Things got so bad that MacManus hired and sent on from New York an Austrian psychiatrist to travel with the team and straighten them out. He was introduced all round as the team physician, this causing no small amount of disgust to Doc, the trainer, who felt he knew as much as anyone about the conditioning of athletes. The psychiatrist’s first rule, that everyone should be down for breakfast at nine-thirty in the morning, did nothing to make the stranger popular with the team. It’s a long while from nine-thirty to game time, and longer still when play is at night. Ballplayers don’t enjoy sitting around a hotel lobby doing nothing all day any more than other people do.
Game after game was dropped and Ginger Crane grew tense. His tenseness, plainly observable by everybody, communicated itself to the entire squad. The moment a pitcher showed signs of faltering he was taken out. The result was a constant procession of men from the bullpen in deep right field to the box and soon afterward to the showers. It made funny reading the next morning in the newspapers to see three, four, or five pitchers in the Dodgers’ box scores. Often a hurler would go in, throw four or five balls, and be replaced. Old Fat Stuff was in the bullpen so much of the time that, as Raz remarked, he got his mail there.
Whereas Grouchy had seldom shifted his fielders, playing them mostly straightaway, Ginger shifted them for every batter, placing them now toward right, now toward left, always trying to outguess the hitters. Sometimes he did. Almost every day the batting order was shaken up. One day you were in the clean-up position, the next in the sixth spot. He played Whitehouse, a substitute, at third for several games when Street fell into a batting slump, and only let Swanson go to bat against right-handed pitching because he hit left-handed. Against left-handers he threw in young Paul Roth, a right-handed batter. When Karl Case went into a batting slump, Ginger put in Clyde Baldwin, a rookie outfielder, to rest the veteran for a week, he said.
The result was to mix everyone up completely. Swanson complained that he hardly got his eye in before he was taken out of the game, and that when he got back it took him several days to get his eye again. No wonder he was batting .218! Red Allen became home-run conscious, and started swinging off his heels at the plate. With the sluggers striking out and hitting pop flies, the Russell boys, who had never been tremendous powerhouses at the plate, tried to assume responsibility for the hitting of the team. Naturally their batting fell off. Bones Hathaway, a promising young pitcher who had won five games, had the nail torn off the little finger of his pitching hand by a line drive. It seemed bad luck could go no further. The Russells had never played on such a team. Daily they could watch the worsening of the club’s morale.
That afternoon they managed to lose another close game to the Reds. After getting three runs in the second, the Dodgers were caught in the fourth, and when Swanson missed a hard liner in deep right center, they were passed in the eighth. To the surprise of the Russells, accustomed to Grouchy’s quieter and more subtle methods of handling players, Ginger assailed the fielder as soon as he returned to the bench, before everybody.
“Swanny, if you can’t run any more, if you feel like you can’t play right field the way it should be played, I’ll hire someone who can.”
The big fielder turned on him. “You waved me over toward the line, didn’t you? That man’s not a pull hitter. You oughta know that. If you think you can play right better than me, why don’t you?”
Ginger lost his temper. His face was close to Swanson’s. His jaw stuck out as it did when he went for an umpire on the field. “I would if I was a little younger.” Then he collected himself and started out to the coaching line. Too late, for the whole team had heard the exchange and the bench was subdued during the rest of the game.
Silently they trooped into the dressing room after the defeat. On the notice board was a sign.
BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB. NEXT CITY, PITTSBURGH. TRAIN LEAVES UNION STATION AT 9:50 C.D.S. TIME. ARRIVES PITTSBURGH, 9:30 A.M. E.D.S. TIME. BAGGAGE READY AT 8:30 TONIGHT.
They sat around quietly, dressing slowly. For once even Razzle was depressed and silent.
“Man,” said Bob under his breath, “we can’t seem to win nohow. Wonder why we can’t win?”
Someone next to him heard the remark. “Maybe the Quiz Kids could answer that one.”
But there was little talking. They showered and got dressed, all except Spike who sat slumped on his bench, wondering what had happened to the team, what had happened to his own batting eye. He watched the little groups of players gathering around the room. When a ballclub breaks up into groups, Grouchy used to say, watch out.
Spike glanced up at his brother standing before him all dressed.
“No, I’m not ready. Don’t wait for me, Bobby.”
“Aw, c’mon, Spike. Let’s us take in a movie tonight before the train leaves.”
“Naw. I’m gonna lie down a while after dinner. I’ll get me an early dinner and rest, I guess. I don’t sleep so good on those Pullmans.”
“Man, it’ll do you good.”
“No, I’ll just rest a while. I’m tired. Say... you know what? I b’lieve I was swinging too hard today. I thought I was swinging the same as when I got those three baggers last week; guess not though. Mebbe I was striding too soon or something. Oh, I guess it was just one of those days. Well, you run along. I’m gonna try to rest a while. See you later, Bobby.”
Actually Spike never saw his brother until just before game time at Forbes Field, Pittsburgh, the next afternoon. Because Bob committed the unpardonable sin of losing track of the time and missed the train by forty minutes. He finally entered the Dodger dressing room just as the manager was finishing his usual pre-game harangue of the team.
“Here he is! You thought you’d come back, thought you’d show up after all, hey? It’s a wonder you bothered,” remarked the manager as he saw Bob in the doorway.
Spike knew the boy was due for a lacing in public and feared the effect it might have on his hot-tempered brother. Luckily, Bob was ashamed and chagrined.
Ginger continued before them all. “Well, Mister, you missed the train, didn’t you? You stupid bonehead, didn’t you see the notice posted in the locker room yesterday? You did? How come you missed the train then? You know the rules of this club. Well, you were given a booklet same as everyone else; like all the rest you didn’t bother to read it. That’s too bad, because this will cost you exactly fifty soap bubbles. Now hustle into that monkey suit of yours, and let’s see you do something out there for a change. Say! You got the ticket, didn’t you?” He added this last as the team started for the diamond.
“What ticket?” The team paused.
Ginger instantly became red in the face. He was tired and he was worried; he was cross and needed little to set him off. This was the final straw. “The ticket Hanson left with the station-master. He left your ticket on the 11:30 with the stationmaster. D’you mean to tell me you didn’t have brains enough to ask for it?”
For once Bob was confused. “Why... no... I didn’t know... I didn’t think....”
“Didn’t think! Didn’t think! Didn’t think!” roared Ginger. “O.K. That’ll cost you fifty bucks more, what do you think of that? Will that make you think, will it? And you can have the privilege of paying for your own ticket to Pittsburgh, too. Now maybe the next time you will think. That is, if you stay on this club and there is any next time, and I ain’t saying you’re staying, either. We can trade men up to June 15th, you fellows know. You also know we’re carrying twenty-eight men now and we have to cut down to twenty-five in the next ten days–two weeks. C’mon now, don’t stand there gawping. Get out and play baseball, that’s what you’re paid for. My gosh, the only thing you guys can do is play baseball and you’re too damn lazy to do that.”
The day had started badly. “Aw, the big lug, picking on your kid brother that way,” remarked Case to Spike, as they clattered down the concrete runway to the field. Inside Spike was angry, but he couldn’t say much. After all, Bob had missed the train. “Oh, he had
to do it; he’s upset, he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Has to do nothing! That’s not a rule of this club.”
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not. He wouldn’t dare pull that one on me or any of us who knew our way round. He does it to your kid brother because he’s a rookie. The rules say the manager shall fine a player if he misses a train and doesn’t get to the field in time to start the game. He got here, got here an hour and a half before game time. Nuts to that, picking on a freshman like your brother, the first time he slipped, too. Ginger only did it for effect, anyway.”
“For effect?” He was puzzled.
“Why, sure! If we’d been leading the league, do you think he’d have done that? He would not. We’re on the skids, see, and he’s on the skids, too, and he knows it. MacManus is plenty sore; he’s hammering away at Crane every day by telegraph and telephone from Brooklyn, asking him how come, and what’s the matter with the team. See now, when this comes out, when MacManus reads about this in the sports pages back home, it sort of excuses Ginger for the team’s poor showing; makes it look as if the boys aren’t cooperating. Heck, we haven’t had a real manager on this club since old Dave Leonard left. As for that Crane, I played with him in Chicago. He’s mean, he’s really mean. Why, the man’s so mean he washes his own socks.”
11
“READ THAT, SPIKE,” said his brother, passing over the sports pages of the newspaper. They were on their way out to the field in a street car. In Pittsburgh most of the players went from the William Penn to the field in a taxi, but the Russell boys frequently walked. When they didn’t, they rode in the street cars. What’s the use of spending fifty cents, they figured, when you have all the time on earth and can get there for a dime.
The article was in the Post-Gazette, an interview with Ginger Crane. It was typical of Ginger. Grouchy, now leading the league with his hard-hitting Cardinals, was as reticent and difficult to interview as he had been in the minors. But Ginger talked on every occasion, although he was no longer a pennant contender. Whether his team was in first place or last, he always had something to say to the sports writers.
“Yes, I have a team of .400 hitters—switch hitters, .200 from each side. And a one-man pitching staff, too. What’s that mean? I’ll explain. It’s easy. We’re carrying eight pitchers on the payroll. O.K. Bones Hathaway lost the fingernail on his pitching hand last week; that makes seven. Rats Doyle is so old he aches all over; that makes six. Fat Stuff Foster has a bad cold. O.K., that makes five. Jake Kennedy has trouble putting it across in the pinches; that makes four. McCaffrey has a sore arm; that makes... how many... three. Speed Boy Davis hasn’t rounded into form yet this year; he’s always a late starter for me; that makes two. Razzle Nugent thinks his bunion is troubling him; that leaves one. Roger Stinson—a one-man pitching staff. Get it?”
Spike handed back the newspaper without reading further. “That guy! He’s a name manager, that’s what he is, always getting his name in the paper, always popping off in public. He loves it.”
“Yeah, he sure loves to talk out loud. I mean he thinks out loud; that’s his trouble.”
They descended from the trolley at the Schenley and walked down the short street to the ballpark. No crowd was gathering, no one assaulted them for autographs, no policemen were waiting for on-rushing crowds at the gate. When you’re in the second division, when you’re holding down fifth place, the fans manage to let you alone. Inside the clubhouse things looked even more dismal. The day was dark and chilly and the high-walled dressing room with its barren stone floor seemed more gloomy than ever. Two antique gas heaters, which ought to have been in a museum, were sputtering feebly, and the Doc was grumbling as he tried to work on McCaffrey’s sore arm.
“Gee, I’d sure hate to play on this-here club, even if they are up there in second place,” remarked Razzle, looking around.
“Yeah, I played two years on the Phils,” said Red Allen. “They don’t pay big salaries on the Phils but they have a decent dressing room. And they travel first class.”
“Lemme tell you something,” called Roger from the table. “Until you’ve been on the Browns you don’t know from nothing. It’s mebbe different now under Leonard, but when I was on the club the secretary walked through the diner and slapped a buck and a half down beside your plate. Makes a guy feel he’s on a lousy club.”
On a lousy club, that’s it, everyone was thinking. We’ll never go places under this guy Crane, never; it’s a lousy ballclub.
Then at one side Spike noticed a new boy dressing; a tall boy, with jet black hair and a prominent nose. He had a good chest and a fine pair of shoulders. His face was sensitive and intelligent, and Spike observed he was watching and listening as the players pulled on their monkey suits without enthusiasm. Case walked past on the way to the Coca-Cola list pinned to the wall. He wrote his name down and took a bottle, pausing a minute to speak to Bill Hanson standing near by. His voice was low but Spike heard what he said.
“Bill! Look, I need some new sticks, and I got one here that suits me fine. I’d like to put in an order on Louisville for a dozen just like it.”
The secretary seemed uninterested. He half turned away, and Spike could only catch part of his answer. It was enough. “Oh, don’t you think you got enough, Karl, for the present?” Quite evidently he wasn’t buying any more bats for Case, which could only mean one thing. A deal was in the offing to trade the left fielder by June 15th. That was exactly what the fielder was trying to find out. He turned away abruptly and moved over to his locker, an untouched bottle of coke in his hand.
A few minutes later they clattered out of the dressing room. Anyone could notice the listless sound of their spikes on the concrete, clack... clack... clack... clack... clack.
“Well, looks like the old trade winds are blowing,” said someone at Spike’s elbow.
“What makes you think so, Swanny?”
The fielder raised his head knowingly. “We got ourselves another rookie today. If he stays, someone goes. We’re carrying twenty-eight men without him.”
“Yeah, that black-haired boy. I saw him. Who is he, d’you know?”
“Catcher by the name of Klein up from the Three I League to Rochester, and did better than all right last year, they say. He won’t last here, though.”
“No? Why not?”
“Jewish boy.”
“Jewish boy?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh! Well, what of it?”
“He won’t last, that’s what of it. The bench jockeys will get him. You’ll see. They’ll ride that baby to death. Besides, these Jewish boys can’t take it. Haven’t any guts.”
Spike started to answer but now they were on the field and he heard Case’s heavy voice behind him.
“I’m maybe not hitting right now, but I’ll betcha twenty-five bucks I pass Red Allen yet. You see if I don’t.”
That bird’s a percentage Patsy, thought Spike, always thinking of his own batting averages. Now if he’d only think a little more of the team and a little less of his own batting averages, we might go places. That’s the thing that hurts us.
They came onto the field to warm up, the sun now shining. It was the usual routine: the pepper game to start, the batting in the cage, the fielding practice, the fungo hitting to the fielders. Then he realized what Swanson meant by saying the newcomer wouldn’t last on the Dodgers. The boy was standing alone at one side, going through strange contortions. First he would squat, then stand up, then wave both hands over his head, turn round twice, and suddenly dash off to one side or the other. Spike watched him closely for a moment.
Is he nuts? Is that his trouble? Why, no, he’s practicing, practicing spinning, going for a foul fly. That isn’t such a bad idea! Never heard of that, practicing spinning, but there’s guys right on this club it would help. It would help Bobby and me. It would sure help some of those outfielders, too.
Then a stray ball rolled up behind the newcomer as he squatted do
wn.
“Hey! Hey there, Buglenose,” shouted someone. “Hey there, Buglenose, throw us that ball.”
He knew who was meant. He stopped, straightened up, looked around, and saw the ball behind him. Would he respond to that name? He turned slowly, leaned over, picked up the ball and tossed it back. He had the snap throw catchers use returning balls to their pitcher.
The game started. It was a Monday crowd, barely three thousand spectators spattered over a park built to hold forty thousand. Great gaps showed in the lower stands, an empty yawning cavern in the upper ones, and vast reaches of blank seats in the bleachers. Like every ballplayer, Spike hated to perform to empty seats, and the game began on a dull note.
“Come on now, come on, wake up those bats,” shouted Ginger desperately from the coaching lines. “C’mon, boys; c’mon, Case-boy, let’s have a hit.”
Case swung at the first ball. It looked like a hit and was indeed a hit, a hard driven shot between second and third. But the Pittsburgh shortstop, who had been playing well back on the grass, made a marvelous stop and pulled up to throw. All the while Case was straining, straining, straining, giving everything he had; he was almost there, he was caught, he was nipped!
No! The throw was a trifle wide. It yanked the first baseman off the bag long enough for Karl to flash past in safety. He slowed down, turned, and came back slowly to the base, panting. Suddenly the light on the scoreboard in center flashed, and he began jumping up and down in disgust. It was called an error for the shortstop, not a hit for him. Case, enraged, felt he had been cheated out of his hit, and standing on first he turned toward the press box high above the plate, where the official scorer sat. With the crowd watching, he motioned downward with his arms and palms. Then he put two fingers to his nose, pinching it.
Murmurs ran up and down the Dodger bench.
“Oh... that’s bad... that’s bad, Karl, that’s really bad.”
Keystone Kids Page 7
