Rookie of the Year (8 page)

Shaking his head, he returned to the dugout. Shucks, that’s not backing them up like I should. I ought to have crowned that second pitch, that fast ball. You can’t hit if you don’t take your bat off your shoulder. And my timing is way off these days. But we aren’t licked yet; Harry Street always picks me up.

Harry caught the two and two count and laced the ball over third down the left field line, a good clean single. Baldwin was coming into third, and Spike, tense and anxious, stood on the step of the dugout watching Harry race like mad, head down, for second base. The throw was to third, it was wild... c’mon, Clyde, c’mon in.... Holy Smoke, now Harry’s going into third! What a ballplayer that guy is!

Baldwin was in and Harry slid safely into third. The bases were cleared ahead of him and the score was a tie at five apiece. When Bob swaggered to the plate, Spike hardly dared look, feeling certain his brother would bring home the winning run. He did. His shot bounced against the scoreboard; 475 feet from home plate.

Now the Dodgers were leading; they were ahead by two runs, but they weren’t yet out of the woods. For in the last of the ninth the Pirates came roaring back, angered at seeing a game already won snatched from them. The first batter hit a sizzling bounder through the box. Spike darted across. It was a hard ball tagged for center field, yet he had stopped harder ones. So he went all out, racing desperately over to stab it back of second. Then, in his hurry, he made a mistake. Off balance, he threw to Red.

The throw was so wild not even Red could block it, and the runner, without pausing, rounded the inside of the bag and started for second. Then Spike saw Jocko Klein. He ran to back up first on every ball hit to the infield and one never thought about it, never even saw him. Now, when he was needed, you suddenly saw him and your heart jumped. Because that error could mean the ballgame.

The stocky catcher stopped the ball and then, without hesitating, burned it to second. Spike, waiting, slapped it on the runner just as he came tearing in, and the man was out. One out, instead of a man on second with no one down. Well, that’s picking me up; that’s certainly picking me up all right.

Then Speed Boy Davis, the pitcher who had gone in for McCaffrey, weakened and lost the next batter. Once again there was a runner threatening. Gosh, won’t this ever end? Is this going on all night? Spike retreated to his position, glancing back at Rats Doyle throwing in the bullpen, watching Speed Boy carefully. He’s tired all right; he’s really tired. If this man gets on I better yank him.

They all expected the man to bunt. That was percentage baseball. He did. The bunt was well placed, between the pitcher and first, and Davis went over. It was a slow hit, and he was near first when he scooped it up. He straightened as he got the ball, and threw it over Red’s head into right field. Immediately the runner on second broke for third, and the batter roared into second despite Swanny’s recovery and quick throw. The winning run was at the plate.

Davis was weakening in the heat and the long, exhausting game. When he passed the next man to fill the bases, Spike turned and waved to the bullpen. As usual Rats, warming up, pretended not to notice him. They stood around the rubber, Spike and Bob and Harry and Red and Davis, gloomy and silent, saying nothing because there was nothing to say, while the crowd in the stands began shrieking for a hit to win the game.

Shoot! That’s awful bad. Davis knows better than to straighten up on a play of that kind. He was just plain tired; he didn’t stoop down, he stood up straight and let go. Shucks! You practice and practice and practice a play all spring; then comes an important moment in a vital game and someone forgets everything he’s been taught. That can cost us second place.

Now old Stubblebeard, the umpire in charge, was becoming impatient. He went out to deep short and waved for Rats to come in to the box. The big lefthander swaggered across the field, accompanied by hoots and claps from the bleachers. Spike kicked at the dirt in the pitcher’s box. This is going to raise hob with my pitching schedules. This will upset everything. Now I don’t know who’ll pitch tomorrow. Shoot, I don’t know who’ll pitch the next inning, if there is any, and it certainly looks as if there would be now. But we need this game the worst way; we simply gotta have this one.

The Pirate coach held up one finger to the baserunners. Three men on, one out and two runs behind. Rats pitched. The batter hit the first one hard, to Spike’s right, the sure test of a shortstop. It was a ground-hugging hopper, and the Pirate baserunner hid it momentarily, then jumped it and was off toward third as the bounder sizzled toward Spike.

Now... careful... steady... make it sure... don’t throw before you have it....

He sent the ball away cleanly and fast to his brother on second. Bob jumped deftly out of the path of the spikes of the Pittsburgh runner charging into second, and got the ball off quickly to Red on first. One out! Two out! Almost before the batter had slowed up back of first they were running in, stuffing their gloves in their pockets, racing toward the showers. As they roared past the dugout, Chiselbeak was already lugging out the bat trunk and throwing the bats into it. Within the clubhouse the equipment boxes were set out before each man’s locker. These small, oblong wooden boxes had a space at one end for caps, and a large place for wet clothes, the whole to fit into the equipment trunks. It was the usual sign that meant a change of scenery. The western trip was over and the Dodgers were headed for home in second place.

T
HE
A
MERICAN ROCKED
along the rails through the gathering dusk. The players had eaten and returned to their air-conditioned rooms. Red Allen, quietest and most reliable member of the team, was deep as usual in a crossword puzzle. Razzle, neither the quietest nor yet the most reliable member, had dropped in and was sitting with his feet on the opposite seat.

“We sure needed that one. Boy, we needed that one. And we could use those two against the Giants tomorrow. There’s a couple of good ball-games to win. Second place ain’t bad; it ain’t bad, kid.” Then he added: “That is, if we stay there!”

“We’ll stay there,” replied the big first baseman not glancing up from his crossword puzzle.

“Yeah. Looks like this-here club is moving the right way at last. Say — d’ja hear about those fans who started that fight by calling Jocko Klein names over in Phillie in June? Remember? Their case came up finally. The judge fined them twenty bucks and sent ’em to the cooler for ten days.”

“That right....”

“Uhuh. Fine and cooler, eh!” The first baseman was too deep in his crossword puzzle to get it.

“Razzle, what’s an eight letter word for satisfy?” The pitcher reflected a minute. “Highball. At least there’s a few guys on this club what seem to think so. Hey there... hey there, Jocko! Boy, you really backed us up out there today; you were really on your toes, Jocko.”

The black-haired catcher passed by in the corridor and paused, smiling. “Anyone hear how those Redbirds made out this afternoon?” No one knew, so he moved along.

In the next compartment, Rats Doyle was talking to young Hathaway. “Say, are my dogs tired! That gettin’ up and settin’ down and gettin’ up all afternoon tires a man more’n pitching a full nine innings of ball.”

“Being a relief pitcher is no joke,” said the rookie, sympathetically.

“Boy, you oughta have been on this club last season under Nippy Crane. It was something. A guy was in and out, in and out, every other day. I was a regular pinch pitcher; in more games than a playground director. So was Fat Stuff. He was in the bullpen so much he got his mail there.”

“It’s different now.”

“I’ll say,” agreed the relief hurler, kicking his shoes off and pushing them to one side. “Are my dogs tired! Yep, Spike Russell stays with you to the limit. He used more pitchers today than any time for a long while; he likes to give a man a chance to win his own game. Over the long haul it teaches you to rely on yourself, not on bullpen support. I b’lieve it helps a manager, too. Look how some of these boys have come along in the past few weeks. Why... hullo there, Swanny!”

The big, blond fielder rolled past. He entered and slumped down. “Well, here we are, going home in second place. Darn it all, who’d have thought such a thing could happen? Who’d have thought it possible two months ago?”

“You said it, Swanny. Looked to me like we were anchored in sixth place.”

“For life, if you asked me.”

“Yep, and since then we’ve won... what? 48 out of 62, isn’t it? 48 games out of 62 since Spike took over. How’s that? .700 baseball, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that couldn’t be just a coincidence. Say, I sure hope we don’t run into another convention in New York when we get there. Everywhere we run into conventions; in Pitt it’s a druggist convention, in St. Loo an undertakers’ convention, in Chicago an Elks’ convention; seems like a man can’t get a decent night’s rest any more!”

In the compartment at the end of the car, Spike Russell, alone, was reading the morning New York newspaper, just arrived by air. He liked to keep track of what the writers, traveling with the club, felt and what they thought about things.

“If the Dodgers win today, they’ll go into second place, and if they do it’s speed more than anything which yanked them up there. They aren’t the Dodgers any more; they’re the Swifties. They get a man on first, you look at your watch to see the time of day, you glance back, and the guy’s sliding into third. How he got there is a mystery; hitch-hiking a plane most likely. The miracle is the way their manager, young Spike Russell, shook this team up, bought a player or two, made a few trades, got them playing together, injected speed until at present it’s the fastest club in baseball. And so into second place.”

There was a knock at the door. He set the newspaper down. “Come in.”

The door opened and in came Doc Masters, the trainer, wearing a worried look on his face. He closed the door behind him and stood there. Now what?

“Sit down, Doc, sit down. What’s up?” Spike knew it was bad news. When anyone came to see him, it was always bad news. When things went smoothly, they let him alone.

“Spike, I hate like hell to cloud up and rain on you right now, but this kid Hathaway...”

“What’s he done?” Spike sat up quickly.

“Why, the crazy young fool, you know how superstitious these boys are; well, seems he had herring and bacon and eggs for breakfast the morning of the day he pitched that game against the Cubs. Then he goes in and holds them to a couple of hits. So he’s eaten the same breakfast eleven days straight now. Naturally, it caught up with him. He’s got a bad case of indigestion, and if you ask me, it’s a wonder he hasn’t come down with ptomaine or something worse.”

“Confound these kids! Don’t they ever think? How long will he be out?”

“Why, Spike, that’s kinda hard to tell. You certainly won’t be able to use him against the Giants; thing of this kind is weakening. You might throw him in against the Braves at home the last of the week; I won’t promise though.”

“Shoot! I was counting on using him in turn. Well, that’s baseball for you.”

The Doc shook his head. He had a long knowledge of the game and its personnel. “That’s baseball players, you mean.” He left, and soon after Charlie Draper entered. The coach was in a rare good humor. His reddened countenance beamed from the effects of a good meal and a cigar. The day’s work also pleased him.

“G’d evening, boss. That was a swell one to cop off this afternoon.”

“Yeah, it was, only...”

“These boys are beginning to be a team now. Lemme tell you, too, that lad Baldwin can really hit. He makes me think of Cobb and Ruth and the best of ’em. Don’t fool yourself, he’s a natural hitter.”

“Yes, he’s sure gonna be useful this year.”

“Spike, I been watching him at the plate. They’ve curved him, they’ve pulled the string on him, they’ve hi-lowed him, they’ve thrown him everything but the kitchen sink, and still they can’t seem to get him out in the pinches. I asked him to account for it at dinner.”

“Thasso? What’d he say?”

“Says, ‘I guess it just happens that the pitchers out there are throwing where I’m swinging!’ ”

“Well, I wish they threw that way to me. I’ve gone one for seventeen this week. I can’t seem to buy me a base hit these days.”

“Spike, know what I think? You’re pulling your fanny away from those inside pitches. You aren’t hitting like you used to hit; you’re hitting like old Case did toward the end, with one foot free.”

“I’m not conscious of it.”

“You are, just the same. I was watching you carefully this afternoon. You gotta stay in there, gotta keep that old right foot solid. Now that’s what I like about this kid Baldwin, his stance.”

“It ain’t his stance that worries me. It’s his roommate. You know what that crazy kid has gone and done?”

“Who... Baldwin... Hathaway?”

“Yeah. Ate herring and bacon and eggs for breakfast eleven days running; now he’s laid up with a bellyache and can’t pitch at the Polo Grounds tomorrow.”

“Shoot! We wanted his game the worst way.”

“Of course we did. I’m not sure if Hathaway is the man for Baldwin to room with. Two young rookies like that living together may be bad. I’m thinking of breaking ’em up and putting Hathaway with old Fat Stuff Foster.”

“With Foster? Don’t do it, Spike.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause it won’t work out. The kid wants to live different from the old man. Fat Stuff he wants to live different from the kid. And these pitchers are so darn temperamental, you put one of ’em in with a guy they don’t happen to know very well and they may go all to pieces on you just when you need ’em bad. I’ve seen it happen.”

“Yes, and I’ve seen it happen the other way round. I’ve seen a young rookie cooled off living with an old timer.”

“Maybe. Sometimes it works out, I know. Well, you’re the manager, Spike.”

That’s it. He was the manager. And here again was one time when being manager was no fun at all. He thought about it at breakfast before the train pulled into the Pennsylvania Station. They were slightly late when they finally did stop and the team piled off. Spike, with Bob at his side, went up an escalator, followed by the rest of the boys.