Highpockets (4 page)

“Yeah, he’s very quiet. Doesn’t get around much or make friends easy. Seems he sends his money back home, somewhere down in North Carolina.”

The old-timer grunted in disgust. “Nowadays ballplayers save their money! We usta be interested in learning to hit to all fields; nowadays all these kids talk about is their annuities. Annuities, shoot!” There was scorn in his tones. “I recall the year I come up with the Cubs, year we won the pennant in Chicago. After the Series, I sat in a room in the Stevens with Jake and Red and the boys, and you know, Jim, when I got up after eighteen hours playin’ poker, I’d dropped my whole Series cut. Yessir, over four thousand bucks. Why, nowadays you couldn’t get a game of checkers outa these kids after ten o’clock at night. Nosir.”

The contempt in his voice was majestic. However, it was lost on the little group of reporters watching the best infield in baseball dance about the diamond, cutting off hits and making splashy double-plays. At this point Highpockets returned to the bench for his glove, looking at the old player with attention, observing his shabby clothes, his forlorn appearance.

“Say, Mac,” said one sportswriter, “see that stop Spike Russell made then? He’s still about the best shortstop in baseball for my money. Even if the team
is
in fifth place.”

“Uhuh,” agreed Casey. “He sure is. He knows how to play every hitter and what to do with the ball when he gets it. You never see Spike Russell chucking to the wrong base, never.”

The old man took a bite from a slightly desiccated plug of tobacco and shoved the remnants back in his hip pocket. Highpockets noticed as he did so the worn lining of his coat.

“Yeah, yeah, mebbe so,” he said. “Mebbe he’s a Fancy Dan around short. Only he still ain’t what I’m used to. You shoulda seen the Gas House Gang in my day—Pepper and Wildcat and the Moose ridin’ in with their spikes high, crowdin’ up against every ump in the business, jumpin’ into the bleachers to haul out some guy who’d been ridin’ ’em extry hard. Nowadays ... why these youngsters, they tell me they’ll take anything.”

Highpockets winced. He’s referring to me. The feeling didn’t last. Thank Heaven, he thought, that’s not McDade in twenty years. I’ve saved my money, I’ve got the mortgage paid off, and the farm waiting for me when I have to quit baseball.

Then the bell clanged, the old-timer rose, shook hands all round, and limped away. Highpockets watched the gaunt frame in the shiny suit. He shook his head in relief. That’s not me in twenty years, no
sir.

One hour and thirty-seven minutes later, five of the Dodgers sat around in the high-ceilinged clubhouse: Raz, the starting pitcher, who took an early bath; Alan Whitehouse, who pinch hit for him in the fifth and was relieved; Jocko Klein, whose finger had been damaged by a foul tip; Jerry, who had relieved Razzle; and Paul Roth, who had been taken out for Swanny in the eighth. Jocko sat on the edge of the rubdown table while the Doc worked on his finger deftly and expeditiously. Overhead the radio blared out the bad news.

“I shoulda stood in bed.” Raz was disgusted and showed it.

“Me, too,” said Jerry Fielding. “I shoulda stood in that bullpen out there. I didn’t have my control. I threw to the batter’s strength. Somehow I couldn’t get the ball in there. I just didn’t have it today.”

“Nor I. Shoot! Some days you wake up with a headache, and you keep your neck out the window all morning hoping it’ll rain, or you’ve been in an upper and ain’t slept all night and you’re stiff and lame all over, and you go in there and pitch one-hit ball.”

“Right, that’s it. Next week you feel like six million dollars and you step in and they belt the ears offa you.”

“I don’t want to be in no more pennant races. This is getting me down; it beats your brains out.”

“You’re not in no pennant race, Razzle. You’re in fifth place. Hear that,” said Al from across the room.

“Boy, ain’t it a fact! Listen to them wolves out there.”

The crowd roar rose, fell, and suddenly above the sounds a shriek penetrated the room.

“You bum! Oh, you big bum. Highpockets, you bum, you ...”

“They sure love that tall guy, don’t they?” Razzle rose and went over to the water-cooler while the chatter from the radio filled the sullen silences of the half empty clubhouse. “Well, they almost handcuffed him out there today.”

“Might just as well have. Hits is all that guy cares about. His batting average, his batting average, his batting average. Shoot!”

“Yep, he’s sure a loner. I wish they’d trade the guy. Mebbe we could have a team here then.”

“I’ll tell ya what I wish,” interjected Razzle. “I wish Swanny’s dogs would hold up. He can hit to left, Swanny can.”

“Sure. He’s a team player, Swanny is.”

“Highpockets better learn to hit to left, he better had, that’s all,” remarked Jerry, hauling on his pants. “He better had.”

There was the sudden crack of a bat over the radio; then stillness and finally that full-throated roar. In a minute the team came tramping in, first one, then another, three or four in a group, at last the entire disappointed, sweating mob. The pitchers threw their gloves against the lockers or tossed them to the floor in disgust, sat down, and began untieing their shoes.

“Shucks!” said Bones Hathaway. “Shucks, I had that game in my pocket.”

No one said much. There wasn’t a whole lot to say. Over in the manager’s room, Spike Russell sat in silent misery on a wooden chair, leaning over, his head in his hands. The coaches clattered in and removed their clothes without a word.

“Never saw the like of it, never,” said the manager to no one in particular. He slashed savagely at a near-by chair, and it fell with a bang and a crash to the floor. Nobody looked up or paid any attention to the noise.

“They just don’t think. Three to nothing going into the fourth, and they blow that lead.”

In the larger room the players sat quietly, not talking, trying hard not to look at one another. From time to time someone peeled down to his socks and went across to the rubbing table. Spike leaned over, untied his shoes, pulled them off, and hurled them against the opposite wall. He shook his head. He was punchdrunk with defeat, with unexpected disaster, with problem after problem to which he had no answer: Swanny’s age and his tiring legs; Raz’s equally aging arm; Jerry Fielding’s wild streak; Paul Roth’s slump in left field. And Highpockets, of course; yes, Highpockets, too.

He’s gotta learn to hit to left, that’s all, Spike thought. He’s gotta learn to play for the team. Or else ...

“W
ELL, WE COULD ALWAYS
throw old Swanny back in there, Spike.”

“Nope, not yet. Not right now; it’s much too far from the end of the season. Swanny’s dogs wouldn’t take it.”

“We’ll hafta, unless this boy learns to hit to left field.”

“He’s gotta do a lot more than that. He’s gotta stop playing to the crowd, and quit thinking about his batting average. He’s gotta begin playing for the team for a change.”

“Yep, he’s gotta change. Somehow he must learn to hit to the opposite field,” agreed Red Cassidy, the first-base coach. They were giving the club a going-over late that afternoon when the dressing room had emptied of players. “No use talking, he’s gotta learn to play for the team. That means learning somehow to hit to the other field. Remember now, when I was coaching with the Reds before the war, long ’fore you come up, Spike, we had Kenny Cotter as a freshman. Kenny always usta pull that ball to left, and I kept a-tellin’ him he’d have to learn to hit behind the runner and shoot for those open spaces in right.

“Well, sir, seems like he never
would
get it. Next season the Reds they gave up and traded him to the Giants just on account of that one failing. We’re playing the Giants at home, and they have men on first and second with Kenny up. So I swing our defense over to left and what’s he do? He whistles the first pitch to right for two bases, scoring both runners. Minute later he comes home and calls over to me, ‘See, Red, I can do it now.’ Darned if he can’t, too, and, what’s more, he’s been doing it ever since.”

That evening after dinner Spike went hunting Highpockets through the lobby of the hotel. Unlike some men on the club who never missed an evening at the movies, or spent their spare time playing cards, the rookie was fascinated by city crowds, and was invariably to be found in the lobby of the hotel in which they were staying. New York was his favorite spot. There they mostly lived in a luxurious palace whose lobby seemed to be the crossroads of the world, a traffic station for the entire Broadway mob. Crowds swarmed around throughout the late afternoon and evening, holding his curious gaze hour after hour. He was excited and interested by the throngs who poured past, by the bellboys paging visitors, the continual stream of men and women coming and going. His eyes missed nothing as he sat with a newspaper in his lap, silently watching.

That night he was inconspicuous in a chair beside a pillar, half hidden behind a late edition yet able to take in the entire scene. Spike beckoned to him, the lanky boy uncurled his legs, and together they took the elevator to the manager’s suite on the eighteenth floor. Far below, the lights were strung out in the evening haze up and down the heated city, and the roar of traffic penetrated the sitting room, which was hot after the air-conditioned lobby.

Spike came directly to the point. “It’s your attitude, kid. Frankly, you aren’t a team player. You’re in there for yourself on every play. You can’t seem to forget your batting average. This’ll have to change.”

“My attitude, hey? What’s that? My hittin’s O.K., ain’t it? How many guys in the majors made twenty homers so far this year?” replied the big chap, his long legs sprawled out as he lounged in the armchair.

Spike glanced up. He started to reply sharply, checked himself, and looked at his visitor. The boy’s face was frank and friendly; apparently he meant no offense. So the manager bit his lip, waited a minute, and then said: “ ’S I told you last spring, we’re always looking for team players on this club, Highpockets. Now I feel sure if we can only stay close for another month, the others better watch out; we’ll be in there at the finish. But we won’t stay close unless we’re a team. You’re a good hitter and can be a better one. Your future is in your own hands. If only you’d play for the club and quit leveling at those right field fences.”

“Yessuh.” There was a silence in the room. Then: “They pay off on the long ball in the majors, Skip. Twenty homers ...”

The youngster’s obstinacy annoyed Spike. Perhaps what also annoyed him was the fact that the kid had some truth in his remark. Yet his quiet assurance was difficult to take.

“Look, Highpockets, I
know
you can hit the long ball. I know you’ve saved games this year with those clouts of yours. I admit it. That isn’t the point. Point is you aren’t measuring up to what we’d hoped, you aren’t a team player. And what’s more, the pitchers are catching you off balance; they’re throwing close to you and crossing you up with that pay-off ball. If only you’d stop trying to slug it. If only you’d stop aiming for those open spaces.”

“Yessuh. Yes, Skipper. I’m well past .300 and I’ve had thirty-seven bases on balls so far this season.” He almost seemed not to hear what the manager was saying.

“And you’ve struck out how many times?”

“That’s correct, Skip, I’ve struck out a lot. The boy who goes for the long ball always strikes out a lot.”

“Once again, that is not the point. This club is a team club and you won’t play for the team. Get it? You still can’t hit to left field or you won’t try. You must. Now see here, I’m giving you this chance but it’s your last chance. Yes, sir, by gorry, it’s the last. One more chance to learn, that’s all. Otherwise back you go.”

The traffic roar sounded from below, suddenly louder within the room. Neither man spoke for a few seconds, and this was the first time Spike Russell had ever seen Highpockets’ composure ruffled off the field.

“You mean ... the minors?”

The truth was that as a youngster Highpockets had always been an American Leaguer. He rooted hard for Washington and had a deep ambition to play for the Senators. The fact that the shoe might be on the other foot and the front office might not choose to keep him was a new idea. An upsetting one, too.

Naturally Spike did not know this. There was another thing the manager didn’t know. Bryson City fans had been planning to come north to celebrate Cecil McDade Day, and the whole state was chipping in to buy him a new automobile. A Cecil McDade Day with Cecil McDade not present would be awkward.

“The minors!” He was upset now. Every ballplayer who comes up knows that some day he must go down, but Highpockets was jolted. His dreams of the big salary, the seventy-thousand-dollar pay check, and the manager to handle his contracts and outside appearances like other stars, suddenly vanished.

“Certainly, the minors,” said Spike quickly, pressing home the point. “What d’you expect? Think I’m going to hand you over to the Cubs or the Cards or the Braves to belt our brains out?”

Highpockets’ composure returned. There was always Washington and the Senators. “Yeah ... sure ... I know ... only ... I mean, there’s the American League.”

Spike cut him short. “The boys wouldn’t waiver you. Too many clubs in this-here league would like to get their mitts on you.” He rose and lit a cigarette, went across to the window, came back and sat down facing his visitor.

“Anyhow, I’m not giving up on you yet. Fact is, I b’lieve you have a great future. I’m sure you’ll learn and I want you with this club. But here’s what you must do—you must learn to scatter those hits. How? I’m telling you. Every time you go up to the cage in batting drill you take four cuts. Right? Right! O.K. Bunt the first one to third and see you make it good. Hit the second to left, not hard, mind you; just punch it in there. Then if you want to, if you feel you’d like to, pull the next two to your natural hitting spot in right. Get it?”

The boy nodded. Spike continued. “You’ve got to conquer that weakness. You must learn to drag the ball once in a while, to hit to left field.”

Highpockets’ face was serious; he seemed to be thinking it over. Finally he murmured: “Bunt the first one to third. Hit the second to left field ...”