Some day he’d have a car like that. A big shiny, blue-painted car, and take Grandma for a ride in it with the top back. Some day, when he was a successful ballplayer.
2
FUNNY HOW A CHAP can feel lonely even in a crowd.
The crowd made him feel more lonely than ever. Because those men in the roof garden at breakfast didn’t seem like ballplayers, not at least the kind he knew, but older men. They were business men, well-dressed fellows who were evidently prospering in a profession that they liked. They wore curious costumes—coats that didn’t match their gray trousers and pointed tan shoes with white tips. Everyone seemed to know everyone else; they called each other by their first names, and jokes and laughter floated across the tables as they looked at the menu with practiced glances, ordered what they wanted, and addressed the waitress as “Sweetmeat.” It made him feel terribly alone. He sat at a table unoccupied save for his roommate, a boy with big open brown eyes who like himself sat in silence, knowing no one.
Down in the lobby after breakfast it was worse. While he sat silently in a big chair, men kept coming downstairs, greeting old friends, calling in delight as they found a pal, laughing and talking, perfectly at ease, with no worries or fears. He was not only unhappy, he was afraid, and his loneliness accentuated his fright. There was the fear of not making good, of having to return home without a job as everyone in Tomkinsville had predicted. Worst of all, there was the worry as to whether he’d ever be able to return. Suppose he couldn’t make the grade? Lots of rookies didn’t. Suppose... Then a man stalked across the lobby in front of his chair.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, quietly but expensively dressed in blue striped trousers, a blue sports coat, and the whitest of white sports shoes. The ballplayers all had tan shoes with white tips, but his shoes were white all over. There was something impressive in the way he walked, or maybe in the way he swayed his shoulders, and the gesture with which he twirled his Panama in his hand as he moved over to the newsstand. He picked up a newspaper with decisive movement. One... two... three... four... now what does anyone want five newspapers for? There was even decision in the way he folded them and snapped them under his arm, turned and walked down the stairs to the street. This man was somebody. Someone who’d done things. He was sure of himself. He was...
Of course. It was MacManus.
Jack MacManus, the man who broke into the big leagues straight from Minnesota, the guy who enlisted as a private in the war and came out a colonel, who went back to college and played on a Big Ten championship football team, who started off in the big leagues by spiking Ty Cobb when Ty tried to run him down as a fresh young busher. Man who’d made a million dollars in oil, lost it in the market, re-made it in radio, bought a minor league club, and finally picked up the Dodgers the year before. The Kid knew about MacManus. Everyone in baseball knew about him. Chap who put Columbus on the map, who started night baseball, who was forever scrapping with someone: Judge Landis, the umpires, or Bill Murphy; yes, his feud with the Giant manager was famous. That was MacManus all right. It couldn’t be anyone else. No wonder he walked that way, held himself like that. He resembled Mr. Haskins, the president of the First National Bank at home, who got the Kid his job in MacKenzie’s drugstore on the corner of South Main. All at once the difference became apparent. This man was the real thing. Mr. Haskins was small town and small time. An idol tumbled as those broad shoulders sauntered down the steps of the Fort Harrison Hotel into the deep Florida sun.
If that was MacManus, and it couldn’t be anyone else, why not settle things immediately? A resolution seized the Kid. Beneath the porch, papers under his arm, his feet wide apart, the great man stood, regarding the sunny street through his dark glasses, and waiting for his car. Without further thought or considering what he was doing, or how he would be received, the Kid darted down the steps.
“Mr. MacManus... I’m... I’m Roy Tucker....”
He started and turned round. There was half a frown on his face, but the freckles on his nose were reassuring and through the dark glasses his eyes were blue and crinkly round the corners. He looked up quickly. “Who... oh, yeah... Roy Tucker... sure, the Kid from Tomkinsville... yeah, mighty glad to see you, fine to have you with us.” He held out a hand. It was a lean, strong hand and the grip was encouraging.
“Why, sure, I remember the afternoon you pitched against those Cuban All-Stars in Waterbury last summer. Hope you’ll show us something like that down here.”
“Uhuh. I sure hope. That’s what I wanted to ask, Mr. MacManus. If you... if the team... in case you can’t use me at all, do I come to get my fare paid home?”
Another quick look. His eyes narrowed. “Your fare paid home? Wait a minute... didn’t he send you money for carfare down here? You should have had a check or a ticket to come down.”
“Yessir. He sent me a check. It came last month. But we had to use it to put a new roof on the farm. That big storm last winter like to blow it off and I couldn’t leave Grandma. So when it came time to report I just borrowed the money from her.”
“Off your grandma? You live with your grandma?”
“Yessir. My father’s dead, and my mother died two years ago. So I sort of wondered if I’d get sent back... or not....”
“Well, you’ll be paid something while you’re down here.”
“Yessir, I know, but that goes home to Grandma. Y’see I had a job at MacKenzie’s drugstore, but when I quit ’course my pay there stopped.”
“So you want to know if you’ll be sent back to your job?”
“No, sir. Mr. MacKenzie, he said he wasn’t holding jobs open for ballplayers. He gave the job to Jimmy Harrison. I just want so’s I can take care of Grandma.”
“I getcha. Well, I shouldn’t worry if I were you. We’ll see you land some place. Maybe if we can’t use you there’ll be a spot for you in one of our farms. Just you go in there and pitch the kind of ball you did the day I saw you last summer. And don’t worry about getting home, understand?”
“Thanks, Mr. MacManus. Thanks lots. That sure helps. I’ll be in there trying every minute.” Now the sun really was shining. He felt warm and happy because the worst load of all was taken from his mind. Somehow, some way, they’d see he got back to Grandma. Who knows; maybe he might make good after all? Might be able to buy a blue sports coat with blue striped pants and white shoes. And a big car with the top rolled back to drive down all the way to the training camps in Florida. Who knows? There was almost a grin on the great man’s face. He was smiling at someone.
“Hey, Jim, c’mon over here. Meet Roy Tucker, kid from Connecticut I was telling you about yesterday.”
A small, thickset man coming out of the hotel yanked his hand from his side pocket. It was a flabby hand, not lean and hard like MacManus’s. “Oh, yeah, you’re the Boy Wonder from Connecticut, are you? Gladder see you. Well, you joined a screwy outfit all right.” He looked the Kid up and down with a glance that was not unfriendly and not friendly either. Then he half turned his back, interested no more, and addressed MacManus.
“Say, Murphy just passed through. He stopped for breakfast. Drove down south, on some kind of scouting trip, for that Tiger second baseman, I guess. Know what he said?”
The face of the older man darkened at once. He became another person, full of unconcealed annoyance as he answered quickly:
“No, I don’t. I don’t care what he said. Don’t bother to tell me. Let him mind his own business and I’ll try to mind mine.”
“Yeah, but you gotta hear this one. This is good, this is. He says the Dodgers’ll win the pennant.”
“This year?”
“Yep. This year.”
“How’s he figure that one?”
“Says there’s gonna be war. That all the other teams will have to go and fight, but that most of the Dodgers will be too old...”
The annoyance that had changed into curiosity changed into anger. His face became red.
“Kindly tell Murphy to mind his own
business and quit popping off about our chances, will you?” His voice rose. The Kid thought this a good chance to move out of the firing line, especially as the bus that was to take the squad to the ball park drew up just then with a creaking of brakes. He heard the last few words....
“Tell him I’m running my ballclub, and if he doesn’t mind...”
3
A GRAY-HAIRED MAN in a dingy shirt and a blue baseball cap well down over his eyes shoved an armful of clothes at the Kid and indicated his locker. “Fifty-six. In the back row, there.” The lockers were plain wooden stalls about six feet high with a shelf one or two feet from the top. The front of his locker was open and along the edge at the top was pasted:
“TUCKER, NO. 56.”
There was his uniform with the word “DODGERS” in blue across the front and the number 56 on the back of the shirt. Already he had discovered there were twelve pitchers trying for half a dozen places, most of them with some experience, several like Kennedy and Foster and Rats Doyle with years in the League behind them. So what chance did a rookie have? But that blue cap and the shirt with the word “DODGERS” he could take home to prove that once he had trained with a big-league team.
The crowd dressed noisily, shouting and yelling across the little clubhouse. Finally when they were all dressed the door shut with a bang and a small, active little man with thinning yellow hair rasped out a few sentences. The Kid knew him immediately. It was Gus Spencer; “Gabby Gus” as everyone called him, the new manager, the best fielding shortstop in the League, once of the famous Gas House Gang, terror of opposing baserunners, the pet hate of all umpires and the kind of a fighting ballplayer who would rather scrap than eat. The squad grouped around and listened, some with grave and serious faces, others with a faint smile as if it were an old story. They sat on the benches before the lockers, they knelt on chairs or stood behind, peering over shoulders, while he talked in a voice that commanded the situation, that compelled them to listen whether they wanted to or not, as with his cap now off, now slung nervously on the back of his head, he gesticulated with his hands.
“... and only one practice a day; only one practice, so put everything you got into it. Remember I wanna hustling ball team. They’s some fellas can’t do anything but play ball and they’re too gosh-darned lazy to do that. We don’t want ’em down here. Now get out and le’s see some pepper, pepper, y’unnerstand....”
Only one practice a day! One practice a day wasn’t so bad, thought the Kid as the door flew open and they swarmed onto the field. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack their spikes sounded on the concrete floor of the porch.
“One squad on the mats, the other at the wands.” At first he didn’t know what was meant until he saw they were divided into two groups and his was to take exercise first on a string of mats laid out in a line on the ground. Gosh, the sun was bright. It blinded him as he looked up. Then he lay on the mat and, at the command of a short man in white trousers and a white undershirt, began the exercises. “One-two, one-two, up... down... up... down... one-two, one-two...” The leader had an unpleasant way of yanking your legs sharply into position or pushing them back if you didn’t do the exercise properly or weren’t keeping in time, and he kept walking around watching everyone, seeing that each man got into each exercise. These were not ordinary exercises, either. They were movements that brought to life new muscles, that took hold of you in queer places, exercises the like of which the Kid had never done before. The squad lay on their backs, bending their torsos up and down, kicking the right leg sideways, the left leg sideways, turning almost completely over, coming back, fast, faster, as the little man shouted his commands. Above the hot sun of Florida began the process of conditioning. Sweat poured down their faces, grunts and gasps became louder and louder, yet that demon in the undershirt and white pants kept them going steadily. No letup.
“One-two, one-two, twist, turn, one-two, one-two...”
Half an hour of this torture and then they rose for another thirty minutes of drill with wands. The first exercises they had taken on their backs, but this one they did upright. Holding long wands by each end they slipped them over the back of their necks, and knelt, turned, twisted, and bent to the orders of another leader, a tall, dark-haired man who also knew his business. He too was pitiless, he also roared his commands without giving them a moment to breathe between exercises.
“Dip, bend, dip, bend, dip, left, right, get together there, you men in the last row... dip, bend, left, right...”
The sun beat upon them. The sun sank into their necks and faces. It was warmer at eleven-thirty than at ten-thirty, and so were they. One fat man collapsed completely and slunk into the clubhouse to the sound of jeers. Others coughed, wheezed, and puffed through the exercises, somehow, anyhow. The Kid wondered whether he could last. He wanted terribly to stop, felt like throwing it all up, like going home, but yet he held on. The torture never seemed to end, always that eternal “One-two, one-two, now up, down...” until at last the welcome words: “All right, you men. Coupla brisk laps and you’ll be ready for practice.”
Ready for practice! The Kid was ready to quit.
Following the two laps came a pepper game. Behind home plate and lined up against the backstop of the grandstand the squad spread out in two lines some thirty feet apart. Now the Kid had often taken part in pepper games, so-called, but this was different. This was the real thing and no mistake. One line was armed with bats. The other line threw the ball and the batters smacked it back at them with all their force. You had to be quick to avoid that deluge of balls coming at you from a distance of thirty feet. They came smack at your face, over your head so you had to leap for them, at your toes, the ball taking a wicked bound as you got down to it, and as soon as you had thrown it, there it was back at you. Moreover, balls of the men on either side came your way and often you were catching one ball and dodging another. It was speed, speed, speed. No wonder a player was through in a few years.
In ten minutes the Kid ached all over. Never before had he realized the difference between big-league ball and the bush league variety. If you lived through six weeks of this sort of thing you were a ballplayer.
It was several days before he really got a chance to warm up. His catcher was a brown-eyed, older man with a nice face who smiled agreeably as they started tossing the ball back and forth. The Kid threw a few easily, but the exercises had stiffened him up, for there was a slight twinge in his arm above the elbow. Or was it merely the fact that those muscles had not been used since the previous fall? He pushed the ball and glove automatically under his left armpit and began rubbing his right arm vigorously.
Instantly the catcher walked quickly toward him. “Arm sore?”
“Not sore exactly, seems a little weak....”
“All right. That’s not such a bad sign the first few days. Throw some from here.” He was standing about half the regulation distance of sixty feet, and the Kid tossed him the ball. This was easier. He threw another, and another at the short range. Before long the twinge was gone. His arm felt looser the more he pitched, and inside of ten minutes he was able to put a little steam into it. The catcher motioned him. “Now try it from here again.” And he went back the regulation distance to the plate sunk into the ground. “But be sure and take it easy.”
The longer distance didn’t bother him at all, for his arm was warm now and the muscles limbered up. He felt easier the more he pitched, but he realized that the first few weeks he’d have to go slow. Pretty soon the catcher came up, the ball in his mitt. There were men pitching on both sides and the Kid presumed he had done something wrong and was going to be called. But the brown-eyed man smiled.
“Show me how you hold that ball.”
The Kid showed him. “All right. That’s fine if it’s comfortable and you’re used to it. But just try it this way a few times. You’ll soon find you get lots more stuff this way.” He held the ball with his two forefingers over the top seam. “Try this now, and see how it goes.”
Yes, to his surprise he had more stuff. His control was better. The catcher grinned approvingly. “See how it helps? You can do things with a ball that way.” He walked halfway to the box, then turned. “Hope you don’t mind my telling you. My name’s Leonard. I’ve been catching in this League almost twenty years.”
The Kid felt embarrassed. His mouth was hot and dry and his voice broke as he answered. Mind? This certainly wasn’t his idea of the big leagues, a veteran catcher being considerate with a young rookie, taking all that trouble with a pitcher who might last a few weeks in training camp. “Mind? No... I sh’ld say not. I’m much obliged. It’s better, that grip.” The catcher nodded and tossed him the ball. For twenty minutes more they continued until stopped by a fierce whistle from the dugout.
“That’s enough out there... you pitchers... c’mon in and get some batting practice.”
“Try that again tomorrow,” said the catcher. “See, when you get that twist over the seam you’re able to put more stuff on the ball, understand? Throw it at his knees.”
The Kid thanked him and went for his bat. His own beloved bat. He found it and stood behind the screen waiting his turn at the plate. Pitching he liked, but batting he loved. He loved the sensation of outguessing another man in the box, of catching a fast one cleanly on the nose and cracking through a hole in the infield, loved even the hearty swing when he missed a curve. He took his place in the batter’s box. The pitcher wound up, he swung... and missed....
There was a low outside ball and then he got a good, full smack and sent it screaming into deep right center. The next he caught on the nose too, a deep fly, a deep ball to right... no... a couple of fielders were backing up... over the fence. Short, that fence, only 275 feet. But over nevertheless.
The pitcher rubbed up another ball. He was a tall, rangy, powerful fellow, a fresh rookie, anxious to show something. He looked at the plate a few seconds, nodded to the catcher, wound up... and... it came at the Kid’s head. He swung back and away, tripped clumsily over his bat and fell sprawling on the ground. Someone behind the cage said something, and there was laughter. So they thought he was scared? Well, he was. He picked himself up, got his bat from the ground where it had rolled, then, flushed and hot, stood up again at the plate. The ball came high once more, and he caught it cleanly. Back it went, back... back... and over the center field fence, the farthest from the plate.
Kid from Tomkinsville Page 2
