Kid from Tomkinsville

by John R. Tunis

  Up and down the dugout their voices came as he walked up to the plate.

  “Now, Roy old boy, old kid....”

  “You can do it, Roy....”

  “Save me a rap, Roy....”

  Maguire, the Giant catcher, stood watching and noticed something strange. It looked as if he was whistling. Even through the noise and roar from the stands he heard a distinct whistle. As the Kid came close he heard... “Yankee Doodle.” That Dodger rookie must be going nuts!

  “Ball one.” The welcome words from Stubblebeard behind the bat greeted his ears. He had to get on... had to get on... had to get on...

  The next pitch. He took it. Ball two.

  But the next was a strike and he stepped back to pick up some dirt and rub it on the moist palms of his hands, whistling as he did so. The catcher looked at him queerly.

  “Ball three.” Three and one. The cripple. Should he hit? This was the one to hit. What would he do in the pitcher’s place—shoot it over, of course. This was the one, the one to hit....

  Crack!

  He was off, for he felt in that ring a ball that had carry. The roar as he dashed down toward first told him it was safe, and everything he had, every ounce of nerve and sinew, went into his strain for an extra base. Old Cassidy was shouting, urging him on, but as he rounded the bag Muscles crowded him ever so little, gave him just enough of a body-check to jostle him and throw him completely off stride. He stumbled down the basepath, caught himself, and tore for second. Ten feet away he hit the dirt and with a hooked slide went into the bag. The ball was still in the fielder’s hands as he rose, and but for

  Muscles’ trick he would have had a good shot at third.

  Red Allen came to the plate swinging two bats. Watching, the Kid saw Dave from the dugout give the steal signal with a bunt on the second pitch. Roy had been studying Honeyman all summer with the eyes of a former pitcher. The big left-hander had a peculiar delivery, and whenever he threw a ball to the batter he bent his front knee slightly from the normal position. From his toes, arms outstretched, the Kid concentrated on the man in the box, while the great crowd stood yelling passionately in the stands.

  There it was....

  Down toward third, as Jerry dropped a slow rolling bunt along the base line. The play he knew would be for the out at first. Then as he dug hard into the dirt, a thought flashed through his mind. Here at last was his chance. Like lightning it came to him, the whole play, and here was the one perfect set-up for the thing he had been working on and waiting for ever since his fight with Muscles. This was the moment to take a chance. He raced round third with Charlie Draper on the coaching lines shouting at him to hold the bag. He was twenty-five feet down the path toward home when Muscles, expecting him as usual to turn and dart back for third, drew his arm to throw. Instead the Kid broke for the plate. Muscles bit completely, fired the ball to third, by which time Roy was almost at the plate. He went over standing up and the score was tied.

  23

  IN HER ROOM ON the second floor she sat sewing, the door half open. Downstairs the children had the radio on, but she preferred to be alone. Too much was at stake, too much depended on what happened over in the Polo Grounds that afternoon, and she felt she couldn’t endure the strain of listening to the slow drama on the air.

  “Mother! Mother!” The voice of a little girl at the foot of the stairs drowned for a moment the excited tones of the announcer. “Mother! Motherrr... Daddy’s going in!” Her sewing dropped to the floor and she rushed downstairs as his voice filled the sunny living room.

  “... and Stansworth is standing there shaking his head... the fellow’s in pain... Babe Stansworth got that foul tip right on the end of his throwing thumb... yes... he’s chucked his mitt into the dirt... boy, does he hate to leave this ball game... yes, he sure hates to leave... and here comes the bat boy with Dave Leonard’s favorite mask... Leonard, the Dodger manager, man who pulled the Brooks into this amazing under-the-wire drive for the pennant, is going in. The thirty-nine-year-old catcher will take Stansworth’s place behind the bat.... Just hear that roar.... Those fans are giving Dave a big hand as he slips the chest protector over his shoulders.... He pats Stansworth on the back... and now McCaffrey is throwing him a couple of balls, there goes a snap throw to second and a pretty good one too.... The veteran Dave Leonard, leading his own team at the end of this stirring contest, going into the thirteenth inning with the score still deadlocked at three-three. The whole field is in shadow now... this is Luke Cunningham bringing you the crucial game at the Polo Grounds between the Dodgers and the Giants over the Continental Broadcasting System thanks to the courtesy of Starlight Soap, S-T-A-R-L-I-G-H-T....”

  As the inning finished and the Kid trotted in from the field, he realized that Dave was right. He was always right, everlastingly right; Dave, knew baseball like no one else. The season wasn’t over until the last out on the last afternoon. It was the first of the fourteenth, and Roy, leaning on his bat and watching Swanny fly out to the field, realized again that in baseball the impossible could happen. Dave was right.

  When he walked to the plate they rose all over the field cheering. Not for him. Why, only three weeks ago they were razzing him, and the boys in right over at Ebbets Field were booing him between innings. Now they were all for him, on account of that play in the ninth which tied the score, so he tipped his cap as he stepped into the box.

  The pitcher went into the crouch. Low and inside for a ball. Another pitch, by his cap, and Stubblebeard behind the plate yelled,

  “Ball two!”

  Was the pitcher weakening? Outwardly Honeyman looked unruffled, but the Kid knew exactly how he felt and wasn’t surprised to see a hand go to his hip in a gesture of fatigue. Here it was... he swung and missed a curve, a down and inner.

  Two and one. The next was on the outside and in the dirt. He looked at it. Three and one; the cripple. The pitcher’s leg went up and the ball came...

  “Ball four.” He slung his bat away and trotted to first while behind third the cry came.

  “IS BROOKLYN... STILL... IN THE LEAGUE?... IS... BROOKLYN... STILL... IN THE LEAGUE?... IS BROOKLYN... STILL...”

  Red Allen up. Old Cassidy back of first gave him the signal to go down on the second pitch. Muscles made no attempt to crowd him, but he took only a conservative lead until he saw that front knee bend, and then...

  Crack! He was off as the batter swung, rounding second, tearing for third with everything he had. Reaching third he saw them urging him in, so head down he strained for the plate with the run which might win the game. Past third, closer, nearing home, closer, closer, and then ten feet away he saw the catcher waiting, arms open, so he hit the dirt as the ball plunked into the mitt. His momentum carried him ahead into the catcher’s legs with such force that they rolled over and over together in the dust. While the ball fell hopping along the grass.

  From the bleachers in center came the roar. It echoed back from the stands behind the dugout, bounced across from right field stands to left, fifty thousand humans concentrated on that play. The Kid was yanked to his feet by Harry Street, slapped on the back by Karl Case, surrounded by the entire team who emerged from the dugout, dancing and cheering with delight. But Dave, who missed nothing, was cool in the midst of the noise and excitement.

  “Look at yourself, Roy. Go in and get that fixed quick now.”

  He glanced down at his trousers. There was a long tear on one side and warm blood was oozing down his leg. He turned for the dugout as Doc Masters rushed up and grabbed his arm.

  “Come here, we gotta change those pants. Hurry up.”

  While Red Allen danced off second and Harry came to the plate, the substitutes leaned around him on the bench and his trousers were pulled off. Doc swabbed iodine over the wound, a long nasty-looking cut on the upper part of his leg. Then slapping a bandage over it, he pasted strips of tape across his thigh. The cut throbbed painfully, but what did that matter? They were ahead. Four to three. They were leading the Giants!
A minute later he was walking out to right again for the last half of the fourteenth.

  The first batter grounded out to Eddie who came up cleanly and smoothly with the ball as if it were the first out of the opening inning. Only two more men to get! Next came a base on balls. Like Honeyman, McCaffrey was tiring. The Kid knew the signs and could see weariness in his pitching even from the field. Why not? The pitcher had been in six games in two weeks, been pitching for almost seven innings, his second game in three days. McCaffrey was tiring and Dave realized it too. He walked down the path in that feverish atmosphere as quiet and calm as if he had been calling plays at Clearwater in practice. The two whispered together and Dave went behind the bat.

  Crack! On the first ball the batter struck deeply to left. Their heads in their shoulders the two baserunners rounded the bags, while Swanny and Karl hustled after the ball and Harry ran far out behind short. By the time it was back there were men on second and third and only one out. Now Dave’s words came back with an ominous significance. The race wasn’t over until the last out on the last afternoon of the season.

  A roar rose from the stands. McCaffrey was leaving the game.

  The big pitcher threw his glove disconsolately into the dirt and walked in while the crowd stood yelling. Dave slapped him on the shoulders and then through cupped hands yelled to the bullpen. Through the din Fat Stuff waddled across the field.

  Of all people, Fat Stuff! The Kid suddenly saw baseball as if for the first time. The slow good-natured man whom he had always rather pitied because he had only been used this season as a relief pitcher and was on the way out. All summer he’d been the man they sent for when star pitchers got into trouble. Fat Stuff! Old Fat Stuff, the butt of everyone’s jokes, patient, smart, steady, Fat Stuff, of all people! It was Fat Stuff on whom the whole season depended. Now he realized how important a relief pitcher was when crisis came, what a vital cog he was in that machine which is a winning ballclub.

  “Foster, No. 6, pitching for McCaffrey, No. 30, for Brooklyn.”

  It was up to Fat Stuff.

  Down above the lower meadow the sky darkened. Through the kitchen window Grandma could see flashes of lightning in the sky. She poured herself a cup of tea without milk and took it back to the living room. The shadows were deepening in the September twilight, but still that flood of words came from the radio beside her rocking chair.

  “... friends, right now while Foster is taking his warm-up pitches is a good time to ask you a question. Would you turn your back on a thousand dollars? Of course not. And ten other cash prizes of five dollars each. Remember the Starlight soap contest is open to everyone, to all fans who simply tear off the cover of a box of Starlight soap and send in the answer in one sentence. WHY... I... LIKE STARLIGHT... SOAP... Because...” A terrific peal of thunder startled Grandma. She jumped in her chair.

  “That’s all, no fancy writing necessary, anyone can do it. Remember, fans, you all have a chance and don’t forget the name, spelt S-T-A-R-L-I-G-H-T soap. Don’t turn your back on a thousand dollars. Well, here we go back to this great ball game, four to three for the Dodgers in the last of the fourteenth, Muscles Mulligan at the bat, the tying run on third, and the winning run on second. Just hear the Giant fans give Foster the razoo."

  Distinctly the noise came into the living room, fifty thousand pairs of hands together:

  Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap.

  “And here’s the pitch... he takes it... ball two. Foster can’t seem to find the plate.” A roar filled the room, a roar that was only louder than the continuous background of sound that had been coming all through the last minutes. “Strike one... right... down... Broadway... for a called strike....” Outside the lightning was brighter now and the thunder louder. Grandma looked anxiously round to see if all the windows were closed.

  “Mulligan batting from a slight crouch... there it goes... a high twisting foul behind the plate.... Leonard is after it... back... back... almost into the Giant dugout... the New York players are scattering in front of the bench... he has it... HE HAS IT... a wonderful catch... he turns and snaps to Foster at the plate to prevent McKinnon on third reaching home on the play. That was a wonderful catch, what the boys call a ‘dilly.’ Yessir, that old-timer is still in there. Two out, and the winning run on second, four to three for the Dodgers in the last of the fourteenth... and here comes Manager Murphy of the Giants... just hear those Dodger fans back of third there giving him the bird.”

  The cadence entered Grandma’s somber living room.

  “IS BROOKLYN... STILL... IN THE LEAGUE?... IS BROOKLYN... STILL... IN THE LEAGUE?... IS BROOKLYN... STILL...”

  “Foster looks round... Brooklyn infield playing deep... the outfield slightly to the left... and deep.... Foster trying to protect his one-run lead... here’s the pitch....

  “Strike one! A beauty, right through the middle, and Murphy didn’t offer at it.” The roar rose higher. “Guess Murphy didn’t think he had the nerve... here it comes... a ball. One and one. Across the letters, too high. One and one, two out, men on third and second, the last of the fourteenth....

  “Oh, it’s a hit. It’s a hit!” He was yelling, screaming almost, but the tumult was so great he could hardly be heard nevertheless, and Grandma leaned over toward the radio. “It’s a hit, IT’S A HIT, IT’S A HIT, a long drive, was that tagged... and there goes that old ball game. A deep drive to right center... wait a minute... Tucker going over fast... Tucker back... back... back against the fence... he speared it... no... he crashed into the fence....”

  There was a frightful explosion outside and the lights went out, cutting the speaker short.

  Rain descended. It poured down against the windows, beat on the roof which Roy had covered with the first money he had earned from baseball. In the Connecticut hills round Tomkinsville the storm struck furiously, and Grandma sat silently in the dark. While in the murky dusk of the Polo Grounds a boy writhed in agony on the green turf of deep right center.

  Dusk descended upon a mass of players, on a huge crowd pouring onto the field, on a couple of men carrying an inert form through the mob on a stretcher, and meanwhile up in the press box, where the lights were on, Jim Casey for the fifth time that afternoon pulled a piece of copy paper from his typewriter and tossed it, a crumpled ball, to the floor. Once again he started a new lead.

  “I’ve followed every game, had thrills, watched last minute finishes in every sport, but the contest at the Polo Grounds between the Dodgers and the Giants yesterday left me with sixty thousand other fans limp, beaten, and exhausted. The Daffy Dodgers are certainly unpredictable. You can never tell what they’ll do, but you can be sure it won’t be the thing you imagined. Paced by a has-been relief pitcher, Foster, with Dave Leonard, who is old enough to be in the Baseball Museum at Cooperstown, behind the bat, this crazy ballclub scrapped, fought, disregarded every rule of the game by running wild on the basepaths, making impossible stops and catches in the field, and finally nosed out the Giants to enter the Series next week by a score of four to three in fourteen innings. Led by their brilliant youngster, ‘Bad News Tucker,’ they went ahead in the fourth, were caught and passed in the eighth, tied the game on a foolhardy bit of baserunning in the ninth, and finally won it by Tucker’s leap into the right field fence to spike Murphy’s homer in the last of the fourteenth.

  “Right now they don’t know the extent of Tucker’s injuries and whether or not he’ll be able to play for the Dodgers in the World Series next week. Just the same, I wouldn’t bet five cents against this cockeyed ballclub when they meet the Yanks...”

  There was a clap of thunder. Rain descended upon the Polo Grounds.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1940, renewed 1968 by Lucy R. Tunis

  cover design by Milan Bozic

  978-1-4532-2119-8

  This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

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  New York, NY 10014

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