Rookie of the Year (16 page)

The Cards thought so, too, and a feverish activity began in their bullpen in left as Bob Russell came to the plate. He hit a wicked hopper but Gus Connolly on third stopped it cold. Instead of throwing to first, he caught Red halfway down the basepath. From the dugout Spike watched with anguish in his heart as the Cards closed in relentlessly; Gus to Stevens to Gus to Stevens and back again to Gus who dashed after Red and slapped the ball on him for the out.

Two out. Only one man left, one man from defeat. With despair Spike watched Harry at the plate. Just keep us going, Harry; keep us in there, keep us alive somehow, anyhow. You’re a clutch hitter, Harry. You aren’t a powerhouse like some of those sluggers, but you sure come through in the pinches. Save us, Harry old boy, save us this time....

The third sacker was a cool customer. He watched one ball and fouled off another. Then came a ball. And a third. The pitcher slipped over a strike. One strike from defeat. Bob, perched on first base, was yelling through cupped hands.

“The big one left, Harry, old timer, the big one left!”

From the circle where he waited Spike hardly dared watch. Harry stood there coolly as the ball came in low to the side. He flung away his bat and walked to first. The bases were filled.

Spike was so weak his knees actually trembled; he felt completely unequal to the job of winning the game. But he gripped his bat and stood there, while Grouchy came slowly out. A new pitcher. Slowly another man came in from the bullpen, the crowd clap-clapping. This was the time to win the game.

The field was darker now and gloomier. But it didn’t seem to help the newcomer. His first two pitches were wide as the big crowd howled with delight. A low ball came that Stubble called a strike. Then another ball. Spike saw he was nervous, not yet warmed up completely. The fourth ball came, the run was over, the score was tied.

Bones Hathaway came slowly to the plate, watching Spike on first. Should he relieve him or not; slide in Paul Roth or stay with the rookie? By gosh, he’s not a bad hitter; I’m gonna stay with him. He’s still fresh, and he’s the best man we got out there in that box. So Bonesy slowly and hesitatingly came to the plate.

He caught the first ball, and there was violence behind the blow. It was a long hit, a terrific shot between left and center, and the runners were off as they heard the sound of the bat. Spike charging toward second had the whole scene before him; Frankel and Danaher running vainly for it, the ball in the slot between them. Then Frankel with a burst of speed reached out with one hand as the ball roared past and speared it in mid-air. Danaher sheered away to avoid a collision, tripped and rolled over and over on the thick turf of the field.

The fans had to recognize the play that had robbed them of the game. They gave Frankel a great hand; they forced him to touch his cap again and again as he came in toward the dugout. As for Spike, he was so happy to be still in there fighting, so happy to be running back to his place in the field instead of returning disconsolately to the showers, that the failure to win the game right there was immediately forgotten.

Now we’ll really get those guys.

Bones in fine form set the Cards down in the top of the tenth, and the Dodgers went out in order in their half. The top of the eleventh was hitless for the invaders, the bottom equally so for the Dodgers. There was trouble in the twelfth. With two down, Bones walked a batter and the next man scratched an infield hit. Then Danaher came across with his third safety, a hot liner to left field.

With two gone the runner on second was off and hustling hard for home as the blow was struck. But Clyde, too, started with the sound of the bat. Straining, giving everything, running madly, he charged in. There was a race between ball and fielder. By sheer speed he managed to grab it on the first hop, then without pausing threw to the plate. The throw was perfect and the runner cut down by a foot. Had Clyde waited to take it normally on the second bounce, the Cards would have had another one-run lead.

The fans were still yelling when Bob swung up to the plate in the Brooks’ half of the twelfth. That noise did him good. He singled solidly to center and there was a man on first and no one out. Harry Street followed, and set them back by swinging on three pitched balls. Spike came up, tapped the rubber twice, knocked the dirt from his spikes with the heel of his bat, tugged at his cap, and stood watching the pitcher who was rubbing up the ball, checking the runner, taking the sign and nodding to his catcher.

It was a low ball and he met it in front of the plate. That was all he saw, that and his brother roaring, head down, toward second. He felt the catcher’s throw behind his ear just as he stepped on the bag. He was out, but Bob was on second in scoring position. He walked slowly back to the bench, with that same decision again before him. Bones was sauntering slowly up to the plate, while on the steps of the dugout stood Paul Roth and Alan Whitehouse, swinging bats in their hands.

No, sir. No, sir. I’m gonna stick with Bonesy all the way. He’s got a right to win his own game, and he darned near did it for us in the ninth. I’ve stuck with my pitchers all season in times like this, and I’m not gonna change my style of baseball in the last game of the year. He walked slowly in and wedged himself beside old Fat Stuff, with half the team on the steps calling for a hit. Two out, and the fastest second baseman in the league in scoring position.

Bones took the first one. Shoot, thought Spike, that was a pip. A fast ball right across. There was the ballgame riding on that one. Now he’ll give him a change of pace most likely.

Bones walked away, scooped up some dirt and rubbed it on his palms, tapped his spikes, and resumed his place in the box. The next pitch was not a change of pace; it was a hook, low and slightly wide.

To Spike’s amazement he heard the voice of Stubblebeard behind the plate.

“Steerike tuh...”

A jeer rose from the stands instantly. For a second the boy at bat stood motionless. Then something seized him. Bones Hathaway, the quiet Bones, the pitcher who never engaged in rhubarbs on the field, who always let Draper and the coaches carry on the arguments, suddenly went wild.

“Strike!” He turned back. “Whazzat... you called that a strike?” He dropped his bat and stood beside the old umpire, and his voice carried to the dugout. “Hey, there, Stubble, what’s the matter with your eyesight these days?... Why, that ball was a foot outside....”

This was enough for the crowd. They rocked and roared above and around him, they supported him to a man, they whistled and catcalled, they stormed and shrieked and shouted disapproval. The ancient umpire shifted his chest protector with his elbows and kept his gaze fixed firmly on the pitcher standing motionless in the box.

“You blind, Stubble, or what? It was bad enough the other day... without you have to hang it on us again.”

The blue-clad figure took off his mask, held it in one hand, and turned away. He took three or four steps toward the stands; the stands on their feet, howling for his blood. This man was an enemy of Brooklyn. Bones followed at his heels, pouring invective on him. Suddenly the umpire wheeled around.

Spike Russell jumped from the dugout followed by Charlie Draper. They saw trouble in the way the old man turned, and they heard his voice plainly. “One more word, Hathaway, and you’re through for the day. I mean that, and don’t think I’m foolin’. One more word....”

The old chap’s tone yanked Bones from his anger. He stood silent, uncertain for a minute as he saw his manager and coach rush toward him. Then, smothering his resentment as well as he could, he turned back to the plate, took his club from the bat boy, and stepped into the box. To his surprise he was trembling all over. He got ready. Nothing and two. Two strikes and no balls.

The next pitch was a duster, directly at his head. Angry now, his reflexes were slow. He had trouble dodging the ball, and it sent him sprawling foolishly back into the dirt, his bat clattering from his hand. The fall was so unexpected it shook him badly. This made him more angry than ever. He took his time rising, got up slowly, slapping dust from his uniform.

Maybe I made a mistake, thought Spike. Maybe I should have put in a pinch hitter; maybe the kid can’t take it. Yep, it looks as if I guessed wrong. It looks as if I made a mistake.

“Oh-oh. That’s bad; that’s really bad.” Old Fat Stuff on the bench beside him shook his head. “I know that boy Hathaway. That pitcher couldn’t have done anything worse. He’ll be right sorry he threw that duster, you wait and see. Oh, that’s bad, that is.”

The next one was inside. A ball. Two and two. Again the rookie pitcher took a toehold as the pitch came. It was a medium high fast ball, and he caught it squarely. You could tell by the sound this was a hard blow. In exactly the same place, the slot between left and center, but this time a shot that cleared the outstretched hands of Splinter Danaher and roared past, that rolled and rolled on to deep center with the two Cards in hot pursuit. While Bob Russell romped across with the winning run.

The fans were on the field, mobbing the players. They caught Hathaway before he could get back from second base; they pulled at his sleeves and slapped him on the back, while the team stuffed their gloves in their pockets and ran in triumph for the clubhouse. Old Fat Stuff stood before the bench watching the scene.

“Yes, sir, I told you he’d go and do something like that. The best way to get along with Bones Hathaway at the platter is not to go chucking at his noggin. I knew he’d clout one after that duster, I sure did. Good work there, Bonesy, you sure delivered that time... and now, boy, bring on them Yanks!”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1944, renewed 1972 by Lucy R. Tunis

cover design by Milan Bozic

978-1-4532-2116-7

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

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