Kid from Tomkinsville

by John R. Tunis

  “Oh, I getcha all right. But how about shaking you off?” he said, pulling on a white undershirt and sitting down on the bench to draw up his trousers.

  “Well... use your judgment. Sometimes I like for pitchers to shake me off. Doesn’t mean I’ll always change the sign, mind you. Not at all; but I like to know my pitcher’s doing some thinking out there for himself. If you feel in some particular case you can do better with a curve than the fast one I’ve called for, say so. Okay?”

  The Kid nodded. He pulled on his shirt and leaned over to lace up his shoes, listening carefully all the while with his heart thumping as the older man continued. Yep, they were sure going to use him....

  “... see, I just try to work with the pitcher, and take as much strain off him as possible. Remember I don’t want you bothering about me; I want you to fix your attention on that-there guy at the plate. Two great things in a pitcher are control and confidence. Take old Fat Stuff over there; he hasn’t got a very fast ball, but he has a change of pace and confidence. Also he’s got a great big heart.” Squatting on the floor he looked suddenly up as the Kid put a generous supply of chewing gum in his mouth. That glance went home.

  “Getcha...” he nodded, chewing vigorously.

  “Good. ’S I said just now, sometimes I like for a pitcher, especially a young pitcher, to shake me off. Y’see these hitters going against a kid like you, they’re thinking about me all the time. They realize I know everything about them and their weaknesses; they know I know more than you do. Naturally, been round longer.... Oh, you’ll pick it up, boy. Point is, when you shake me off the batter thinks I’m gonna switch. Only then I don’t... see... I go back to the same sign and the hitter, not knowing this, is looking for something else. Chances are ten to one he’ll only get a piece of the ball and not be able to hit it very good.”

  The Kid nodded and sat down, dressed and ready. Despite his nervousness he began to see the inside of baseball, began to realize its fascination and why it got men like old Fat Stuff who loved the game so much he wanted to stay on as an umpire after he was finished. The older man interrupted his thought by sitting beside him on the bench, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

  “Now these boys we’re playing today. They’re good batters, sure, but most every good batter has some weakness if you can only find it.” The Kid’s fright returned. If they were taking up the individual hitters it could only mean one thing. Gabby was pitching him for part of the game. “Take DiMag,” continued the catcher. “Now when I was with the White Sox his first year we had a pitcher named Dietrich could get him out every time by pitching low. Fact. We got him every time for three games in a row, and then one day...”

  “What’d he do then?”

  The catcher laughed. “I hate to tell you. He got to a low ball and hit it into the back of the Yankee bullpen, longest hit I ever saw. When he comes up, well, keep ’em high and inside to him. And pray. He isn’t hitting so good now anyhow. It’s too early for him. Now then, this man Dickey. There’s a dangerous batter. Keep it away and outside, and be sure you do. Rolfe? Well... a change of pace sometimes fools him badly. Let’s try Gordon on a slow outside ball. If he connects during the game, why, we’ll try something else. Baseball’s a game of guessing; get me, you’re in there trying hard to throw to their weakness, and the batter is in the box trying to outsmart you. And I’m helping, don’t forget.... One thing more. If you get ahead, keep bearing down. This boy Nugent lets up, passes a couple of men as soon as he gets ahead, becomes careless and loses a game he oughta won. The boys don’t like it. Keep bearing down all the time.”

  The Kid was nervous. There were little beads of sweat on his forehead as the catcher rolled those great names over casually: DiMag, Rolfe, Dickey; but despite his fear at the idea of facing the best team in baseball in his debut in the big leagues, that warm, friendly face and those smiling brown eyes reassured him. If he did go in, Dave would be there behind the plate, coaching, helping, pulling him along. There was a twinkle in those eyes which radiated confidence. It helped.

  Then suddenly a door banged. Gabby entered, red-faced and perspiring from batting practice.

  “Now then... you men...” he rasped. The room instantly became alert. By this time the Kid had learned some things about a big-league ballclub, and one was that not every man on the squad loved everybody else. Certainly Gabby was a slave-driver. But when he talked they listened.

  “Last game now, you fellas. We beat those babies four times and Mac is awful anxious to sweep the Series today. I want you all in there scrapping, and I want plenty of holler... and bite, too. Remember you can’t get a hit with your bats on your shoulders, and you can’t get runs being nice boys out there on the bases. Jake, I want you and Rats and that kid, where is he, young Tucker... oh, there you are... I want you fellas to warm up....”

  The Kid felt as if everyone in the room was looking at him. Almost everyone was, too. Yep, he was going in. He flushed as faces turned his way, and hardly heard the last bitter-sharp words of their leader ending his charge.

  “... C’mon now, gang, some pepper out there.... Le’s go....”

  Snatching their gloves from benches and lockers, the squad turned toward the door. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack their spikes sounded on the concrete runway leading from the dressing room to the field.

  9

  THE CROWD STAGGERED HIM. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in mid-April, and a soft spring sunshine flooded the diamond. Ordinarily he would have been anxious to pitch, but the mob jammed the lower stands, peered over from the second story, and even filled the bleachers in left center, was terrifying. He had never seen such a crowd before, and as he warmed up between Jake and Rats Doyle, he felt suddenly weak. The aisles even were full, and still more people were coming in every minute, and he could see them filling the boxes as he hurled his fast ball into that waiting mitt.

  “Gosh, Rats, how many does this park hold? You know?”

  Chewing energetically, the man beside him wound up, threw the ball, and grunted between his teeth. “Oh, this way it’s close to capacity, I guess.”

  “How many is that?”

  “Thirty thousand. Thirty-two maybe. With the deadheads. And if they fill those second story stands up there.”

  They were filling. Thirty thousand watching a game! The fans were in good humor, too. They were shouting and calling out to Swanson, the center fielder, who had won the day before with a double in the ninth, they were yelling to Gabby Gus as he pranced round short, to Red Allen, the first baseman. But they seemed to be asking for something, for there was a note of insistence in the sound of their voices. A murmur ran round the stands, died away, and broke out again.

  “Say... Rats... I’m sure glad I’m not starting today. Front of that gang...”

  “What’s the difference, boy? Crowds don’t mean a thing. You’ll get used to ’em soon enough. That’s the trouble; then you’ll get so you need ’em same as I do.” He wound up and threw the ball. “Some guys hate it when the gang’s out there, but me, I don’t like to play to empty stands. This-here-now-crowd all steamed-up-like, makes me feel I wanna go.”

  Funny, thought the Kid. Imagine a man anxious to get out there against the Yanks in front of those packed stands. He felt heartily glad it wasn’t his turn, for the crowd was still coming and there were still those queer insistent shouts from the bleachers.

  “What’s that yelling? What are they hollerin’ about, Rats?”

  “Them’s the loyal rooters back of first. They want young Street to go in. They’re hollering for Gabby to shove Street in... at that he might let the boy have a few innings today.”

  A sudden panicky feeling ran up and down the Kid’s spine. Maybe he’d shove me in. No, unlikely, because it was Jake’s turn to pitch, and besides, the veteran was always effective against the Yanks. Then the bell clanged and the Dodger fielders rose from the dugout to take the diamond as the three pitchers walked in. Gabby came toward them.
r />   “Whaddya say, Tuck old boy? ’Bout ready?”

  “Who? Me? You want me... want me to start in there, Gabby?” He looked for Jake, but his waddling form was nearing the dugout, pulling on his jacket, his chunky legs churning the ground, his huge arms swinging outwards. Jake must have known all the time. The Kid was seized with a terrible fright; why, he’d make a fool of himself. He’d be a joke out...

  “Sure, I want you in there. Remember this is just an exhibition. Get out and do your best; never mind the crowd. They’re pulling for you hard.”

  He yanked his glove desperately from his hip pocket and started toward the box. Someone slapped him hard on the back and ran past into the field... Harry Street! Harry was playing short in place of Gabby. A roar greeted him as he neared the mound, for the fans were anxious to see him even if he wasn’t anxious to see them. Nervous, timid, uncertain, he rubbed the ball in his hands and threw it. Old Leonard stood smiling behind the plate. The first ball was high and wide, but the second burned across into his mitt, and the old catcher grinned as he tossed it back. The Kid put more into the next and the next. Now his confidence was returning. Leonard nodded; he nodded back....

  MacManus was tired. He had flown out to Kansas City to see a young third baseman play, jumped another plane to Nashville the same night for a conference with his farm manager, taken the air again to return to New York, been grounded in Pittsburgh in a storm, and reached Brooklyn by train early that morning. But no one would have guessed he was tired. Apparently he had as much vitality as ever, sitting behind his desk attending to a hundred details; now leaning back in his chair and tossing his horn-rimmed glasses on the desk, now yanking his feet back suddenly to the floor, pressing the buzzer, reaching for the telephone, banging it down, and pounding his fist into his palm to emphasize a point he was making to the visitor in front. Seated with him was Jim Casey who after a few innings of the game had dropped into the office to watch the fiery owner’s reaction to the latest insult of his rival, the Giant manager.

  “No, I haven’t seen a paper. We were grounded in Pittsburgh yesterday by that storm, and I took a train, so I was late getting in and haven’t had a chance to look at the sports news. What’s more, I’ve got nothing to say... nothing....”

  But Casey knew his man. He continued as if he hadn’t heard the last remark. “Murphy was sounding off yesterday when he heard you won that game against the Yanks in the tenth. Said he guessed the Dodgers must be pretty good. Said the team that beats Brooklyn will win the pennant this year.”

  A flush of red came over the other’s face. He half rose, leaning over toward the sportswriter and pounding the table. “Why... why, that big... why, the big bum... the Giants... Say, those guys will be lucky to keep ahead of Philadelphia. And you can say I said so, too.... Lemme tell you something...” The telephone interrupted him. It was a long conversation and when he had finished, the sportswriter changed the subject. He had just what he’d come for.

  “Seems to me, Jack, like this fogger out there might turn into something. He seems to have pretty good control for a rookie.”

  “Yeah... yeah, he may be a ballplayer in a couple of years. Know how I happened to land him, don’t you? You don’t? I was up there in Waterbury after Simpson, their shortstop, and this here kid from some hick town was in pitching. He pitched six innings and that was enough for me. I says to their manager, I said... Excuse me...” The telephone jangled again. “Yeah, I’ll talk... put him on.... Hullo, Hank... Sure. How you? Pretty good, thanks.... Well, we got a hustlin’ ballclub; tha’s more than we had last summer. No, can’t say much more right now. What’s that? No, I haven’t heard Murphy’s last crack, and what’s more... he says... What?... If we play night baseball... He did, hey?... Well, you get this straight.... Just say we started night baseball; so let him stop popping off about us and mind his own business. That’s all. We’ll look out after ourselves. G’by....” He slammed the telephone back on the little table at one side, a table ornamented by three different receivers. “Murphy! Popping off again. Says the Dodgers may finish in the second division if they play enough at night ’cause no one else can see the ball. Say, you know that guy gives me a pain in the neck. Well, I was telling you about this lad Tucker. He sure is one hustling ballplayer and don’t you forget it either. One day at Clearwater I came down early to practice and he was all dressed and out with Charlie Draper and a couple of the boys. I heard ’em talking. Charlie was hitting fungoes to ’em, and pretty soon this kid pipes up. ‘Man, you can’t hit fungoes. Lemme hit the ball myself.’ Yessir, it’s a fact; he picks up the bat, hits a fungo, and then runs out into the field, catches it. For half an hour. How’s that for spirit? I wish we had twenty men on the team with pep like that.” The telephone buzzed again.

  “Uhuh... put him on.... Hello, Tom... he did... it is... okay... keep me posted....” There was a roar from outside which penetrated the quiet little room. “Fine. Good. Well, I think he ought to stay in; give him confidence, and that’s what he needs most of all. But Gabby’ll have to use his own judgment.” He slammed back the telephone and turned with a satisfied grin to the visitor. “Nothing to nothing, end of the fifth, and the Yanks haven’t had a man on second yet....”

  Out on the field the Kid hardly knew what to do. If he didn’t tip his cap it might look fatheaded, but then it might be that stop of Red Allen’s, the first out of the inning, or the line drive back of second Harry nabbed. He couldn’t tell what they were yelling about, but as he crossed the first base line toward the dugout he knew they were cheering his pitching, so he touched his cap awkwardly and hurried in as fast as he could. All up and down the long bench came warm-hearted words, often from friends and often also from men who were trying for the same position, who saw themselves shunted off to the minors or even out of a job if he kept on as he was going. Nevertheless they meant what they said.

  “Thassa way to pour it in, Roy old boy....”

  “That’s throwing that old tomato, Roy....”

  “Now you’re showing those big stiffs something, Kid. That’s the way to chuck ’em.” And Doc Masters, who three weeks before at Clearwater had hardly noticed a bad blister which prevented him from running, now jumped up quickly and came over where he was sitting. Squeezing in unceremoniously, he started massaging his arm and asking how he felt.

  “You’re up after Swanson, Tuck,” called someone. He reached for his favorite bat when a roar rose from the stands. It was a long clean hit deep into center field and all three fielders were scurrying for it as the batter, head down, rounded first and started for second. The roar changed into a groan, followed by applause. The New York fielder had nabbed the ball out by the fence, shutting out a sure three-base hit.

  “He certainly can pound that old pea,” someone behind him remarked.

  Disgusted, the batter came back to the dugout and as he passed the Kid:

  “Nuts... That was robbery....”

  The Kid walked up to the plate. There was some scattered applause as he stood facing the man in the box. From behind in the dugout and on the coaching lines came calls for a hit. He yanked his cap down over his eyes and waited. The first ball caught the outer edge... a strike. Cries of derision came across the infield as, face flushed, he stood watching the motionless man on the mound. This one he’d hit. If it was any good at all he’d clout it... he’d...

  Nearing first he caught Charlie Draper waving him frantically on, and he came into second standing up, rounded the base, and started for third when he saw Gabby on the coaching lines yelling him back. Digging in his spikes he slid to a stop, turned, and retreated toward second. The ball came swift and low to third, and he would have been out even with the best of slides. Standing triumphantly on second, he watched the pitcher and catcher consulting between home and the box, their heads together. That was the same pitcher, he reflected, who had won two World Series games the previous fall.

  The crowd was standing to yell and the noise warmed him all over. Now they’d have to ke
ep him. They couldn’t send him to Nashville or some farm team now. His mind went back a month when, lonesome and homesick, he looked forward to a chance with Nashville as the greatest possible success to be obtained. Today Nashville would have seemed failure. Funny how a few weeks changed the picture. Back of Gabby on the coaching lines three photographers were kneeling to catch him as he rounded third for the plate, to snap him, the Kid from Tomkinsville who shut out the mighty Yanks for six, seven, innings it was, without a hit. He turned to glance at the scoreboard and the string of zeros beside the word VISITORS. Nothing to nothing, the end of the seventh, and Karl Case, a good steady hitter, at bat. This might well be the winning run. Never had he felt surer, never more confident, and instead of tiring as the game went on he was so completely master of the ball, he knew he could pitch all afternoon that way if only Dave Leonard stood there, steady and helpful at the other end.

  Case was waiting. The Kid returned to life, danced off the bag, watched the pitcher turn and eye him, darted back as the shortstop veered toward the bag. Two balls. A walk. One strike. Three balls. Case flung his bat toward the dugout and started for first. Now Red Allen approached the plate swinging the bat in his hands. Now, he thought, be ready; Red will hit it. But all the time in the back of his mind was the one big thought: shut them out, shut them out, shut them out....

  Bang. The whole field was running. Everyone was running and everyone was shouting. Hang it, he was on his heels when he should have been on his toes, for it was a hit to deep left center and the Yankee fielders were after it. The Kid dug in his spikes, feeling sure he would score, when suddenly as he rounded third an enormous yell came to him. Roscoe, the man who caught that first hit, had made another impossible catch; their rally was cut off and that one run lead which looked so big was still to be made. The inning was over, so he slowed down, stopping to save his energy as Dave had taught him, and turning watched the fielder shoot in the ball to the infield. Then there was a queer shout... two or three yells; the second baseman was standing with his arms open on the base, the ball coming in from the field, Gabby with an angry expression....