Keystone Kids

by John R. Tunis

  Bob made one bad error in the second game against the Giants, dropping a quick throw from the pitcher which would have picked a man off second. The man scored later and the Giants won the game, and for a few days the fans were muttering that the boy certainly booted that one. But in the next game and the game after, which they won, the pair were the Russell boys again.

  Spike, tall, lean, was cutting down liners in deep short that a smaller man would never have touched; Bob was darting here and there, like an insect, stopping hot ones behind the bag and then racing out to steal hits between his position and first base. When the big behemoths came roaring down the basepaths, looking as they crashed in like human locomotives, Bob never gave an inch; in fact, he even went out to meet them.

  The boys were playing good ball. Of course they were playing good ball; at last they were happy. For they were together as a pair, they understood each other and each other’s method of play. Best of all, no shadow of a possible separation hung over them because both felt that with the chance to prove what they could do, they’d never be split again. Chances came often, and they took advantage of them.

  There was the series against the Cubs, in the first game of which Mallard, ever a dangerous pitcher, was facing the Dodgers. Going into the eighth, Brooklyn had worked into a three to nothing lead, but the eighth was almost always a dangerous inning for an old-timer like Rats Doyle, in the box for the Dodgers. Accordingly as the inning started Crane gave the warm-up signal, and two pitchers rose in the bullpen and began firing to their catchers. Just as well, for a base on balls was followed by a sacrifice and a two-bagger that sent Roy Tucker scurrying to the fence. One run over and a man on second. Big Elmer McCaffrey lumbered across the field and Rats, throwing his glove in disgust to the ground, walked off to the showers.

  Elmer was ordered to pass the next man, a good hitter, and there were runners on first and second with only one out. The next batter hit a grounder past McCaffrey in the box, a slow roller which had to be picked up on the run with precious little time in which to do it. Spike was forced to “grab it by the handle” and let it go, for it was one of those plays in which half a step either way meant the decision.

  Advancing for the ball, he knew it was impossible to make the long throw to first and, scooping it up, he tossed it underhand toward his brother who was racing in to second from his position on the grass. Bob came in a few steps ahead of the runner, caught the ball on the dead run just as he reached the bag and, without pausing, shot it to Harry Street on third. The whole thing was one movement done in an instant. The Cub runner from second had turned the corner at third and was several paces off the base before he saw what was coming. He dove for safety. Too late. A doubleplay and the side was out.

  Now that Bob was on the team he felt completely sure of himself. He was the first man out for practice in the morning, the last man dressed in the afternoon, so tired he could hardly put his clothes on, so tired that after dinner he wanted only to lie down and sleep. For he was giving all the time, giving with strength and nervous energy, and his pep and chatter around second base were a tonic both the infield and the whole team badly needed.

  The fans observed at once how the team snapped back. From fourth place they moved to third as the season drew to a close. The whole squad began making plays they hadn’t been making for weeks. That combination around second was a shot in the arm to every man on the club. The team noticed it; so did the bleachers; so did the sportswriters who followed them from day to day.

  “These Russell boys,” wrote Jim Foster in the Times, “are as different as chalk and cheese. They’re both baseball rookies making their first appearance in the big leagues; they’re both good, and there the resemblance ends. Spike, the elder, is quiet and conscientious; Bob, the younger, is rowdy and raucous. Besides being Ginger Crane’s solution to the infield problem that has been bothering the little manager all season, both boys have the ability to make the tough ones look easy. They’re the cuffs on the trousers to the rooters, and this kid Bob is poison to left-handed lowball hitters. These Dodger freshmen may turn out to be one of the finest keystone combinations in baseball.”

  8

  WINTER. SNOW WAS FALLING that evening in mid-February when Spike got back after work to their room in Mrs. Hampton’s boarding-house on McGavock Street to find Bob triumphantly waving a telegram.

  “It’s from him, from Jack MacManus! Says he’s passing through town next week and wants to see us about the contract. Gee, Spike, I sure hope we can fix things up. It looks like you were right after all.”

  As the business manager of the pair, Spike had confidence in his dealings with the Dodger management that was not entirely shared by his brother. Before leaving Brooklyn last fall he had consulted Fat Stuff at some length as to what kind of a contract they should ask for the next season. The veteran’s opinion was that the Dodgers’ Keystone Kids deserved a substantial raise.

  “What’d you boys knock down this year?”

  “I was paid on a basis of three thousand five, and Bobby three straight,” answered Spike, talking baseball figures to the old pitcher.

  He thought a while. “Well, let’s see. The team finished up in third place, and you boys both had more than a little to do with our standing. Judging by your play out there, I’d say you were worth considerable more next year. Guess you oughta double it, say fifteen. Split it anyway you like—or they do.”

  But the contracts that arrived unsigned in Nashville shortly after Christmas called for a five thousand dollar salary to Spike and four to Bob. Somewhat to Bob’s distress, Spike insisted on returning them immediately, unsigned, with a polite letter. “There’s some guys think it’s fine to holler and curse the management, but I think we’d be smart to leave Ginger an out.”

  “Yeah, an’ suppose they don’t take the out. Suppose they don’t come back at us.”

  “They will,” Spike assured him. “They got to. They don’t expect you to sign the first contract; they just send it out in hopes, that’s all.”

  He was correct. The contract was returned with a raise of a thousand dollars apiece, making eleven thousand in all. Once again Bob was worried. Not Spike.

  “No, sir, we’re in a strong position. They need us bad out there round second base, and they know it. Besides, we got a leverage on ’em; we can make a living outside of baseball and they realize it. You got a good electrical job, haven’t you? O.K., and I can always work in the L. and N. freight house. We got something to bargain with, boy.”

  “But we don’t want to do that; we don’t want to work here in Nashville. We wanna play baseball.”

  “Sure we do. But we can if we hafta, see? Point is, they need us bad. Now just sit tight and wait and see.”

  The contract went back unsigned.

  Three days later a telephone call came for Spike in the Louisville and Nashville freight house where he was working. It caught him when the boss and three helpers were able to listen with interest. They only heard Spike’s answers but they got enough to understand the meaning of the conversation.

  “Spike?” It was the taut, aggressive voice of Ginger Crane. “Spike, let’s get down to brass tacks. How much do you boys want anyhow?”

  “We want fifteen, Ginger, split any way you folks like up there.”

  “Wow! Boy, have you got a nerve! For a couple of rookies in the big leagues, you got your gall. When I broke in with the Senators in ’35...”

  Spike knew that record. “Yeah? This boy Wakefield, the kid who signed with the Tigers, got forty-two five,” he answered in baseball terminology, hoping the railway men around wouldn’t get it.

  “What say? I don’t believe it. Those are newspaper figures. At any rate, you boys haven’t proved a thing so far, not a thing...”

  “Nothing except we made eighteen double-plays that last month.”

  “What’s that mean? Now that Ed Davis’s arm is mended, I probably shan’t use your brother except as a utility infielder next season.”

&nb
sp; “Well, Ginger, that’s what we feel we’re worth—fifteen.”

  “O.K., Spike, you know your own business best. I’d be mighty sorry to see you go, but that’s how things are. So long, and good luck to you both.”

  He hung up. The click of the telephone had an impressively decisive tone that was unpleasant to hear, and Spike turned back to the open-mouthed freight-hands feeling unusually foolish.

  Three or four days later a telegram arrived informing them that the raises were revoked. This really bothered both boys. What did that mean? They decided that it meant that if they signed now they’d have to do so at the figures of their original contracts—five and four thousand respectively. With difficulty Spike withstood his brother’s pleas to write for a contract and sign immediately. A week later he was glad he hadn’t weakened. A letter came from the manager saying he had no authority to treat further with them, and that from now on negotiations were in the hands of Jack MacManus, the fiery-tempered owner of the Dodgers. The letter didn’t describe him that way, however.

  No word came from that worthy, either, for almost ten days, and then late in January, when they were both worried and having trouble getting to sleep at night, a telephone call caught them one evening at the boarding-house. Spike took the call, wondering just which MacManus he would find at the other end. There was MacManus genial and charming; MacManus aroused and crazy mad; MacManus eager and attentive; MacManus keen and sober; MacManus keen and not so sober. He was truly a man of moods. He could be agreeable and friendly, as he had been when they’d first come up, and in two minutes he could be as cold as ice.

  To Spike’s relief, MacManus was in his genial mood. “I really oughtn’t to do this, but I’m fond of you boys and, confidentially, I’m going to break one of our club rules. Those raises are back in your contracts.”

  Spike was pleased by this generosity but somehow managed to keep his self-control.

  “Yessir. Thank you very much indeed, sir.”

  “Then it’s settled?”

  “Nosir.”

  “What d’you mean, no?”

  “Insufficient moolah, Mr. MacManus. We got good jobs down here; we can live on what we earn. And I feel we’re worth fifteen to the club, sir.”

  Would he get mad? Would he rant and roar?

  Would he bellow and call names over the phone? Not at all.

  “O.K., Spike,” he replied in his suavest tone. “I’m terribly sorry. I always liked you two boys, fine type of fellows, kind of lads we like to have on the club. But this is your last chance. Come now, don’t you want to take a few days to think things over?”

  “We have, sir.”

  “All right, all right. That’s everything I’ve got to say then.” Once again the telephone clicked decisively.

  More unpleasant was the arrival of a letter which followed immediately. It was a nice letter, too nice in fact. The genial and charming MacManus wrote that they would both be missed next summer on the team. But after all business was business, so he wished them good luck in their new venture.

  “What new venture?” snorted Bob. “Now then, see what you’ve done! You sure pulled a boner this time. He’s through with us; he’s washed us up. Because why? Just on account you’re so doggoned stubborn. You held out for a few thousand and where are we? We’re out, that’s where we are!”

  Spike, too, was upset this time. He simply wouldn’t have believed it, and somehow even yet it didn’t make sense. He knew enough baseball to realize that Ed Davis with his arm at its best was not as good a man as Bob around second, not from any angle. And they needed a fast pair at that keystone sack if they hoped to overhaul the Pirates or the Cards, who were also improved. The fans liked them, too, the fans were for them, the fans and the writers as well.

  “Shucks, I b’lieve he’s stalling. If he isn’t, he isn’t. We must sit tight, Bob. We aren’t through, not by any means. Nine thousand is just fishcakes; so is eleven. Maybe Grouchy will take us on. I hear they’re talking of Grouchy as manager for the Cards next season.”

  But both boys spent some bad nights for a week until suddenly a wire arrived from Buffalo, New York. “HAVE A CHANCE TO BUY YOUR CONTRACTS STOP WOULD YOU PLAY WITH US PLEASE REPLY BY WESTERN UNION COLLECT IMMEDIATELY REGARDS STEVE O’HARE MANAGER.”

  Bob agreed at once to Spike’s reply, “IF WE WOULDNT PLAY WITH THE DODGERS WE CERTAINLY WOULDNT PLAY WITH BUFFALO SPIKE AND BOB RUSSELL.”

  Then followed another week of uncertainty and suspense until the telegram came from MacManus, who was on his way South, saying that he would stop off en route. Now Bob began to feel that possibly Spike’s tactics had been correct. But he was extremely nervous as they both went upstairs in the elevator of the Andrew Jackson that evening to the boss’s room, Spike in his working overalls, Bob in the clothes he wore on his electrical job. This was the older brother’s idea. He wanted the owner of the club to see they weren’t fooling.

  That evening it was the genial MacManus, agreeable, affable, putting them at their ease, remembering they didn’t smoke, pouring out double cokes for them; in short, Mac at his most charming. Two contracts were spread out on a table in one corner of the room. Evidently this time he meant business.

  He lighted a cigarette. “Now, boys, I’m going to be frank with you; I’m going to put my cards on the table and take you both behind the scenes so you’ll understand why we cannot under any consideration pay you more than eleven thousand dollars. Let me explain. These figures I’m telling you are seen by no one except the owner and stockholders of the club. They concern things you maybe never thought about, you probably didn’t even know.

  “Boys, we get, as the visiting team, twenty-three cents for every customer when we’re away from home. We pay out twenty-three cents for every customer to all visiting clubs at Ebbets Field. Those are National League rules. We have nothing to say about them. Now where does all the money we take in go? Last year we played to a million here at home and over a million on the road. Well, we spent $180,000 on salaries, yours and Fat Stuffs and Razzle’s and the Slugger’s and the rest. That doesn’t count what we pay our manager, the Doc, the rubbers, the clubhouse boy, and so forth and so on. Then we spent $19,856 for railroad fares. You travel well, don’t you, boys? Yep, and that costs us money. Your uniforms were worth exactly $4,626. We spent $8,111 for baseballs. Your bats alone cost the club $632.”

  He spoke the words slowly, rolling over the figures on his tongue.

  “I made out a check the other day to the Brooklyn Laundry for $6,789 for cleaning your uniforms, your underwear, and the towels. Away from home your hotel bills amounted to $17,146.”

  He was certainly a wonderful man. Figures rippled from his lips as he continued.

  “And so on. You like a nice, good bounding ball, don’t you, Spike, when you get set out there at short? You, too, Bob? So do the other boys. O.K. Our sprinkler system to keep the grass fresh and the turf solid so you’ll get good bounds meant $10,000 last summer. Know what the lights cost? About $1,000 a month. I spent two-fifty grand repairing the stands and having the posts sunk in concrete last year. Then there’s the amortization, depreciation, ushers’ wages, groundkeepers, loss due to rain...”

  Bob was dazed by this Niagara of figures. So, too, was Spike. But not completely. He interrupted the owner. “Yessir, yessir, I can see you have to spend a lot of money.”

  He suddenly produced a bill from his pocket and extended it toward the business man.

  “Mr. MacManus, sir, here’s a five spot if it’ll help you any.”

  MacManus started in his chair. He would either lose his temper or laugh heartily at himself. There was a moment of tension in the room, broken by his explosion of merriment.

  He roared with laughter. “Spike, you’re a card! Well now, boys, what do you say? This’ll give you an inside, a really inside picture of the situation. You both started well for us but, of course, we have to recognize that you slumped a bit there toward the end.”

  “Yessir. And we made forty-
eight doubleplays while we were up with the club, Mr. MacManus. That’s... that’s...”

  By the expression on his face, Spike saw the owner had been talking with Ginger Crane.

  “Doubleplays! Doubleplays! Do doubleplays get a man on first? Hits win ballgames. Now, boys, I’m sure we understand each other. I’ve got just so much money, and even if you made a doubleplay in every chance you handled I couldn’t pay you five cents more. I’ve put back those ups in your contract; that means eleven between the two of you. But I want to be generous, I want to do the right thing by you. I appreciate you did a good job jumping in there the way you both did the end of the season. So suppose we say twelve. That gives you six apiece. Six for both of you, how’s that, hey?”

  He looked at them closely, seeing Bob’s tense, eager expression. What the older boy was thinking and how he would respond to this offer Jack MacManus had no idea nor could his brother, searching that face for a hint, guess either.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, Mr. MacManus,” said Spike at last. “I’d like to be able to sign up but it just wouldn’t be fair to you, sir. We wouldn’t be able to do our best for you.”

  Now MacManus was annoyed. He had made concessions, too many concessions. They’d sign now, by ginger, or else...

  “Boys, this is your last chance. I really mean business.” He looked it, too. His grimness frightened Bob, who turned to his brother.

  “Spike, I think we oughta sign for twelve, don’t you?”

  Then Jack MacManus, a rare judge of human nature, made one of his rare mistakes.

  “O.K. If he won’t sign, how ’bout you putting your John Hancock on that contract, Bob? I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  No one spoke. The silence lasted and lasted.

  “You mean... I should leave Spike, Mr. MacManus?” What was the man saying? Leave Spike and go back up there alone? Not a chance!