Rookie of the Year (13 page)

“Yes, but, Jack, wait a minute; lemme tell you the whole story. Then he cuts loose again, and I fine him a hundred bucks, and then in Chicago he goes haywire after pitching that shut-out and eats herring and bacon and eggs twelve days running for breakfast. Of course he gets sick. I overlooked that, just a fool stunt, though he was lost to us for almost a week. You know when a thing like that happens, and a man can’t take his turn, it throws a burden on the other men on the pitching staff.”

“Why sure, I know. I see how ’tis. But...”

“And then one night, in Pitt, I think it was, he went an’ got gingered up, and had the telephone operator call everyone for a seven-thirty meeting in my room the next morning.”

“Aw, what the hell! I heard about that. Why, Spike, he’s only a crazy kid. You know how it is; you gotta expect things like that from these screwballs.”

“Maybe so. Although I know what Grouchy Devine would have done to Bob and me if we’d ever pulled that one on the Vols. Anyhow, I talked to him. I explained how he’d bust up the sleep of the whole club. I warned him, Jack, his third time. I told him it would be the last time. I told him if he got into trouble again, I’d sure suspend him. The way he was pitching he could have been the rookie of the year if he’d only have steadied down. Then last night, before our big game, he goes out chasing this skirt, this what’s-her-name up there at the Kit Kat Klub.”

“How do you know?”

“I didn’t know for sure. All I knew was he didn’t roll in until some time after midnight. Then this morning, just by chance, Jim Casey happened to phone right while I was talking to him. Casey asked me point blank if he was the player seen last night at the Kit Kat Klub. I put it right up to Bonesy, and he admitted he was. What could I do? Three times... and out.”

“Yeah... yeah... that’s tough. I know how you feel... player disobey you like that... I unnerstand....” He puffed nervously on his cigar and tapped it on the ashtray. No ashes fell off. They had fallen before in his excited movements, and dropped on the thick carpet on the floor. “Yeah, O.K. The guy deserves it. I’d say he deserves it and you did just right. But for gosh sakes, Spike, look at the consequences.”

“You tellin’ me! Only baseball is built on discipline, Jack. I couldn’t do anything else but suspend him, even were we due to go into the World Series tomorrow.”

“But the team! Look at it from their viewpoint. The team’ll be sore as hell at you; they’ll...”

“No, they won’t. They’ll be sore at him. Remember it’s Hathaway who’s taking the money out of their pockets when he doesn’t step out on that mound, not me. They all know what’s happened; they know I’ve been patient with him. They’d like to go out and let loose, too, only they don’t. You see they’ve been bearing down and he hasn’t, and they darn well realize it.”

“O.K. O.K., fine him. Fine him, Spike, fine him plenty. Give it to him with both barrels. Fine him a thousand bucks. But for goodness’ sake don’t suspend him; keep him in there working today.”

“But, Jack, this is the third time. This has been going on since July. Ordinarily I’d be glad to keep him working. Not this time. He has it coming to him. Besides, he’s hopping a plane for home. And that’s all right with me.”

Now Jack MacManus was furious. This was the last straw. The kid manager was stubborn. Recollections of previous clashes came to him; their battles over contracts, battles which Jack MacManus always won against other players because he held all the cards. Maybe he held them against Spike Russell, too; if so, he never played them right. Why, as his brother once said, “Spike’s as stubborn as a North Carolina mule.”

“Gone home! You let him get away! Listen, Spike! This means anywhere from four to six thousand bucks for every man on the club. They’ll be down on you for life. You get that kid back, somehow, anyhow. If not, why, I couldn’t keep you on as manager.”

The shot struck home. Spike winced. But he replied quietly, firmly, with insistence.

“No, Jack, I’m not afraid of that. They won’t be down on me; they’ll be down on Bones Hathaway for quitting. Anyhow, I can’t help it if they are. He’s not coming back.”

“Look, Spike.” His tone was desperately persuasive now. “Frankly now, the Series would put the front office on easy street. We need that Series dough the worst way. It’d give us three-quarters of a million clear for working capital that we could use. With that we could go out next season and get you some top class kids to replace our veterans; we could pay off the bank mortgage; we could enlarge the place and build some new stands we need badly; we could...”

“Nosir, Jack, I just can’t. I’ve already announced it, the newspapermen have put it on the wires by this time. And Bonesy is on his way home. Besides, no one man is indispensable to a ballclub. It’s a lesson these kids all have to learn. Doggone, we’ll win this thing without Hathaway; that’s the kind of a ballclub it is. The tougher things get, the harder they fight. This’ll put ’em on their mettle, you wait and see.”

“You mean to stand there and tell me you can beat the Cards two out of three with Hathaway down in Tennessee?”

Silence fell over the room like a heavy fog. “Well... I’d say we gotta chance.”

“Gotta chance! Gotta chance! Why, hang it all, you’re throwing away the pennant, that’s what you’re doing. And the Series, too. You’re costing the boys five-six thousand bucks apiece, and the club stands to lose half to three-quarters of a million. Yet you insist on ruining us... by being stubborn... by refusing to give in an inch... by...”

This was the MacManus that Spike Russell had always dreaded. He had seen the big fellow in rhubarbs with umpires, in disputes with officials of other clubs, or with the president of the League. Never had the Irishman’s wrath been turned his way. Now it was on him, full blast. The red-faced man rose from the desk and, spluttering invective, shouting, growling, threatening, came forward.

Spike wavered before the storm; but he did not quit. He held his ground. Even when the irate magnate came round from behind his desk and walked close to him, shouting as loud as he could.

“... Chucking away a pennant... that’s just what you’re doing... a million bucks into the bargain... for what?... a whim... a fancy... one million bucks....” His voice was raised; he was shrieking now. “Looka here, Spike Russell! I hafta back you up on this; you released it to the papers. I can’t change my manager now. But you just called the turn; one man isn’t necessary to a ballclub, and you better think that over; you better get it out of your thick head that you are. If you persist... if you go ahead and ruin this team... I’ll never give you another contract as long as you live. Nope, nor that kid brother of yours, either.”

Spike saw the enraged face come close to his. There was much he wanted to say. But he didn’t trust himself to reply. Instead he turned, opened the door, and walked out. His hand shook over the handle as he closed it. Going down the hall his knees were wobbly and he was trembling all over.

W
AS IT THE
enormous crowd in the stands and the importance of the contest or the reaction from their long, stern chase or the suspension and departure of their star pitcher that made them slump that afternoon? Whatever it was, the Dodgers had the jitters. Old reliables like Harry Street hobbled easy grounders. Swanny juggled a single which was promptly stretched into a triple. Even Bob, with a runner trapped off second base, let a throw from Klein through into center field, and the man later scored.

Old Razzle felt this uneven support. He became wild and began passing men. Ordinarily pitchers don’t mind walking a man, they have confidence in their ability to get the weaker hitters coming along. But now Razzle began to lose the next man also. This in turn reacted on the rest of the club. To the team behind the pitcher nothing is as demoralizing as bases on balls at critical moments. You can’t do a thing about them. Outfielders paw the earth and walk around restlessly; inflelders spit into their gloves and look nervously at each other from the corners of their eyes.

Fortunately the Cards were tight also that afternoon and ready to become panicky at the least chance. Like the Dodgers, they did their best to toss away the game. They, too, messed up easy chances, threw the ball wildly around the bases, missed opportunities at the plate. Both pitchers watched with agony from the box as runs were scored on careless mistakes in the field. This game on which so much depended, which should have been so close and tight, became a comedy of errors. Two apiece in the fourth; then the Cards scored twice and led four to two in the sixth. The Dodgers caught them and went ahead five to four in the seventh; but the Cards retaliated in the eighth when Clyde Baldwin, usually the steadiest of fielders, misjudged a fly. He first ran back for it, then saw it was falling short, came in, stabbed at it, and missed. The ball rolled through to the fence and three runs were over before Roy Tucker retrieved the ball.

“Shoot!” said Spike to Charlie Draper as they passed each other when the inning was over.

The coach, on his way to third base, paused. “Why, Spike, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t even get up off my seat in the dugout, I was so sure he had it. He never did that before, never.”

But there it was, and the score seven to five going into the eighth. The Dodgers managed to pick up two runs by forcing the Cards to throw the ball round the diamond, and should have had another. But Red Allen was called out on a grounder which he beat into third by a foot. The decision was so raw it brought the entire dugout to the step, while a howl rose from the fans back of third base. Red Allen, quiet and even-tempered, went to pieces. He stormed up to Stubblebeard behind the bag, protesting violently. The old man folded his arms and turned away. The decision stood.

At the start of the ninth the Cards worked a man to third with one out. The next batter hit an easy fly, and Roy Tucker stood under it waiting, thumping his glove as usual, while the ball dropped. Before he had it the man on third was off to the plate, and with a desperate slide beat Roy’s perfect throw to Jocko Klein. This time Spike roared out of the dugout, Charlie Draper at his side.

“Why, Stubblebeard, he was out from here to breakfast!”

“Man, you saw; he was at least four feet offa that bag before Tuck had the ball in his mitt.”

“Shoot, Stubble, you know darn well he left that base before the ball was caught, you know that....”

The umpire was surrounded by a noisy, angry mob of players, everyone shrieking at him. The stands were howling also for everyone had seen the runner break before the ball was caught. But once again the umpire was firm. His decision was made. In vain the Dodgers protested, appealed to the plate umpire. The Cards were ahead, eight to seven.

Once more the Dodgers had to pull up, to come from behind. A game team, as usual they made the effort. Harry Street struck out; but Bob drilled a clean one into center field. The stands watched as Jocko Klein went up to the plate.

Would the manager try for a tie or try to win? Would he order his catcher to bunt or hit straightaway? With the St. Louis bullpen going furiously into action, he played boldly for victory, and Jocko, hitting behind the runner with a clean drive into right, vindicated his judgment. Now there were men on first and third, one out, and the winning run on the bases, as Clyde Baldwin, the Brooks’ slugger, came to bat.

Grouchy chose to pitch to him and, walking out to the mound, waved in a left-hander to relieve. The Card pitcher took his time coming from the bullpen, and Grouchy stood conferring with a group that consisted of his catcher, his third baseman, and the second baseman and captain of the club. Razzle, ready for a laugh even in the tensest moment, sauntered out with a bat in his hand and joined the circle. He put one arm around the shoulder of the catcher, inclined his head and listened. The crowd yelled with delight. Then Grouchy looked up and saw Razzle. The conference fell apart. The crowd yelled and Raz retreated, pleased with himself.

Clyde Baldwin tapped the plate nervously. “Now, then, Clyde. Unbutton your shirt, Clyde. Le’s have a hit, Clyde. Bring those babies home, Clyde, old kid....”

Clyde waited the full count. With the runners set and poised, he swung and popped weakly to the shortstop. Two out.

Spike searched in the rack for his favorite bat. “Where’s that Black Betsy of mine... here... nope... yes, here it is....” Now then, it’s up to me. Clyde fell down, but I’ll pick him up. I’ll bring that kid brother of mine home if it’s the last thing I do on earth. I’m gonna bring him in with that run, I sure am....

The first ball was an inside, medium fast ball, a ball the pitcher tried to sneak over for a strike. Spike got hold of it and socked it hard between first and second. The ball was past, it was through, it rolled joyously into the field, as Klein in a dust cloud roared into third, and Bob galloped over with the tying run. They were still alive.

Hold on! From the sack where he stood panting, Spike’s heart sank. Old Grouchy was lumbering out from the Cardinal dugout. Grouchy never took the field save in an emergency, and Spike instantly knew his presence there meant trouble. Now what? The manager was talking to the umpire. From first base Spike could hear those sharp, familiar tones as he spoke to the umpire beside the plate.

“Give those birds a dose of Rule 44, Section I, Stubble.” The umpire pulled a piece of white paper from his pocket. It was the Dodger batting order. He took one look and administered the bitter dose. Two days previously Spike had shaken up his batting order. In the confusion and excitement of the moment, he had gone to bat instead of Razzle who should have followed Klein. The pitcher was so pleased with his feat of kidding the Cardinal board of strategy, that he, also, failed to realize Spike was batting out of turn. Consequently the manager was out under the rules; the run he had driven in didn’t count. The game was over. The Cards had won.

You’ve only got yourself to blame when a thing of this kind happens. And yet... if only Raz hadn’t given those two bases on balls in the eighth; if only the big showboat hadn’t tried to act up in the ninth; if Swanny hadn’t juggled that single in the fourth; if Clyde had been playing his usual game; most of all if the Hathaway thing hadn’t upset him so he mixed up his batting turn. Then, too, if those vital decisions hadn’t gone against them. Those decisions were what cost the game.