Highpockets (3 page)

“My old manager, George Hannigan in Boise, always usta tell me, ‘You’re only in the majors a short time, Cecil. Be sure and take yer pickings while you can.’ See now, Mister, the club owners don’t pay for co-operation and team play; they’re payin’ for homers. That’s what brings the crowds.”

After many years behind the scenes in sports, Casey felt he understood ballplayers. He knew the ones who were slaves to their nerves, the pitchers who never seemed to have it unless they were six runs ahead, who invariably got stomach cramps on the day the league leaders came to town. He knew the infielders who waved hello at the hard-hit liners in critical moments, and the hitters who tightened up at the plate whenever they faced the fireball hurler of the other side. He also knew the brash, cocky chaps, the boys with the easy dispositions, who were good and refused to deny it, who enjoyed batting in the clutch or coming onto the mound in the eighth with three aboard and the slugger stepping to the plate; the men whose ability blossomed under pressure, who always went for the stinging drive or the impossible double-play ball. Yes, Casey knew every type. Somehow this bird was new. He was a character all right.

Imagine a Dodger who doesn’t like Brooklyn!

Quietly and with no warning, because that’s how boys are when they want to be that way, the two men were surrounded. A sea of outstretched arms encircled the big chap at the desk, and half a dozen kids, pencil and paper in grimy paws, extended their hands. Without a word, he took their papers and wrote his name, carefully, slowly, and legibly:

CECIL MCDADE

Casey rose. “I’m much obliged. Thanks,” he said. There was a column in this bird all right. His first name might be Cecil; but his last name was Tough-guy.

The big, long-boned youngster paused in the act of signing his name on a sheet of ruled paper that had evidently come from a pad at school. His tanned features came up slowly toward the sportswriter. There was politeness in his tone, and a kind of inner strength in the reserve with which he replied that impressed the sportswriter.

“Yessuh. You’re shore welcome.”

W
HEN A CHAMPIONSHIP
club slips in the early stages of a pennant race, its supporters make all kinds of allowances. They think of the run of injuries, the loss of a key man, or else they blame the weather in Florida during spring training, forgetting that the March weather in Florida is much the same for every club there. When, however, the team that won the flag the previous season is fighting to stay in fourth place in June, the fans are less indulgent. Sportswriters start speculating in print, the club doesn’t draw so well, and the mob at home begins to grumble. Or they take it out on some particular player. Rarely do they go after an old favorite; usually they pick on a rookie and a newcomer to the ballpark. When the Dodgers returned home at the beginning of July, the wolves were on Highpockets with deep-throated yowls.

By this time, of course, Casey’s famous story was a Flatbush legend. And all Flatbush was infuriated. “So he doesn’t like Brooklyn, hey, the big bum!” “A Dodger who doesn’t like Brooklyn. Whadda ya make of that?” “Who does he think he is, anyway?”

Casey had really let Highpockets have it in his column. I’ve seen bumptious ballplayers, he had said to himself; but this corn-fed takes the cake. He asked for it, so here goes. In a few days the story was a classic, known to every fan in the metropolis. Consequently they were on the rookie whenever he took his spot in the field.

They rose as he came chasing a foul fly up to the edge of the boxes. “Hey there, Highpockets, you squarehead.”

“Yoo-hoo, Cecil,” called someone in shrill tones. “Oh, Cecil ...”

The lanky outfielder turned as he walked back to position. “Aw ... act yer age,” he growled.

Naturally the stands immediately responded, shrieking with vigor, delighted to have him answer back. Cries-and catcalls rose over the sections in deep right.

“Hey, Rabbit Ears ... oh, you Rabbit Ears,” they shouted. Nearer the plate the fans stood stretching their necks and peering toward right to see the fun.

Spike Russell nervously pounded his glove as he watched the scene from his position at short. Shoot! Why on earth doesn’t the big stiff keep his trap shut? Why doesn’t he give the fans a brush-off? This sort of thing is exactly what they want; they love it when he comes back at them.

The heat was wicked in Flatbush, and it was a tough afternoon for the ballclub. Pittsburgh, in eighth place only because eighth was as low as you could get in the league standing, was on hand for a double-header. But the Pirates refused to roll over and play dead. Moreover, the Brooks helped them by not hitting. Highpockets went one for four at the plate, two of his drives going straight into the packed defense on the right side of the infield.

In the sixth, the Pirates loaded the bags with two away. Raz Nugent was called in to put out the fire, the third Brooklyn pitcher of the afternoon. He threw with care, but on the two and two pitch the batter got hold of a fat one and laced it hard to right. The runners were off with the sound of the bat; Highpockets was off, also. His long legs ate up the ground. He charged in toward the savage sinker that seemed a sure hit, while Roy Tucker ran over from center to back him up if the ball got through.

Highpockets, racing in, lurched forward, made an impossible stab, got the ball, and rolled forward, head over heels. To make it look even harder, he did an extra turn, and came up with the ball in his glove, one arm extended high in the air.

Maybe it was that extra somersault, perhaps it was the ball in his outstretched glove, the little touch of bravado, which so annoyed Spike standing anxiously near second as the runners whipped past the bag.

Hang it all, why can’t the kid play ball like the others? Why can’t he catch it and let it go at that! He’s good, sure he’s good; why does he have to advertise it? Why does he have to tell everyone how good he is?

The Dodgers scurried in to the dugout. Highpockets was the recipient of furious applause from the crowd, applause that he refused to acknowledge. Instead of touching the brim of his cap to the cheering fans, he ignored them as he came in and slouched down on the bench.

There, he thought. I’ve shown those rats in the bleachers. Let ’em take it and like it.

This was the play of the afternoon. Unfortunately the play of the afternoon merely managed to postpone the end. In the ninth one of the Pirates got a base on balls, and came across with the winning run on a double off the right field concrete. A scratch hit with two men down gave the Dodgers a life in their last raps, and then Highpockets came to the plate in a tremendous roar. It echoed and re-echoed across the field, for a hit would keep the rally alive, a long ball would tie the score, and one of his tremendous clouts over the fence would win the game. The count went to three and two. In a torrent of noise over the park, Highpockets whiffed on the next pitch through the heart of the platter, swinging round viciously and almost tumbling into the dirt.

A grim and disconsolate bunch of players trooped into the showers. They were in fifth place for the first time that season. The nightcap that followed was another dizzy affair. Each team scored a couple of runs in the early innings. Pittsburgh went ahead, 3-2, and the Dodgers tied the count in the eighth. The Pirates worked a run over with a snappy double steal in their half of the ninth, so again Brooklyn came to bat one run behind in their last raps.

Lester Young began the inning and the crowd excitement with a grasscutter between third and short. On the bench they watched as Roy Tucker struck a slow roller on the hit-and-run. The Pirate shortstop came charging in, saw he was too late for the force play at second, and nipped Roy by a step at first. One down, a man on second, and still a run to the bad.

Paul Roth hit the first pitch hard but straight at the center fielder for the second out. Then Highpockets, waving two bats, swung up to the plate. The stands were on their feet shrieking now; you could distinguish the shrill cries of the wolves, and the deep-throated appeals for a hit as he stepped into the box. The infield shifted to right, while the tall boy stood waving his bat significantly. Now the Pirates were packed close, blocking off his favorite hitting zone to right, with only the third baseman guarding the left side of the diamond. And the Dodgers in fifth place, below the .500 mark for the first time that year.

Everyone knew it was the big moment of the day, the moment all of them had come for. Not a fan moved toward the exits. They were watching the cool pitcher in the box, oblivious to the dancing runner behind him on second base and the menacing bat at the plate. Highpockets had been up eight times in all that afternoon, had struck out in the crisis of the first game, and only had a scratch single to show for the day’s efforts. But he was still dangerous and the Pirates wanted that last put-out badly.

One after another, the first three pitches were low and outside the strike zone. The crowd howled with gusto as the figure 3 went up on the scoreboard in right. Three and nothing. Highpockets glanced over at Charlie Draper back of third, dug in his spikes, and set himself. It was a very fast pitch, up on his letters, right across the word
DODGERS
on his chest. With those keen eyes he saw it was good, took a vicious swing, and smacked the ball with all his strength.

Up it went, up, up against the deep, blue sky, far out to right field. There were the Pittsburgh gardeners standing with hands on hips, heads back, as it sailed over the screen above.

So to the dressing room, the Dodgers still in fifth place by an eyelash. The club had pulled out of a bad spot at the last second, and saved a game apparently beyond saving. Over in the Pirate clubhouse, the unfortunate pitcher sat with his shirt off, moaning. “Why did I do it? Boy, that guy takes his cut every time. He’ll cross you the moment you take any liberties with him. Say, I’d give anything to be able to throw that one again.” He slung his glove against the wire netting over his locker. “Shoot! I’d like to be able to throw that last pitch again!”

They were disappointed, yet the victors were far from jubilant. Was it, thought Spike, watching from the manager’s room, the club or one man who had pulled out the second game? He noticed no lightness on their faces as they poured past his door, and little response to the big fellow’s winning homer. Only one or two addressed him casually as they trooped inside.

“Nice work there, Highpockets.”

“Great stuff, kid, that’s really hittin’.”

Yet nobody slapped him on the back, no one called him affectionately by his first name. There was no mirth or horseplay, no yapping or yelling as they shook off their wet clothes and showered in silence. They weren’t free and loose as a bunch of champions should be. When a team is a team you feel it most not on the field but in the atmosphere of the clubhouse. That afternoon no one smacked his neighbor in the showers with the end of a wet towel or shouted insults across the room or yelled at old Chiselbeak, the trunk herdsman, as they dressed. Even the imperceptive ones knew things were not going as they should, and every player realized that they had been fortunate to break even on the day’s play.

Reporters surrounded Highpockets as he yanked off his trousers before his locker. Did he know what the count was when he hit the three and nothing pitch?

“Yessuh,” he replied slowly. “I thought he’d pitch to me, ’cause effen he walks me, he puts the winning run on first. Nosuh ... what kind of a ball? A fast ball, right up here ... chest high.

“Yessuh,” he said in his slow drawl. “I made up my mind if it was in there to give it everything I had. When I saw that-there fast ball, I swung my hardest. How’s that? Well, Mister, his fast ball does bother me, it bothers me a lot, it has something extry on it, seems, like Mike Hammers, like Busman’s. Only when you catch it right, it shore goes a mile.

“Yessuh.” The boys stood around, writing on the backs of envelopes or on folded copy paper. Highpockets slipped on his jacket over his sport shirt open at the neck. He walked across the room and took his money and watch from Chiselbeak.

“Thank you,” he said politely to the old man. He went over to the door, the reporters watching. Nobody mentioned his game-winning homer, nobody called good night or asked if he wanted to go to a movie or where he intended to eat. The silence was noisy as he opened the door and stepped outside.

All the time Spike Russell sat there taking it all in. No use talking, this team isn’t clicking, thought the young manager of the Dodgers.

T
HE YOUNGSTERS ON THE
squad, coming back to the dugout for a bat or to get a drink of water, glanced over at the strange figure on the bench with considerable interest. So that’s him! That’s what an old ballplayer looks like!

His lanky frame was covered with an aged piece of sacking which once had been a suit of clothes and now hung in folds from his shoulders. Years before, those shoulders had been the most powerful pitching shoulders in the National League; that afternoon they seemed shrunken and feeble. The Dodgers were playing in St. Louis, and old Mac Sweeny, the star hurler of the late twenties, had come in to see a game and his former club in action, from his home in a small Missouri town. Except to Chiselbeak, who had been around ever since the veteran sportswriters could recall, Mac was a stranger, a legend, a name only, Big Mac who had won twenty-five games with the Brooks his second year in the majors.

“Hey there, Mac, glad to see you.”

“Why, Casey! Well, Jim boy, this is like old times. How are ya?”

While they exchanged remarks and reminiscences about former players and older days, out on the field the rival teams were in their usual pre-game practice, one group chasing fungos, another at the batting cage taking their raps.

“Which is this McDade? That’s the lad I come to see, Jim.”

“McDade? The big cub at bat, the boy slashing those deep drives to right.”

“Him! Why say, I saw him in the basement of the hotel last night. Never knowed who he was. He hung round playin’ ping-pong. Ping-pong! When we was in there, we didn’t nobody waste time playin’ ping-pong. No siree! And we had a right fielder could hit to all fields, too. Butch Kelly. This rookie, he said nothing, just played ping-pong.”