Willie & Me (8 page)

I was right. There were no fancy hand dryers or
automatic paper towel dispensers in the bathroom, but at least it was clean. I did my business and as I left, I noticed that there was a whole complex of offices up there, three stories above center field. There was a trainer's room, with whirlpool tubs and massage tables. The door was wide open. There was also a supply room filled with bats and balls and other equipment. There was a laundry room. That must be where they clean the uniforms after every game.

Next to the laundry room was the Giants' locker room. For a moment, it crossed my mind that I shouldn't be in here snooping around, but my curiosity got the better of me. How often does a kid get an opportunity to peek in a major league locker room? Not often. And how often does a kid get an opportunity to peek in a major league locker room that was torn down over sixty years ago? Never.

I looked at the names written on tape over the lockers—Mays, Maglie, Irvin, Thomson. I was kicking myself for not remembering to bring my new video camera with me.

There was a sign on the wall of the locker room. . . .

WHAT YOU HEAR HERE,

WHAT YOU SEE HERE,

AND WHAT YOU SAY HERE

MUST STAY HERE.

Next to the locker room was a green door that
said
MANAGER
'
S OFFICE
. I couldn't resist. I had to peek inside. Leo Durocher was one of the most famous managers in baseball history. I flipped on the light.

It was a surprisingly small room, with a wooden coat tree and a bunch of clipboards hanging from hooks on one wall. There was a leather swivel chair in front of a wooden desk with glass top. There were some framed photos on the desk—Durocher and his wife, a team photo, a picture of Franklin Roosevelt smoking a cigarette. The desk faced a big window that looked out on the field. I realized that I was a few feet above that Christy Mathewson plaque I had seen in straightaway center field.

Then I noticed something odd. Right next to the desk was a telescope.

I went over to have a look. It was a nice one, maybe two feet long, extended. It had four collapsing sections, one of them black grain leather. Another section had the word
WOLLENSAK
engraved in it.

It was right next to the desk, on a tripod.

The telescope was on a tripod, and pointing out the window. There was a small cutaway in the wire
mesh that covered the window, obviously so the person looking through the telescope could see better.

I leaned over and looked through the eyepiece. Wow, the thing was
powerful
. The telescope was pointed at home plate, which just about filled the lens. You could get a really good view from this spot. I felt like I was right on top of the action.

At this point, I probably should have put two and two together. But I didn't. Not yet. I figured Durocher just used the telescope to get a better view of the game. But managers don't watch the game from center field. They sit in the dugout.

Then I noticed something else. On the desk, right next to the telescope, was a button. It looked sort of like a doorbell.

Huh! Why would somebody have a doorbell mounted on their desk? That didn't make any sense.

I pushed the button. Off in the distance, there was a faint buzz. I pushed the button again.
Bzzzz.
Every time I pushed the button, the buzzer sounded. I could hear it because the ballpark was deserted. If it was filled up with fans, I never would have been able to hear the buzzer.

I sat back in Durocher's chair and slapped my forehead. It didn't take any genius to figure out what was going on. Leo Durocher had somebody hiding in his office during games, peering through the telescope. They could spy on the opposing catcher's signs to the pitcher.

The wires to the buzzer system probably led to
the Giants' bullpen, which I could see was halfway down the foul line. The guy looking through the telescope could use the buzzer to indicate whether the next pitch was going to be a fastball, a curveball, or whatever. Then, somebody in the bullpen could signal the batter to let him know what pitch was coming next.

Wow!
That guy at the baseball card show who sold us the plaque was
right
.

The Giants
were
cheating.

T
HERE
'
S NOTHING WRONG WITH STEALING SIGNS
. I
T
'
S PERFECTLY
legal in baseball. Even in my league in Louisville, we steal signs all the time. Flip always tells us that if we reach second base, we should watch the catcher carefully. If we see how many fingers he's putting down, and it's just one for a fastball and two for a curve, we can let our hitter know which pitch is coming next.

Knowing what the pitcher's going to throw is a
big
advantage. I know that I would hit a lot better if I knew in advance whether the pitcher was going to throw me a fastball or a curve.

Stealing signs is not only legal, it's a badge of honor if you can pull it off. It's also one of those things that makes the game so fascinating. The average fan doesn't even know it's going on, but the people who understand the game well really get into the science
of sign stealing. It's like espionage.

But it's one thing to steal signs with your naked eye. It's another to hide a telescope in the outfield and relay the stolen signs using an electric buzzer system. I'm pretty sure that's against the rules. It's also just not fair, because only the home team is able to take advantage of it.

My mind was racing. As I sat there in Leo Durocher's leather chair, I realized that this changed
everything
.

Poor Ralph Branca had to live his whole life as baseball's biggest goat because he threw the pitch that Thomson hit for the Shot Heard Round the World. But now I knew the truth. Bobby Thomson probably knew in advance which pitch was coming. If the Giants hadn't been stealing signs illegally, he never would have hit that home run.

Heck, if the Giants hadn't been stealing signs illegally, there might never have
been
a playoff in the first place. They never would have come from behind and caught up with the Dodgers during the last weeks of the season. Most likely, they won at least some of those games in the final days of the pennant race because they cheated.

My plan had been just to watch the game as a spectator, but not anymore.

I felt like I had to do something to make things right. I had to help Branca and the Dodgers. I could right a wrong. I was the only person who could do it, and I was in the perfect position.

But what could I do? What could I do to prevent Thomson from hitting that home run? I thought about my options.

Maybe I could tamper with Thomson's bat, I thought. But that would be hard to do, and who knows what might happen if I got caught. It might not matter, either. Bobby could just as easily hit the home run with a
different
bat if he knew what pitch was coming.

What if I busted the telescope so the Giants couldn't use it? No, destroying property is wrong. Two wrongs don't make a right.

I looked at the clock on Leo Durocher's wall. It was ten o'clock now. Time was getting short. Soon the players would start to arrive at the ballpark. I was going to have to get out of Durocher's office.

I tried to think of another plan. Maybe I could go buy a ticket, sit in the stands, and wait until the moment Branca was about to throw the pitch. Then I could cause a disturbance of some sort to throw off Thomson's timing. No, with thousands of people in the stands, I might not even be heard.

I looked at the telescope again. The eyepiece was a separate section from the rest of it. I turned it, and saw that it was loose enough to unscrew. It was simple. A telescope can't work without an eyepiece. I could just take it off. Then the game would be played fair and square. Sports should be played on an “even playing field,” as they say. Let the better team win, not the team that cheats.

Unscrewing the eyepiece wasn't as bad as busting the telescope. It still might be the wrong thing to do, but it wasn't quite
as
wrong. And because I was righting a wrong, it actually could be the right thing to do. It was a good solution. And it was an easy solution. At least that's what I convinced myself. I took off the eyepiece and slipped it into my pocket. Then I got up to leave.

That's when the door opened.

“Not so fast!” somebody shouted.

I wheeled around. There were three guys standing in front of me. Two of them were wearing Giants uniforms, with the words
NEW YORK
stitched across their chests in black with orange trim. The guy in the middle was wearing a fancy suit with wide lapels and the kind of hat guys used to wear in the old days. None of them was smiling. The player on the left was holding a bat.

“Who are
you
?” the guy in the suit asked menacingly.

“I . . . I . . . I . . .”

I backed against the desk, hard. One of the framed photos toppled over. I could tell right away that the guy in the suit was Leo Durocher, the manager of the Giants. He looked older than the two players. I had seen lots of pictures of him. I knew that under that hat he was balding, and he slicked back what hair he had left. It had to be him. I was in his office.

Leo Durocher

“What are you doing here, kid?” Durocher snarled.

He was the kind of guy who could barely say a sentence without cursing. He looked like a gangster. His blue eyes were fiery. Veins were sticking out on his neck. I felt my heart beating in my chest. I had messed up, again. Why did I always mess up?

“The d-door wasn't locked,” I stammered, trying desperately to think of something to say that would get me out of there. “I just opened it. . . .”

“Want me to bust his face, Leo?” asked the guy with the bat.

“I'll take care of this, Brat,” said Durocher.

Brat.
The guy with the bat had to be Eddie Stanky.
The second baseman. His nickname was “the Brat.” I had read about him in a little paperback book I found at Flip's store one day. Stanky wasn't a great player, but he was known for doing
anything
to get on base, including getting hit by the ball. In the field, Stanky would jump around and wave his arms to distract opposing hitters.