Highpockets (5 page)

“That’s correct. And look, big boy, another thing. You’ve simply got to change your batting stance to stop that steady diet of inside pitching they’re feeding you. Get out of those cleat marks. You stand there all set to slug the ball and you’re a pushover for a smart pitcher. Move round so he’ll be worried, so he won’t be sure what you’re aiming to do. You have unlimited possibilities, Highpockets; you cover ground, you catch any ball that isn’t over the fence, and you’re a power hitter. This thing is right up to you.”

The next afternoon Highpockets went out to the cage and did exactly as he had been told. Four cuts —a smooth bunt tapped down toward third, a line drive smacked deftly into the open spaces in left field, and a couple of long ones that whanged against the concrete in right. Each one was perfectly met and well timed; he made it look so easy. The manager, watching with one hand on the dugout roof, felt pleased.

Nothing dumb about that bird; he’s catching on; can’t say the boy isn’t smart. No, nothing the matter with him, nothing a little talking to won’t straighten out. Why, he’s a cinch compared to Jocko Klein and Roy and Bones Hathaway and some of the problems I’ve had on this man’s ballclub.

Unfortunately Highpockets got away to a bad start that afternoon against the first-place Cards. In the first inning, after two had flied out, a St. Louis batter singled sharply to right over first base. It was a clothesline drive, and Highpockets loped across toward the foul line, making a one-handed stop of a ball that would have been through most outfielders for extra bases. The runner was taking his turn around the bag as he cut the ball off.

Highpockets stumbled a few steps forward and steadied himself to throw in, while the Redleg danced beyond first, watching his movements closely. The second his arm went back and he had committed himself to a throw to first, the baserunner turned and scurried at full speed for second. Too late, Highpockets saw the trick and burned in his throw, which was hurried and high, forcing Lester to jump. The first baseman reached for it with his mitt, came down, and whirled to throw to second. The ball got there just as the Cardinal runner slid in head first under the toss.

The air was steaming with invective and abuse. Strong and clear from the stands came the shrieks and cries. From left and from right the wolves were upon him.

“Hey, there, Highpockets, you rockhead, you!”

“Highpockets, you big bum!”

He turned on them and made a gesture which was not exactly polite. The bleachers, delighted, howled in unison. When the following batter singled to center, scoring the man from second, the jeering and yelling increased in volume. Up and down the line they shouted and called to him as the inning finished with the Cards ahead one to nothing, and he came hustling in to the dugout.

“Hey, there, beanpole, you bum, you.”

Though he paid no outward attention to the noise, Highpockets was furious, piqued by the jeers of the crowd, angry at baseball and everything and everyone connected with it. His face was still flushed when his turn came in the batting order and he stepped to the plate. The bags were full, Lester on third, Roy Tucker dancing beside second, Paul Roth on first. The bases full, nobody out, a chance to get that run back and put the game on ice.

A hit to left, even the easiest of rollers into that open space between third and second, would mean the game. He had determined to cross up the Card defense, not slug the ball, to pass up the home-run clout and punch the ball to left to help the team. But he was annoyed and upset by his blunder, and as he reached the plate the taunts of the mob rose all over the field. Highpockets forgot his resolution, forgot his determination to hit to left, and dug in in the batter’s box, waving his war-club.

Knowing he loved fireball pitching, the Cardinal hurler kept throwing sliders and slow curves, teasing him with balls that asked to be hit, that hung up there and then slid off his bat at the last second. One he got a piece of and fouled. The next was a low pitch. A knuckler came over the edge of the plate for strike two as the crowd shrieked. A high inside pitch, another foul, another ball inside. The full count.

On the bags the runners danced with outstretched arms. From back of first, Red Cassidy yelled through his cupped hands. The commotion over the park was tremendous. Except for the third baseman, the Cardinal infield was camped on the right side, waiting for his conventional drive. The pitcher stood motionless in the box. His glove hung from his wrist; he rubbed up the ball, gazing intently at his catcher behind the plate. He nodded with confidence and stepped to the rubber.

Highpockets set himself for that pay-off pitch. Furious with rage, he was going to hit the next one as no baseball had ever been hit before.

The pitcher raised his arms and threw. The ball was a high slider, and Highpockets swung hard from his heels, missed, and twisted clean around in a whirl that sent him sprawling backward, one arm behind to keep himself from falling to the ground.

The field resounded as he picked himself up from the dirt, slung his bat away in disgust, and slouched back to the dugout—to the far end of the dugout where no one at the moment happened to be sitting, where he was alone.

T
HERE WERE THREE MEN ABOARD
, no one out, the top of the batting order at the plate, and still they were unable to punch home a run. After Highpockets whiffed, Jocko Klein drove a scorching liner straight at the first baseman, who beat Paul Roth in the race back to the bag for a double-play. So the Cardinal hurler got out of the pickle vat, and from that moment had the Dodgers on the hip all the way.

Jimmie Duveen, the Card pitcher, had superb control that afternoon. His fast ball was alive, his curve breaking sharply. One Brooklyn batter after another went down swinging. There wasn’t an inning when at least one man didn’t strike out. After the door was slammed shut in their faces in the first, not a Dodger hitter reached base in the next three innings. In fact, nobody got as far as second until the seventh. Highpockets lined to deep right in the fourth and was passed purposely in the seventh after Roy had singled. However, the rest of the batting order was unable to get the ball out of the infield and they were left on bases.

Disaster reached out its long arm for Brooklyn in the eighth. With two away, the St. Louis catcher worked Razzle for a base on balls, his second of the day. The pitcher, after setting himself for the orthodox bunt and missing, astonished the crowd by taking a hefty swing at the next delivery. He caught one of Raz’s fast pitches squarely and lifted it to deep right center.

Roy Tucker and Highpockets both went after it, though it was nearest Roy, who faded fast and charged back under the ball. Suddenly Highpockets realized that Roy was dangerously close to the wall.

“Watch it, Roy! Watch it, kid,” he shouted. “Watch it, watch it!”

Roy either missed his call in the noise from above or paid no attention in his pursuit of the ball. Back he went, heedlessly, and stuck his glove up at the last second just as his head smacked the concrete. His body folded up and tumbled to the grass.

Highpockets raced over, not sure in the confusion of the moment whether or not Roy had managed to hold the ball. The umpire at second was also uncertain, and ran out to determine whether the catch had been made. All the while the runners, convinced it was a safe hit, circled the bags. Then the noise died away. The fans in the stands rushed to the rail, jamming forward to discover what had happened, looking down silently at the figure lying on the grass. For a few breathless seconds no one knew whether Roy was dead or alive.

It was Highpockets who reached him first, followed by the puffing umpire. Roy lay crumpled on the turf, completely out, the ball wedged securely in his glove. The crowd, unaware whether he had held it or not, let out a sudden tremendous yell as a big zero went up in the run column on the scoreboard in deep right.

Highpockets kneeled down by Roy’s unconscious body. There was a gash in the forehead from which blood streamed. It splashed alarmingly on the white trousers of Highpockets’ monkey suit. Now they were surrounded by players of both teams, pitchers from the Cardinal bullpen, Paul Roth, Spike and Bob Russell with anxious faces, and the Doc, who raced out from the dugout. He reached them, bent down, listened to Roy’s heart, and felt his pulse. Then he rose, beckoning toward the plate. Instantly two groundsmen with a stretcher appeared, and for the second time in his career the Kid from Tomkinsville was carried off Ebbets Field unconscious. It was a tough break, and the Dodgers were grave as they gathered round the stretcher being taken in to the clubhouse.

Only Raz as usual was irrepressible.

“Someone ought to tell Roy there’s no future in that,” he remarked sagely. “What’s more,” and he glanced quickly at Highpockets shuffling along beside him as they followed the stretcher, “what’s more, concrete costs money these days.”

Highpockets’ emotions were mixed. He liked Roy Tucker, one of the men on the club who had been agreeable and kind, one of the few players who seemed not to have forgotten his own rookie days. He felt the blow to the club and knew how serious it was to lose their star fielder. He also realized that through his own failure to follow instructions at bat he had not improved his standing with the manager of the Dodgers. Everyone on the club knew that Spike Russell meant what he said and never fooled around. However, the accident changed everything. Now the team was short a fielder. Therefore he himself was badly needed. They simply had to keep him in Brooklyn.

He pulled himself together, these thoughts racing through his brain, separating themselves into different feelings as he calculated the effect of the accident upon his own fortunes. Then he came to.

Razzle was glaring at him. He had half heard the pitcher’s words and hastily assented. Concrete costs money these days.

“It does, doesn’t it? Shore ’nough,” he agreed solemnly.

Reports that filtered through from the clubhouse were none too definite. Roy had come to; but whether there was a concussion or merely a blow which had knocked him out temporarily was impossible to tell until he reached the hospital and X-rays were taken. As they stepped in for the ninth, grabbing their bats from the rack, they could hear above the hum and buzz over the field the
CLANG-CLANG
of the ambulance charging full speed down Bedford Avenue out beyond the right field fence.

Lester Young, the first batter, grounded out. With only two more to get, the Cards snapped the ball smoothly and confidently around the infield. Old Swanny, taking Roy’s spot, then came up with his menacing bat and promptly belted the first pitch to right for a single. Alan Whitehouse was sent in to run for him, and the early departers stood in the exits watching, as Paul Roth sacrificed and Alan took second base.

So they were down to their last out of the game when Highpockets rose from his knee in the circle. Even before he reached the plate, the hurricane of noise began. The crowd was in a savage mood. They wanted badly to win that game, and they were annoyed with Highpockets for his mistake in the first inning which had led to the only score. They were disappointed at the failure of the Brooks to hit; they were upset and worried at losing the favorite mem ber of the club, the Kid from Tomkinsville. When, therefore, Highpockets stepped to the plate, they gave him a gigantic razoo from every side of the field.

“You murderer,” shouted one fan who had failed to hear him warn Roy off the fence. “You murderer, Highpockets!” It was the worst riding of the season. Jeers, croaks, howls, and moans echoed over the ballpark. They bothered him not at all. For the first time that day, Highpockets was assured and poised. Obviously, with Roy injured, he was a fixture in right field. Now he was certain of a Cecil McDade Day and that new Ford cabriolet. After that, as to the seventy-thousand-dollar contract and the manager for his outside appearances, well, anything could happen and he wasn’t exactly the worrying kind.

So he set himself in the box, loose and secure. As he stood there the jeers died away only to grow in volume when he looked at the first pitch, which was dead across the plate. The raspberry continued and became larger still as he took a ball and then fouled off the next one. It began to have an effect upon his nerves. Suddenly he determined to show them up, every one of them, the whole ballpark. The derision of the mob acted as a stimulant. No longer was he lunging and hitting wildly. He was angry now, tense with a flaming desire to smash that ball down his hecklers’ throats.

It was a pitch with just a little bit of extra fat on it, fast and outside, and he swung hard. The ball was wide of the plate, so accidentally he hit, not to right as usual, but to left. Not a line drive to the outfield or a grasscutter into the open spaces between second and third, but a terrific clout that was really tagged. The stands gasped. Every player on the field knew by the sound it was in there. Alan, galloping around third base, turned his head to watch the ball drop into Section 30, in the upper tier of the stands in deep left center.

Highpockets loped around the bases. Now the jeers of the crowd changed to frantic cheers. He actually had driven that ball down their open throats. They yelled and shouted and threw newspapers and scorecards and things into the air. The noise was sweet music to him as he rounded third base and touched home plate, reaching out for Jocko Klein’s extended hand as he stomped across the platter. Without in the least slackening his pace, he tore for the dugout and the passageway under the stands that led to the clubhouse and the showers.

Jocko was the only man on the club who waited for him to complete the circuit. By the time Highpockets reached the dugout it was empty.

T
HERE WERE ONLY THREE
ways to play him, and different managers adopted different tactics. You could walk him. Lots of hurlers did whenever men were on base. Or you could pitch to him and hope for the best. But the majority of pilots packed the defense on the right side. As they reasoned, it was far better to let him try for the single or the occasional grounder to left, and if he made it you were no worse off than if you passed him. Moreover, there was better than an even chance that he would fly out or drive a liner at an infielder in right.