in a crisp voice that had overtones of fatigue in it.

“Alan! Take over Cecil’s spot in right. Cecil, you’ll rest up this afternoon.”

Highpockets rose instantly. He grabbed his glove. His face was angry. “Spike, I want to go in there.”

The manager laid a hand on the tall boy’s arm. “Doctor’s orders, kid, doctor’s orders. He’s seen those X-rays, and what he saw ain’t good. Besides, we need you for the Cards on Saturday worse’n we do for the Phils today. Take it easy, Cecil, you’ve sure earned a day off for yourself.”

So Highpockets watched that game from the coolness of the bench. At the end of the afternoon, the Dodgers were only a game back of the Cards, the closest they had been all season.

That evening he spent with Dean Kennedy. Highpockets’ elbow was stiff and he could hardly bend his arm, so he used his left hand as the two of them leaned over the stamp album. On the dining room table was a bowl of water, filled with bits of colored paper. Near it lay the tweezers, the watermark detector, the perforation gauge, the stamp hinges spilled everywhere, the catalogue turned to Hong Kong. They worked for over an hour, their talk about the stamps often interrupted by questions from the boy about the coming series with the Cards, or requests for baseball information that Highpockets was not always able to supply.

“One dollar on ninety-six cents, violet red. That’s sure a dilly, isn’t it, Mr. McDade? Yep, a nice specimen. I traded that with George Mason last week. He’s a great swopper, George is. Lemme see now, that must be number forty-three, 1891, don’t you guess? Say, Mr. McDade.” He straightened up and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something. This man Glen Harrison, d’you think he’ll ever make the grade in the big leagues?”

“Hold on, Dean. I’m not as certain as you about that stamp. It might mebbe be number fifty-three, one dollar on ninety-six cents
black
, not violet red. That would make it 1893, no, ’98, not ’91. See? That’s where it fits in, there. How’s that now? Harrison? You mean Glen Harrison? Why, I really wouldn’t know; I wouldn’t know about him. I played with his brother Jack in Mobile, but I never knew Glen. He’s an all right sort of ballplayer, I’d say, a pretty fair pitcher ...”

“Aw, Mr. McDade!” The boy looked at him and there was disappointment in his tones. “He’s not a pitcher! He’s a first baseman; played last year with the Knoxville Smokies in the Tri-State League.” He paused a second for breath and then continued faster than ever. “An’ ... an’ ... an’ he batted .298 an’ fielded .985 an’ this year he’s gone to Savannah in the South Atlantic League an’ hit fourteen homers an’ they say Dave Leonard of the Browns has his eye on him, an’ ... an’ ... an ...”

“Hey, wait a minute. Hold on there. Wait a minute, Dean. Look, where on earth d’you get all this from?”

“That’s right,” he almost shouted. “I know it’s right. It’s true, Mr. McDade. He was with Knoxville, an’ now he’s hitting .304 fer Savannah, an’ ... an ... an ...”

“Yeah, shore, I know hit’s right. Only where d’you get it all from? Hey?” His eye fell upon a pile of magazines, stamp magazines that were heaped on the side table. On top of the magazines was the latest copy of the
Sporting News.

“Oh ... I d’know.” Dean subsided. “I jest read about him.”

Highpockets shook his head. For a kid who didn’t care for baseball when the Dodgers were skidding into fifth place back in July, he was certainly doing all right. He rose. Well, that’s what baseball is; if it gets you, it gets you hard.

“I must be movin’.”

“Aw, no! We have lots more to do tonight. We haven’t done the Western Australias yet.”

“Not tonight. It’s past yer bedtime, and mine, too. Besides, this old elbow is acting up. I must put it to soak. Now look, Dean. Here’s yer ticket for tomorrow. It’s raining now. Effen this keeps up all day and there is no game, this ticket is not good for the next day. See? I’ll hafta grab you off another. But don’t lose it. An’ be shore when you get into the park to keep the stub, ’cause should the game be called before four and a half innings, that stub will admit you to the postponed game. Understand? Careful with it now; better put this away in your purse.”

The boy fished from his hip pocket a grimy and well-worn wallet, stuffed with papers. He took the ticket, fingered it fondly for a minute, mumbled a thank-you, and tried to jam it into a compartment of the overcrowded purse. As he did so, a small, oblong card was visible on top of the pack of papers.

Highpockets glanced at it. It was the photo of a player at bat, lunging for the ball. There was a familiar look to that swing. Underneath the picture the caption read:

C
ECIL
“H
IGHPOCKETS
” M
C
D
ADE

Right Field
, Brooklyn, N.L.

A
T LAST, AT THE
tail end of the season, after weeks and weeks of discouragement and disappointment in fourth place and fifth place, the Dodgers had caught the Cards. They were even at last. Needing only a victory on the second day of the series to go ahead, every fan in Brooklyn and every member of the club realized in those final moments of the pennant race that once ahead, they would never be overhauled.

The Brooks sat on the bench watching the Cards at practice, trying to pretend it was just another ballgame, all of them knowing in their hearts it wasn’t. That this was it! This was the big day, the game they had been pointing for all season and even before, ever since those brisk, windy mornings in the Florida spring when everyone was fresh and loose and keen. Now they were tight; tired, too, and there were lines around their eyes and mouths showing nobody had slept well the previous night. They betrayed their nervousness as they sat chewing vigorously, talking with sportswriters who stood before the dugout. Everyone was pretending it didn’t matter, like a man about to have his tooth pulled. Actually they all knew this was it.

Highpockets held his arm stiffly, in an awkward position, and you could see it was painful. There was a bump plainly visible on the right elbow, a swelling that wouldn’t go down despite the Epsom salt pads and the electric blanket on it all night long. Suppose what the specialist said was true! Suppose he injured his arm for good if he went on using it! What then? As the boys like to say, a ball player with a bum arm is just a groundskeeper with a glove on. Ask Sonny Jones, who used to be with the Red Sox, Highpockets was thinking. He’s a pinch hitter and utility outfielder for Wenatchee now. Ask old Hank Kraus, formerly of the Indians. He’s a scout for K. C. Or George McMurry, who won twenty-two for the Cubs, now tending a gas station in Depaw, South Carolina. If you can’t throw, your usefulness in baseball is over.

Someone asked whether it hurt. Silly question. You only had to look at his face to see. But he replied politely and quietly, too. “It’s my hand now. Seems like my whole hand hurts. Gee, I shore hated to leave that game yesterday, but my elbow began to swell up on me, and I knew I was no use to the gang. I just couldn’t throw. Boy, you have to be able to throw against them Cards. They got speed; they run everything out; they don’t concede a thing. So I had to quit in the seventh. But I shore hated to, I shore did.”