Rookie of the Year (15 page)

Roy Tucker, following, immediately delivered with a fly ball, a lazy can of corn deep toward the fence that the leftfielder had to back up for, so far back that he didn’t even try to make the throw to the plate. Clyde came across with a run, the first of the game.

That run looked bigger and bigger as the game went on and still no Bonesy appeared in the dugout. In the eighth two Cards struck out and the third popped to Bob. In the ninth, with a one-run lead, the Dodgers were only three precarious put-outs from triumph. Yet those Cards were a dead-game club. Dusty Miller, the first batter, smacked a drive that Swanny stopped but couldn’t handle cleanly. Dusty tore for second. The ball was retrieved too late for Bob on second to get Miller. The umpire, standing almost over them, threw out his palms. Instantly Bob jumped back of him.

“Yer out!” he shouted.

Miller, engulfed in the storm of dust over his head, heard the muffled tones above, thought it was the umpire, scrambled to his feet and charged over. Bob simply reached out and tagged him. This time the Card runner was out and no mistake.

The fans yelled, the fans shrieked, the fans booed and catcalled. They loved it. They went wild with delight; they jeered at Miller; their roars echoed from the bleachers to the home plate and back again; they pursued the luckless Cardinal into the obscurity of the dugout. Then suddenly that Niagara of noise died away. Tom Weston, the Cardinal shortstop, hit one through the hole between first and second.

The team spit into their gloves and looked anxiously toward the dugout for signs of their star pitcher. But no Bonesy appeared, and out in the bullpen Rog Stinson and Rats Doyle began warming up. Spike hitched at his belt, leaned over to pick up a pebble from the basepath, pawed at the dirt under his feet, thinking what they were all thinking — if only Bones would come. Meanwhile the man at bat glanced over toward Grouchy in the dugout for the hit or take sign. The old chap was foxy. Spike knew him well enough to realize he would cross them up if he could. That meant he’d probably order the hit and run.

He did. On the second pitch the batter struck solidly behind the runner, a clean drive into right again. Smart fielding by Swanny held the Cards to first and second; but now the winning run was on the bases. Spike felt the team watching him, waiting to see whether he would go along with Elmer or bring in a new pitcher. He walked across to the mound, stalling, hoping that a delay of a few minutes would somehow make Bonesy appear. He came up to the big pitcher and smiled. The hurler nodded.

“O.K., Spike, I’ll get this man for you.”

The manager patted him on the arm. “Keep ’em low, Elmer; the old doubleplay ball, you know... throw him your hook.”

Elmer agreed, stepped off the rubber, took the sign and stepped in. Connolly dropped the first ball in front of the plate, a perfect bunt that rolled gently away from Klein, away from everyone toward third. But Elmer was expecting just that. Like a flash the big man darted after the ball, picked it up and, turning, saw Ennis slide into third. So he instantly whirled and shot it to Red on first. Man and ball arrived exactly together, for the Cards were fast, too.

A roar went up over the field as the runner flashed by first base. It was a strange and curious roar, a roar that didn’t die away but grew louder and louder and louder, a roar that seemed to pull the fans to their feet, shrieking. For a minute Spike, watching the decision at first anxiously, was confused. So were other men on the team. Then they all saw it together.

Bones Hathaway was throwing beside the dugout to Charlie Draper.

Spike saw him just as Elmer did, and Red on first, and Roy Tucker with his hands on his hips in deep center, and Harry Street astride third base. There he was; not throwing in his calm and leisurely way; but fast, faster, faster, with no windup at all, burning in the ball to the coach with the catcher’s mitt.

The crowd kept on yelling. They yelled and yelled, while the runners stood poised on the bases and no one moved.

At last Elmer turned and looked at Spike. The manager walked across. He walked slowly, as slowly as he could, and all the time Bones was steaming in those pitches to Draper and the crowd was shrieking. Elmer walked slowly off the mound toward the dugout.

“Hathaway, number 15, now pitching for Brooklyn....”

But the announcer’s words were lost in the roar over the field as Bones, tossing in his last pitch to Draper, came out toward the diamond. He gave Elmer a slap on the arm as they passed, and took the ball from him. Then he stepped on the rubber and threw in another pitch, and another, and another. While Spike looked anxiously around, at the outfield playing slightly toward left, at his infield with Red and Harry well over toward the foul lines to cut possible two baggers, at Ennis standing in foul territory below third so as not to be hit by a batted ball, at Stan Frankel coming to the plate. It was up to Bonesy.

At last he was ready. The storm clouds were lower now, and the field was getting darker rapidly. An ideal spot for a fast-ball pitcher if only he had control. Even the bullpen paused to watch the rookie in the test before him. Frankel stood there menacingly; Frankel, the clumsy, dangerous batter, the man you had to watch.

Bones took the sign and threw.

“Ball one!”

The crowd on its feet shouted nervously. Even Grouchy in the dugout became excited. He stood on the step clapping his hands together, almost an emotional outburst for that unemotional figure. The coaches behind first and third yelled through their hands, and the runners danced up and down the baselines as Bonesy threw again.

“Ball two!”

Spike came over. Bones leaned down, touched the dirt with his fingers, picked up the rosin bag, and brushed off his manager. He stood there in that howling, insane mob, the coolest person on the field.

“Strike!”

The roar rose as Frankel watched a perfect one cut the plate. He shook his head, looked round at Stubblebeard, glanced over at Grouchy for the hit or take sign. Then he waved his bat, an ominous sign.

Bones didn’t wait. He threw again, and this time Frankel swung hard. But well underneath the ball. Two and two. Jocko snapped it back to Bonesy and knelt down to give the sign, while the runners still danced on the basepaths, arms waving, darting back and forth, ready to run as the pitcher threw.

Once more it was a daring pitch to the weakness of the batter, high and inside, close to his chest. Frankel swung from his heels with all he had and missed the ball by a foot.

Then Jocko with the right side open, hardly changing his stance, rifled it to first. The ball came hard and low to the bag where the Card runner was scuttling desperately back. In one movement Red nabbed the throw and, sweeping round, slapped it on him as he tried to slide in to safety. The game was over.

T
HE LAST GAME.
The last game of all and the pennant depending upon it. Two fighting teams fighting right up to the wire. In every newspaper in the nation sportswriters hastily thumbed through baseball guides to see when it had happened before. They went back to 1940 when Detroit won the final game of the season against Cleveland; yes, and to 1942 when the Cards didn’t clinch things until the last afternoon of the season. Here was the same situation, the pennant hanging on that last game of all. In the dressing room Spike stood before the team that had fought with him all season, the men who had come from behind, who had picked themselves up off the floor not once but a dozen times since he took over in July. What a gang! I’d rather lose with these boys than win with the Yanks. I said that before, and I mean it. Well, here goes....

“I’m gonna make this short today. I wanna get out there and I’m sure you do, too. Everyone knows what depends on this one. We’ve been over their hitters. Nothing more to say. This-here pitcher, this man Rackenbusch, has won twenty games; but he has to throw a round ball the same as you fellas, and get it over the same platter. It’s true he beat us in St. Loo the last time; you’ll all remember he needed every bit of luck in the world to do it. Luck’s on our side now. One thing, these Cards are a hitting club and hitting clubs pick up the marbles. We aren’t a team of sluggers, and sometimes I notice the boys laugh at us and call us lucky. Point is we score runs. That’s what counts. The only thing in baseball, as I see it, is to get more runs than the other guys, no matter how you get ’em. That’s what we did yesterday. I’m convinced we’ll do it again today. O.K. then, everyone play his position up to the hilt. Le’s us grab off that pennant.”

Instead of dissolving into the customary storm of scraping benches and conversation and the usual noise of spikes on wood and concrete, they sat still. Only old Fat Stuff stood.

“Spike, we... that is the boys here... all wanted me to say this. We won yesterday and pulled even with those Redbirds. And we’re not a-going to look back. Today we intend to win this for you, Spike.”

Then they broke up, everyone talking at once. “This one is for Spike.” “Le’s get this one for Spike.” He stood watching, listening. Gosh, what a gang! Yes, sir, I’d lose with these boys any day rather than win with the Yanks.

On the field you instantly felt the importance of the contest. It was only one-thirty; but the stands were already more than half filled and, below, the space around the dugouts and behind the plate was crowded with strangers. Men he’d never seen before stood beside the batting cage, reporters and sportswriters from what seemed like every newspaper in the nation stayed at his elbow, pestering him with questions, keeping on him so he hardly had a moment to take his cut at the plate. Klein passed by with his tools under one arm. Spike beckoned and leaned over.

“Jocko, watch that signal catching a runner off second. Watch me closely on that; for a second I thought you were going to throw down to me yesterday. And that throw in the third...”

“Spike, that was the darned worst heave I ever made in my life. Know what happened?”

“Sure, I know. You slipped just as you threw. Don’t worry; I’ve seen Bill Dickey chuck that ball into center field occasionally. You know, Jocko, I b’lieve you get more steam on your throw and you get it off faster, like that one in the ninth yesterday, than any catcher in this league.”

“Do you? Do you really, Spike? Thanks lots.” Someone called his name and the catcher took his place in the cage back of the plate.

“Mr. Russell. Hey, would you mind, would you mind stepping over this way just a minute?”

“What for? I bet I posed twenty times shaking hands with him yesterday.” Spike knew what the cameramen wanted. The same old thing.

“Just once today, please, Spike.” So he walked across to the Cardinal dugout where Grouchy was standing with his back turned. As he approached, he saw some brash reporter come up with a smile and extended hand. Evidently someone who doesn’t know the old man, thought Spike to himself.

“Good morning, Grouchy,” said the stranger pleasantly.

Grouchy looked at him, at the extended hand to which he paid no attention. “What’s good about it?” he asked gruffly. Then, turning, he saw Spike and the photographers approaching. “Are you pests after me again?”

But he posed nevertheless. He had to pose and he knew it. That’s as much a part of being a manager as running a team on the field. They stood there for the kneeling circle of cameramen, shaking hands, looking at each other, the boy who had come up from the minors to lead the Dodgers, and the old man who had taught and trained him. The ordeal was finished at last. Then a bell rang. The Dodgers dashed out on the field for practice. Finally this, too, was over. They came slowly in, the plate was brushed off, the basepaths swept, and Charlie Draper went up to old Stubblebeard with the batting order in his hand. There were four umpires on the diamond, showing how important every decision was to be.

Then from above came the loudspeaker.

“... Batteries for today’s game.... For St. Louis... Rackenbusch, pitching, Stevens, catching. For Brooklyn, Hathaway, pitching, Klein...”

But you couldn’t hear the last words. The crowd made too much noise.

G
OOSE EGGS ALL THE
way. Goose eggs on the scoreboard in deep right every inning. Goose eggs up as they went into the sixth, the seventh, the eighth. Shadows lengthened, edged closer and closer to third base, gradually encroached upon the diamond itself; on Bones in the box, raising his arms to loosen his shirt in that familiar pitcher’s gesture, on Roy Tucker thumping his glove in center, on Jocko Klein on his toes behind the plate, on Spike in deep short, nerves tight, now hitching at his belt, now scraping a pebble from the basepath and tossing it away, now rubbing his hand across the chest of his shirt or pawing at the dirt with his spikes.

So into the ninth with the teams tied and the issue of the pennant still in doubt. Then it happened, after two Cards went down in succession and Bones appeared to have them eating from his hand. It happened, as always in baseball, when you least expected it. First the young pitcher missed Miller and gave him a walk. He was letting the Cards look at his fast one, which he frequently wasted at the start, and then coming in for a change of pace. It fooled them because they were over-anxious and consequently just a trifle off in their timing. But he shoved that over once too often. Leslie Stevens wasn’t fooled. Perhaps Grouchy on the bench wasn’t fooled. Anyway the Cardinal catcher caught the ball squarely. The result was a long drive that bounced against the fence. The run was over and Stevens came into third standing.

The next man struck out, but the damage was done. Defeat was there with them in the last of the ninth, there in the dugout facing them all. On the steps Spike walked back and forth, urging every man, shaking them up, getting pinch hitters ready. Swanny was the first batter.

Swanny hit hard but the ball went directly at Tom Weston near second. Old Iceberg fielded the ball cleanly and retired Swanny at first. Red Allen, the next man, ducked to avoid a duster. The ball hit his bat and soared gently into short left out of everyone’s reach. He reached first safely.

The stands roared; hope was revived; the Brooks were in again fighting. Roy Tucker, three for nothing, came up due to deliver. He waited cautiously, looked at two bad ones, fouled off a couple of pitches, and then bashed a solid single to the right field wall. Red went sliding and rolling into third and there were men on first and third and only one out. Yes, the Brooks were still in the game.