“Only the game fish swim upstream. Remember that, Roy, when you get back home.” He repeated the phrase, turning it round and round in his mouth as the toothpick waggled in tune. “Only the... game fish... swim upstream.... Well” — he rose — “too bad you can’t take it.”
Now he was really mad. Now he was fighting mad. He was mad at old Dave for the first time.
“Can’t I? Says who?”
“I do. Otherwise you’d stay right here and help out a losing ballclub.”
The Kid suddenly stepped forward. He kicked a suitcase clean across the room. His big toe felt the effects of the blow for days afterward. “Dave, you just watch me. You’ll see whether I can take it or not....”
He turned his back and, leaning over, started to throw a mess of dirty laundry onto the floor of the closet. The door shut with a bang. He closed the drawers of the bureau and, catching up a suitcase, flung it back under the bed. Only... the game fish swim... upstream....
16
ANYHOW, HE HAD his job back. That was something.
Curious, too, because he distinctly remembered old Mr. MacKenzie telling him in a sharp voice that he “wasn’t keeping the place open for no ballplayers.” There had been scorn in his tone as he mentioned the last word. Yet when the Kid returned it appeared Mr. MacKenzie had said nothing of the sort. Mr. MacKenzie had merely offered to take Jimmy Harrison on until his return. Whatever the facts, the Kid was now famous, and being in the drugstore again didn’t hurt business. Folks came in all day long and stayed. They all knew him and all wanted to know things about the big leagues, and Gabby’s death, and was it true what the newspapers said about Razzle Nugent, and did the Cubs have the best chance for next year, and was this boy Raynor of the Tigers really fast, and a hundred other silly questions. Naturally if they came and stayed, they had to buy something. Maybe Mr. MacKenzie was smart at that.
The Kid had no contract, no way of knowing whether he’d get back on the team or any team anywhere the next season; nevertheless he was the town’s hero. Had he not played big-time ball? Being the town’s hero bothered him because he realized it was extremely likely he would never be called again, and would always be a guy who once played with the Dodgers. This he felt. But he did not act on that feeling. Quite the contrary; he pretended to himself he was sure to go back to baseball, and on this theory he planned his winter.
Grandma thought he was crazy. Anyone who managed to drive a sleigh up the snowy road on the ridge where the going was hard, and saw his device in the barn behind the house, thought he had lost his mind. It looked like a fence, a structure of boards about four inches wide and four feet high, on top of which he placed a baseball. The ball was attached by a string so that when hit it flew away ten yards and bounced back. Standing at right angles to this board he could practice hitting alone.
By the time snow came the road was seldom plowed and he was unable to use his old car going down to work. This he liked. Baseball was part condition; it was speed, speed, speed, and a good deal of the speed was speed of foot. He had walked down before many times, but never run. Now he began running, a slow easy jog trot at first, then faster as he became used to the two and a half mile trip twice a day. The run back at eight-thirty after work in the dark with a cold wind and snowflakes whistling down the road was sometimes hard. But no matter what the temperature, he kept at it; no matter how stormy it was he found time every morning to go for his practice swings to tune up his hitting in the barn.
“Keep your bat level,” Dave had said. That was it, that was the one important thing, keep his bat level. A tendency to keep his right shoulder down, to swing up, was his worst fault. If only that could be corrected, he might some day be a hitter. Standing before the little fence he was obliged to keep his bat level. If he didn’t, if he dropped his bat two inches, he cracked the edge of the wood and almost stung his hands off. Joe and Harry Cousins, the twins who played end on the Luther Jackson High football team with him, and Jess Moore who lived on the farm down the road, often used to drop past and watch. Day after day they found him in the icy barn trying to shorten his stride as Dave had shown him, swinging his bat level. While they stood about in the cold winter air, stomping, rubbing their ears and clapping their hands, he kept steadily at it.
Step... swing... bat level... step... swing... step... swing... bat level... gosh, it’s cold today... step... swing... must be five below... bat level... step... swing... keep that old bat level... step... swing... that... there, that was more like it... now... that was good, that was... now... step... swing... bat level....
While Joe or Harry or Jess secured the ball as it bounced and dangled on the end of the string and placed it once again on top of the wooden barrier. Grandma, sympathetic and understanding at first, shook her head as he came in cold winter mornings wringing wet from his hitting that ball on the little fence. An hour, only one hour, but sixty minutes of continuous batting practice is a long, long while. Mighty tiring, too.
“Roy, you’ll catch your death of cold if you keep on this way. When you have a good job, too, and Mr. MacKenzie such a real nice man....”
The Kid wasn’t so sure about Mr. MacKenzie. Business boomed all winter and he discovered that every day he had a constant stream of questions to answer no matter how often the questioners had been in before. Luckily they were the same questions so he could reply mechanically as he worked.
“Nosuh, ain’t heard a thing yet.... Yessuh, they’re a little late with contracts this year.... No’m, ballplayers are right good boys.... Hard work? You bet it’s hard work.... Razzle Nugent? Oh, he’s a great guy, he is.... No, Tommy, nothing yet.... Oh, mebbe they’ll send me a contract, mebbe they won’t.... You never know... just gotta wait.... Yessir, Gabby was a great ballplayer, lotta pepper, that’s right.... Nosir, I wouldn’t know if he was as good a shortstop as Honus Wagner.... Oh, yes, Mis’ Kennison, guess I did have some bad luck; well, it’s all in the game.... No, Mr. Hawkins, haven’t heard anything yet.... Yessir, I sure am glad to have this job. Yessir, thank you very much, Grandma’s fine....”
It was a cold morning in early January when she heard a knock on the kitchen door, the only door in the house which Grandma allowed open in the winter. Wiping her hands on her apron, for she had been washing the breakfast dishes, she went across the room and opened the door to find Perley Peters, the rural delivery mail carrier. Perley wore his winter costume: a short sheepskin jacket, boots, and a fur cap. His ears were red and so was his nose.
“My goodness, Perley, you look like you was froze. Come right in; come in and have a cup of hot coffee.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do have something hot, Mis’ Tucker. Cold out there on the ridge.” There was a grin on his face which betrayed his interest in the Tucker family and the interest of all Tomkinsville in the boy who had carried the town onto the sports pages of the big city dailies.
“First of all...” He pulled off his fur glove and fumbled in the mail sack slung over his shoulder. “Mis’ Tucker, looks like it’s come at last. Registered, too.”
“Goodness sakes alive!” She hoped and yet she didn’t hope. She hoped for Roy. She knew his disappointment and how bitter it would be not to return to the game, but she didn’t want him to go through another six months’ strain like the summer before. Nor did she want to go through it again herself.
Perley peeled off his second glove and dug into the sack. There it was, attached by a rubber band and several clips to a small red card. They were careful all right, down in the post office.
“See. Brooklyn Baseball Club.” Grandma searched in the pocket of her apron for her reading glasses. She realized as she took the letter that she was as excited as Roy possibly could be. Brooklyn Baseball Club, 215 Montague Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. “My goodness!” She held the letter in her hand as if it were gold, which indeed it was. “My goodness sakes alive....”
“Yep. There ’tis. Now...” He pulled out the little red card from the envelope and handed it to her with a penci
l. "Returnreceiptrequested... sign there....”
Grandma drew herself up.
“No. That letter’s for Roy. Let him sign himself; he hasn’t gone down to work yet. You’ll find him out there practicing with that baseball contraption in the barn.” The mailman put on his cap, buttoned his coat, drew on his gloves, and. taking the letter and the red card, moved toward the door. “Come back, Perley; I’ll put some coffee on to heat.”
Perley opened the door. As he did so a sharp noise entered the kitchen. It was the same noise heard all summer long in a thousand ball parks.
“Crack...” The clean sweet sound of a bat squarely meeting a ball.
Grandma stood, happy and yet not happy underneath. If only they wouldn’t work him to the bone the way they did last summer. She started to put on the coffee, placed the pot on the stove, and removed her reading glasses. Then there was crunching of feet on the snowy pathway to the backyard, the door was swung open, and he burst into the room. In his hand was the opened letter and attached to it was a long green check.
“It’s come, Grandma, it’s come....”
17
IT WAS GREAT TO be back. Hullo, Red, hullo, Karl, hullo, Doc, how are you, anyway, hullo, Ray, hullo, Eddie, hullo there, Fat Stuff, hullo, Jerry, hullo, Rats, hullo, Jake....
Great to be back? You bet it was great to be back. Dave, accompanied by the pitching staff, plus Babe Stansworth and a couple of rookie catchers and the two coaches, Draper and Cassidy, had been limbering up for a couple of weeks at Hot Springs. They were all waiting at Clearwater, as the main group rolled in on various trains from the North and the West.
Great to be back? Sure was great. To see them all once more and feel they were glad to see him too; once more to be a part if only a small and unimportant part of that moving unit, a baseball club. Hullo, Harry, hullo, Tom, hullo, Razzle, hullo, Ed, hullo, Steve, hullo, Mr. Hanson.
Great to be back? Yes, it was wonderful. To eat on the roof of the Fort Harrison again, hearing the familiar chatter across the tables, and Razzle’s voice addressing the waitress as “sweetmeat” and demanding more ice cream. Yes, it was great to see them all, to shake hands with old Chiselbeak in the locker room, who patted him heartily on the back and called him “boy.” Great to be there, to watch the old man hand out uniforms and scold them as usual for not taking care of their stuff. The Kid was glad to see them, everyone down to little Snow White, the pickaninny who was their mascot and bat boy in Clearwater.
Great to be back, to be away from the cold and damp and slush of March on the ridge, away from that job with those everlasting questioners; great to feel the warm Florida sunshine once more on his face and neck, to hear the clack-clack, clackety-clack of spikes on the concrete of the clubhouse porch, to stand in the shower relieving tired muscles and listen to their talk.
“Who was that pitching in batting practice today, Frank—that big feller?”
“That? That was Roger Stinson; used to be with the Cubs. Whad’je do all winter, Jake—hunt? Say, what do you-all hunt in those North Carolina woods? Lions?”
“Nope. Squirrels. Just squirrels, that’s all. I did plenty of squirrel hunting last winter.”
Someone came in and threw himself on a bench. “Phew! I’m tired. Hey, there, Chiselbeak, gimme a Coke. Tired? Yeah, and you’d be tired too if you’d pitched for batting practice twenty minutes and then hit grounders to the infield thirty minutes on top of that!”
“You’d have been in fifteen minutes sooner if Red had only stopped a few.”
“Yeah. I can make him look awful good or awful bad with that-there bat.”
“Hey, Tucker... Roy... you got a new stance, haven’t you... since last year?”
“... and just lemme tell you one thing... He’s good, that rookie is. He’ll give Jerry a battle for his job, you see if he doesn’t. Led off for Knoxville last summer. And has he power! Tells me he can play anywhere in the infield too.”
“Say, Tom, did you see that lad Street today? He warmed up right-handed, and then when they played those three innings he went in and batted left-handed.”
“Yeah. Bingo Murray was like that. He’d bat right-handed against the southpaws and lefthanded against right-handers. That Street may do some hitting this year. Here comes Rats. Hey there, Rats old sock. What’s the matter? Don’t give him a Coke, Chiselbeak; the boys hit him out of the box. How come, Rats?”
“Oh... I dunno. I was wild. You know how it is the start of the season. Besides, the wind out there... it always blows down here in Florida....” A guffaw rose from the showers.
“The wind! The wind, nuts! He’s a lefty, ain’t he?”
“You bet he’s a lefty. Tha’s why umpires wear shinguards.”
Yes, it was great to be back. The long, tiring practice, those hours of punishment were now fun. The Kid loved it all, loved chasing fungoes in the outfield, loved the throwing to bases and the plate, loved most of all the batting practice. His hitting was truer, less spasmodic, and several players noticed it. One evening Dave came up to him in the lobby of the hotel.
“We’ll start the first inter-club game tomorrow. I’m using you at center field on the Yannigans. You boys will have Razzle to start, and then Jake and young Speed Boy Davis, this rookie from Atlanta. I want to see what he really has. By the way, Roy, haven’t you changed your batting stance?”
“Yes, I have, Dave. I practiced all winter, you know. Shortened my stride like you said.”
The manager looked at him a minute. “I thought so. You’re swinging level too. Least, you were every time I saw you this morning.”
“I’m trying to, Dave. You know I like to hit.”
He put his hand on the Kid’s shoulder. “Remember what I always told you, Roy. Any kid who doesn’t pull and isn’t afraid’ll be a good hitter. Don’t you ever forget it.”
Yes, it was great to be back. To be with them all again, to go out to practice and watch Dave on his hams behind the plate, hear him shout:
“All right now, squeeze play.” It was a bunt down the third base line which he had to field to first or second, fast work, and fast work for the basemen too. There was the same speed and the same stress on speed as ever, but there was less pressure on the team because Dave’s methods were different from Gabby’s. He was less of a scrapper, less voluble, quieter; but he was in there every second, watching, missing nothing from his post of vantage behind the plate.
“Wait a minute. What’s the matter with you fellas out there? You oughta run a man down on bases with two throws. If you chuck that ball round it gets hot. Now try it again....”
Perhaps the thing which most heartened the Kid was the morning a robust, sandy-haired and freckle-faced man, in a loud sports jacket and a Panama over his eyes, joined them. He shook hands with everyone on the clubhouse porch, although the Kid didn’t stop as he tromped past to the field for fear MacManus had forgotten him. Later in the morning the great man was sitting in a box and talking to Dave, who was standing below with a bat in his hand leaning against the rail. Roy had been in a pepper game and came near to chase a loose ball.
“Hey... Roy... Roy Tucker... how are you anyhow?”
The Kid picked up the ball and saw the great man smiling at him from the front box. His hand was stretched out. “Say, I’m glad to see you back.” He said it as if he meant it. “Mighty glad to have you back. The old whip okay, is it?”
“Yessir. So long as I don’t pitch, it’s just fine. Doc Masters been all over it; says he thinks it’ll hold up all right.”
“Now, that’s dandy. I’m glad to see you back ’cause you had some pretty tough luck last year. It’s good to know they couldn’t lick you; that’s the kind of a fighting ballplayer we want on this man’s club. Eh, Dave?...”
The old catcher looked at the Kid and the Kid looked at Dave.
“Yes, Mac, we’re expecting him to be useful this season. We want a fighting ballclub and there’s a place for everyone who can scrap.”
The Kid walked back to th
e pepper game in a glow. No wonder everyone on the club was willing to work their heads off for a man like that, to pitch out of turn, to run wild on the bases, to take dangerous chances to win games. Fight? Sure, he’d fight. He’d show ’em. Naturally... there wasn’t any chance of displacing Case or Swanson or Scudder, the three fielders, yet he hoped just what Dave had said: to be useful.
Going back to the pepper game he passed a short, perspiring chap in a white suit with a gray felt hat over his eyes. He was smoking a cigar, had a newspaper folded up under one arm, and his hand in his trousers pocket. Casey.
“Hullo....”
The little chap looked up, surprised, saw one of the team in uniform, and hastily replied:
“Hullo, how are ya?...” It was evident from his inquiring glance he had no idea to whom he was speaking. Ten months before, the chunky man had been writing columns about the Kid and calling him by his first name. Now he couldn’t remember who he was.
“Hullo, Mac... hullo there, Dave.” The sportswriter paused a second because he was out of breath from his dash across the field. He had news, and was anxious to convey it to MacManus himself, and first. “Say, Mac, the office just wired down, wants to know if you’ll take that one!”
“What one?” The Irishman sat erect in his chair, alert and suspicious. He was suspicious of every newspaperman but especially of Casey. “If it’s one of Murphy’s cracks, I’ve nothing to say.”
“Yeah, I know, but here’s what he said about...”
“Don’t care what he said. Tell him to mind his own business and let us mind ours, will you?”
“Sure, sure, I will, Mac. Only this is straight from their training camp. No fooling. He says the team which beats the Dodgers will win the pennant this year.”
Kid from Tomkinsville Page 12
