Rookie of the Year (2 page)

A good baseball club is a continual challenge.

You can insult them into having pep and life if you’re one kind of a manager; you can do it more subtly in different ways if you’re another kind. Spike Russell was the other kind. He looked around at his team as he had often looked at them before, warm, familiar, friendly faces, at the men on the benches before their lockers or seated on the floor or standing up behind; at Jocko Klein, the Jewish catcher who because of his race had been the butt of the club — and other clubs in the League also; at Swanny, the big right fielder, with one arm carelessly over Jocko’s shoulder; at his brother Bob spitting into his glove, impatient for action; at Clyde Baldwin, the freshman who was busting fences all over the League and making a name for himself as a ballplayer in left; at big Red Allen, the veteran first baseman, a comfortable man to have behind you in a pinch; at young Hathaway, the headstrong rookie pitcher, who was working slowly into form; at this team he had gradually fashioned from a disintegrating rabble.

“Yessir, I really think we can go places if we only quit making mistakes. If we don’t beat ourselves. Reason the Yanks win is they never give a thing away. They score on your mistakes and they just never make any of their own.

“The team’s in fourth place today. And we aren’t moving backward, either. What’s that, Raz?” The star pitcher, unable to resist the chance, was making a quiet crack to Roy Tucker at his side. But the alert young manager heard it and threw it right back at him. “The pennant? Well, we gotta chance. I haven’t written that off yet. Sure we got a chance. Even if it is the first week in August, even if we are ten games back of the leaders. As long as we’re in the League we gotta chance....

“Now there’s several things I’m gonna be strict about from now on. First of all, condition.” He paused a moment, and turned his head to look at Bones Hathaway, the young pitcher, standing to one side. He wanted this to get home. “If you drink, and this applies especially to you pitchers, if you drink and stay out all hours of the night, you can’t keep in condition. Get me? All of you get that? Now that brings up the second thing; hustle. Hustle and speed. You can all hustle, and I’m determined to get speed out of you. If we aren’t a fast ballclub, we’re nothing. We got Roy Tucker, about the fastest center fielder in the game....” Murmurs of protest ran over the room.

“Yeah, that’s right, that’s correct. The fastest man in baseball, Roy is. And Harry Street, and my brother there — why, he led the Southern Association in stolen bases several years ago. But we aren’t grabbing them off the way we should. We gotta develop speed. ’S I say, if we aren’t a speed club, we’re nothing. I was looking up the records last night, and we’re seventh in stolen bases. That’s no good. From now on we’ll start practice every day with a hundred-yard dash to the outfield, and then we’ll run the same distance back again two minutes later. What’s more, we’ll run all out, everybody, me and every one of you. We’ll practice hitting that bag with the left foot on the inside, same as we did last spring.”

The room became silent. They could see their manager meant business. This was serious. He continued.

“I want speed, speed, and more speed; more hustle, too. I want you to run your hits out, run to your place in the field, run back to the dugout. I don’t want to see any walking on this club from now on.”

Man, he can really pour it on, thought his brother, seated before the locker with the big letters: RUSSELL, ROBERT, NO. 10, over it. He can sure pour it on, and they’ll take it from him, too.

Why is that? It’s because he’s a good guy, because he’s a real guy. He isn’t one of these bench managers, getting fatter every day and running a club from the dugout. He does what he asks them to do; he’s out there giving everything he has, same as the others. That’s why they’ll take it from Spike.

“Now we’ve got a vital three-game series with the Reds coming up. In my opinion, this Cincinnati team has no license to be ahead of us. They’re just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill ball-club. Their new center fielder, Hutchings, is a pull hitter; watch that, Harry. They’re not a fast club, so hurry them all you can. ’S I say, I want hustle and more hustle from every man on this team. They tell me when old John McGraw looked at a rookie he first asked him to run a hundred yards, then to bat, and last of all to throw. That’s how important he considered speed.” He hesitated a moment, and then started to name names.

“Clyde, the other day on that single there of Marshall’s you didn’t really hustle, you didn’t give all you had, you didn’t run hard enough. I don’t want that to happen again....”

“But, Spike, look-at,” protested the fielder. “Look-at, there wasn’t anyone on base at the time, and I fielded the ball clean on the third hop and held him to first. Didn’t I?”

“Sure you did. You fielded it on the third hop instead of the second. If you’d run all out, you could easily have nabbed that ball on the second bounce. That might cost us a run some time, an important run; ever think of that? You’re in the big time now, Clyde; keep your thinker oiled up every minute. And hustle. That’s the chief fault, I b’lieve, in baseball — laxness in trying hard. Winning is the effect of nine men giving their best over a hundred and fifty-four games. In extra effort it means ten or fifteen games over the season. That’s what I want, a team that plays heads-up ball every second. Bones, you’re a good fielding pitcher; but you take too much for granted. Don’t push your luck too far; some time you’re gonna be sorry if you do. You other guys also. Now yesterday in the seventh, Swanny, you nabbed that foul out in deep right and the man scored from third. Nope... I’m not blaming you. I blame the boys in the bullpen ’cause nobody there called out. What’s the matter, Rats? What’s the matter with you and the rest of the boys in the bullpen? You’re all part of the team; why weren’t you hollering to Swanny on that play? Huh? Well... I guess that’s about all. For now. This isn’t any second division club, and I know if you’ll hustle for me the way you can, we’ll go places. Any questions?”

Raz Nugent raised one hand. Razzle, the big, brash pitcher who thought nothing of sneaking into the enemy clubhouse and listening in at their meetings, was just as bad in his own quarters.

“May I speak?” he asked politely.

The young manager beamed. He liked to have the men take part in the meetings. “Go ahead, Raz.”

Razzle uncoiled his six feet two inches, and shuffled awkwardly to the front of the room. He yanked a sheet of white paper covered with figures from his back pocket. The room sat up with interest. The paper was evidently a list of the Cincinnati hitters and their weaknesses. They waited for Raz’s comments, which they knew would be pungent, with interest.

Raz was a show-off. He stood looking around, feeling his audience with him.

“Now here’s something that really has me stumped, Spike.” He scratched his head, pushed his cap back on his brow, and glanced down at the paper in his hand. “The man at the garage soaked me $34.75 for fixing up my car the other day, and I think the bill is too darned high.”

Spike gazed at him in stunned silence. Before he could intervene, a voice came from the group below. It was Rats Doyle, Raz’s roommate and also a jokester.

“Naw... I don’t hardly think that’s overcharging, Razzle.”

Raz nonchalantly shifted a huge lump of chewing tobacco in his mouth, and before he could adjust it to speak another voice chimed in.

“What did he fix, Raz?”

“There’s a valve intake in the engine,” explained the big pitcher, “that had to be repaired. But doggone, he’s charging me for new parts, labor, and everything else ’cept the national debt. I think it’s too much.”

Immediately everyone in the room started to talk. Half the club thought it too high, others felt it was about right. But everyone had an opinion. Spike stood there listening to the argument for a moment. Finally he jumped in, bellowing at the top of his lungs over the din.

“QUIET! What the dickens has Raz’s busted auto got to do with our beating the Reds this afternoon?”

Looking about the room, he perceived their grinning faces. Then a momentary feeling of annoyance surged upon him as he noticed in the rear the familiar red face of big Bill Hanson, the club secretary. Bill’s head was back, his huge frame shaking with laughter. Now Spike was angry at the older man. Hanson had no business snooping round at meetings for the team, and Spike started to say something. Then he suppressed his annoyance and decided to give Chiselbeak orders to keep Hanson out in the future. He collected himself, looked at the team, and being a smart manager, realized he was being taken for a mild sleighride. He threw his hands up.

“Meeting dismissed.” He turned toward the door to the field amid a roar of laughter, shaking his head. Sure, they’d given him the bird, but just the same his heart was light. After all, they had as much right to ride him as Swanny or Rats or anyone else on the club. Wasn’t he one of them? Of course. He was there on the field, dishing it out to the other clubs, yes, and taking it, too, with the rest of the team. Therefore he ought to be able to take it like the others inside the clubhouse.

He shook his head as they all clumped out the door, but secretly, in his heart of hearts, he was glad. Glad they felt they could ride him just the way they rode everyone else on the team.

Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack, clackety-clack, they stomped out to the field, laughing, talking, loose and happy. Yet not a team to be taken lightly because of those shouts and laughter, either.

O
UT AROUND SECOND
base, the pivot base, that’s the spot from which a ballclub can be sparked to life. Spike and Bob Russell, the Keystone Kids, were doing it, too, bringing fight and punch to the veterans flanking them, keeping everyone from getting sluggish. Age and youth, fire and experience; the combination was developing into a real infield, and the infield was fusing into a team. At first base was Red Allen, steady, dependable, always picking someone up with a brilliant stop or a catch of a wide throw. At second was Bob, a peppery wildcat through whom it was impossible to drive a ball; at third was Harry Street, a reliable veteran; at shortstop was Spike, hounding grounders like the lead dog in the sheriff’s pack. That hot afternoon in early August the club came into Philadelphia treading on the heels of the Cincinnati Reds in third place, raring to go.

Spike could feel the looseness of his men by their gags and cracks as they warmed up around the dugout, while the home team took batting practice before the game. Familiar voices echoed about him. Over at one side three pitchers were warming up, Rats Doyle, young Hathaway, and old Fat Stuff Foster. Freddy Foster was too old to pitch often, so Spike seldom used him save for relief jobs or against the weaker clubs in the League. That afternoon he hoped to run him in, and stood there on the steps of the dugout watching the three men throw, wondering whether to spot his star youngster and make the game sure or save him for the tough Sunday doubleheader against the Cubs and take a chance with the veteran against the easier team. A decision hard to make; he put it off as long as possible. Guess right, and no one thinks anything about it; guess wrong, and you begin to lose the confidence of the management, the fans, and before long of your own men.

He stood on the step, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Then he heard the voice of Charlie Draper, one of the coaches, talking to a Philadelphia sportswriter.

“... Yessir, that kid really has what it takes. He’s a cool customer. Y’know, only the other day over at St. Loo, the Cards got three men on in the ninth, and Danaher comes up with two out. Jocko Klein gives Bonesy the sign for a fast ball. The kid shakes him off. So Jocko gives him the sign for a hook, and the boy shakes him off again. Jocko, he walks out to the box. ‘What’s the matter, young fella?’ he says. ‘Don’t you
want
to pitch?’ ”

The reporter laughed. Suddenly he observed Spike standing alone on the dugout step, eyeing his pitchers in the act of warming up. The newshawk walked across. “Hullo, Spike, how’s tricks?”

“Fine.” Spike kept his gaze on the three men throwing to the catchers. He always remembered what Grouchy Devine, the manager of the Volunteers when he and Bob had been in the Southern League, used to say. “When you don’t talk, you don’t never have to eat your own words.”

“Say, this kid Hathaway looks good. He oughta beat some clubs in this League with that sinker.”

“Yeah. He’s gonna help us plenty.”

“That win over the Cards last week won’t hurt. I understand he pitched real ball.”

“He’ll do better next time.”

“He must have been hot the other day, though. The Cards were here the next afternoon; they said they couldn’t see his fast one.”

“Yeah. Well, he’ll improve.”

“Those Cards said his fast one has a mean hop to it.”

“If all you can throw is fast balls, it’s murder,” said Spike succinctly.

“Yeah? Oh, yeah, of course. But he’s got a hook, too, a major league curve, and a big time pitching delivery. But that fast ball... funny. I was just out there watching him. He’s not a big boy; why, he’s almost slender.”

“Yes, but he’s got a good chest and he gets his shoulders behind the ball. See... see there....” Silence for a moment, while they stood side by side watching the youngster pour it in.

“Uhuh. He breaks his stuff low.”

Bill Hanson’s voice broke in. “He’ll be a swell pitcher all right, if only he’ll lay off the beer.”

Spike turned. Hanson again! Now who asked him to give out with his two cents’ worth? The young manager had the soldier’s half-expressed contempt for the non-combatant. He turned his back on the club secretary and addressed the sportswriter directly.

“Lemme tell you something. That kid’s arm went bad last year; he wasn’t even taken down to spring training camp. So whad’ he do? He goes to Montreal, played the outfield, developed into quite a pinch hitter in a short while, too. Was batting around two ninety. ‘I won’t quit,’ he told Buz Farrell up there. ‘Nope, I won’t quit baseball ’cause I love it. They may chuck me out; but I won’t quit.’ So Buz stayed with him, and after a while the boy tried pitching again. His arm came back and he won six straight games, so we called him down about a month ago from Montreal. First game he stopped a liner with his meat hand and lost the nail of one finger. That set him back quite some time, ’bout two-three weeks. But now he’s coming along. He’s a pitcher, now.”