Then Swanny replied, “Why, sure! What the hell! Here, sit over beside me.” And he made room for the youngster.
Two hours later Spike was turning in, tired but happy. Manager at last, with two games to his credit, and the team really taking hold. Being manager wasn’t so bad at that! Unable to sleep, he lay thinking over the game and especially the last inning, feeling the satisfaction of finding that hole behind the plate well filled, looking ahead to the trials of the road trip in the July heat, half listening all the while to the roaring of the train and the occasional voices of passers-by in the corridor.
Then a familiar voice came to him. It was Karl Case. Karl, as usual, was complaining.
What’s biting that guy now, thought Spike. He got four hits this afternoon; he ought to be happy.
“Yeah, well, we had no business letting a kid like that in the game. Anyhow, who ast him? Nobody ast him, that’s who ast him. He shoulda minded his own affairs. The fresh young Jew-boy! He butts in and takes all our dough. Sixty-six bucks it cost me, the nervy busher...”
He moved along the corridor, still grumbling. The door of his compartment slammed shut.
15
FROM THAT MOMENT Case had it in for young Klein. Karl Case, the wickedest bench jockey in the league, was by no means the most popular man on the club. His tongue was an asset when turned on their adversaries, a liability when he went after a teammate, which he often did. Once he got “on a man” he could be really mean.
To be sure, everyone on the club addressed the rookie catcher as Buglenose. That was his nickname, his name on the bench and in the clubhouse, just as Fat Stuff and Spike and Rats were nicknames. There was comradeship in it, affection almost. After the card game on the train, however, there was a note in Karl’s voice which made the young catcher look up flushing when the swarthy outfielder spoke to him. Naturally Case didn’t miss this sign.
“Hey there, Buglenose, lemme get a cut at that-there grapefruit.” Or, “Looka, Buglenose, save me a rap for a change, will ya?”
At first only a few of them noticed his tone. But by that sudden reddening the rookie catcher confessed he had felt it from the start.
Next came the clash, the clash that was probably inevitable, given that incident on the train and the temperaments of the two men, yet damaging to the team at that critical moment in the season. Perhaps had it all happened in private the trouble would have blown over. Flare-ups of that kind often help settle a team that is trying to find itself. A manager makes the men shake hands and get it all off their minds. Case would then have forgotten the loss of his sixty-six dollars and, more important still, the injury to his vanity when, as the best poker player on the team, he was taken over by a rookie from Rochester.
Unfortunately the whole thing took place in the worst spot of all—on Forbes Field where the Pirate coaches missed nothing. It happened before the game and during practice where those old-timers on the Pitt bench observed its full significance. Coaches make it their business to use every available weapon.
The Dodgers were at batting practice. Case swaggered to the plate, took his cuts, and on the last ball laid one down just inside the first base line, a bunt that was fair by inches. Klein, the rookie catcher, instinctively dashed for the ball. Case saw his chance and took it. As the two thundered toward first, nearing the ball, Klein leaned over to pick it up, and as he did so the outfielder charged through, stepping on his bare hand and at the same time cracking him on the thigh with his rising knee.
The two men tumbled to the grass, rolled over, picked themselves up, and went for each other. There was a moment when they stood face to face, the hot-tempered Case spoiling for a fight as revenge for his hurt pride, ready to receive a punch or give one; Klein wringing his hand, uncertain. The second was there; it came and passed. The punch was never delivered.
“Back to yer tools, Buglenose. And the next time clear out of my way, see?”
This even reached Bob on second base who caught the sneer in Case’s tone. He watched them stand, faces a few inches apart, saw the catcher still shaking his bleeding hand turn slowly away and move back toward the plate. As the rookie leaned over to pick up his mask, it flashed on Bob. Why, the guy can’t take it!
Back on the bench the Pirate coaches observed the incident with pleasure and instantly filed it for future use. The exact moment to use it came two hours later.
The Dodgers were behind that afternoon, and toward the end of the game had a three run lead to overcome. In the eighth they had loaded the bases, with two out, when the rookie catcher shuffled to the plate. Suddenly, without warning, the barrage broke in full force from the Pirate bench.
“Hey! Hey there, Buglenose...”
“Watch out, Jew-boy, watch out or you’ll get yerself kilt up there!”
“Oh, you Buglenose!”
“Danny, show up that kike. Let him look at your fast one. He won’t dare offer at it.”
The last shot made the boy wince. He betrayed his emotion by a quick turn of his head toward the opposing bench. His bat waved menacingly but this was merely an act. That shot got home and the Pitt coaches knew it immediately. So did the scattered substitutes along the dugout seat who joined in the pursuit. The bench jockeys were off in full cry.
“Better duck, Buglenose, better duck...”
“Watch yerself, Buglenose, watch yerself there, or he’ll pare that beak off’n ya!”
The pitcher threw in a strike. The bat never moved from Klein’s shoulder. From the opposing dugout the torrent of noise increased. On the coaching lines behind third Spike saw what was happening, cupped his hands and shouted, trying to encourage the red-faced rookie at the plate. Again the pitcher tossed in a fast ball. The batter leaned but didn’t offer. Once again the bat remained in his hands, motionless.
“Get your bat offa your shoulders, Jocko. You can’t expect to hit if you don’t swing at ’em.” Spike yelled as loud as he could, but his voice was lost in the clamor of abuse from the dugout of the home team.
The next pitch was wide. Then another ball, a low one at which the batter offered feebly and fouled into the stands. Then came a third strike, a fast one, dead across the plate.
“You’re out!”
The boy’s bat never moved. The inning was over and with it the Dodgers’ chance for that important game.
Significant things about a ballclub can’t be told in black and white. No sportswriter mentioned the incident the following morning. But news of this kind travels fast in the baseball grapevine, and they were all waiting for Klein in Cincinnati, the next stop.
That rookie with the Dodgers, boy by the name of Klein, they all say he can’t take it!
So they were waiting, the same hard-voiced coaches on the lines, the same cruel jockeys in the dugout. His batting slumped. In one game he failed to hit the ball out of the infield or reach first.
The attitude of the team began to change. Say, whazza matter? Can’t the guy take it or what? This-here game is no place for anyone who can’t take it!
Case was after him incessantly, and Bob, ever talkative, joined in. So did others. Their voices now were no longer tinged with warmth; there was a change in their tones. By the time the club reached Chicago, the rookie was making mistakes, bungling plays, even getting his signs crossed.
With the same set-up on which a triple play had been made on Spike’s first afternoon as manager—men on first and third and nobody out—the shortstop signaled Klein to throw to second should a steal be attempted. The youngster got flustered, mixed everything up, and instead threw at Razzle in the box. Raz had his head half turned toward second, the throw went past, past Bob into center field, and another game was gone.
That evening the Keystone Kids lay in twin beds on the eighteenth floor of the Netherlands Plaza, waiting for sleep and thinking all the time of the lost opportunity of that afternoon. From below the roar of the traffic came to their ears.
“Why, Spike, he’s so doggone nervous he don’t know what city he’s in.�
�
“Yeah... he’s nervous all right.”
“I’ll say! Well, I knew from the start he hadn’t got it.”
“You knew nothing!”
“I knew he’d never make the grade. Not in this league. Jew-boys can’t last in the big time.”
For almost the first time in his life the older brother felt annoyed at the younger one. What’s he mean? Who’s he been blatting to? He tried not to show his annoyance.
“What do you mean, they can’t last?”
“They can’t, that’s all.”
“Aw, you been listening to Swanny. And Case. That guy’s a troublemaker. He ain’t charging the fences or standing up to the hurlers with the loose pitching habits the way he used to, either. I wish he’d been traded last spring like Ginger Crane tried to.”
“No, you’re dead wrong there, Spike. You’re wrong this time and Case is right. We want no quitters on this-here club. If a guy can’t take it, he hasn’t any place in baseball.”
“Well, sure, I’d agree to that. But if you and Case and the boys get on him all the time, why, any rookie would crack. What’s biting Case, anyhow?”
“What’s biting him? That poker game. Didn’t you hear about that?”
“No. What? When?”
“Coming out from New York the first night. Case and Swanny and a couple of the old-timers were getting down to their game of one-and-four, when along comes this fresh busher and invites himself into it. You know, Spike, no one but a fresh Jew-boy would have the gall to do a thing like that. The rookies play their game and the old-timers play theirs. But this brassy kid has to butt in and walk away with their cash.”
“Aha! So that’s it, is it? That’s what started the whole thing. How much did Case drop?”
“Sixty-six bucks. Listen, Spike! You know what I think? I b’lieve the boys would go better with another catcher.”
“Don’t talk to me about another catcher. I haven’t got another catcher, you know that. You know you don’t buy catchers at the Five and Ten in July. Stansworth’s out for six weeks. This guy Kenny is too fat and too old to use outside the bullpen. Mac wired me there’s a boy coming down from Montreal tomorrow or the next day. He batted two thirty-five so far this season. Two thirty-five! Anyhow, if he batted four thirty-five, I still wouldn’t give up on Jocko Klein. He’s a good kid and he’s one swell ballplayer, and he could be a catcher, too, if only you guys, you and Case and Swanny, would give him a chance. That tightwad Case...”
“Give him a chance! Who ever gave you and me a chance? We got no chances given us. We took our chances; we went in and grabbed ’em off. Remember, Spike, remember how we jumped into outlaw ball in that old Tobacco League? Remember how we both braced Peterson that time at the Charlotte ballpark, and how he laughed at us, and how we showed him that day we had the goods? Remember Savannah, and those games when we pulled up from last place? Remember...”
“Yes, of course I remember. I remember no one ever gave it to us like you boys are giving it to this fella. No one ever called us a couple of quitters all day long. That’s what you boys are doing to him. No, sir, I can’t see a good kid ruined. I’m not giving up on him—even if you are.”
There! It was out. Yet once out, he wished he hadn’t said it. Ordinarily he would never have said it to Bob, but the strain was telling. He was upset and tired. He had been presented with a situation which he had never faced and never seen Grouchy handle. What would Grouchy do? He wished with all his heart he hadn’t said what he did or said it just that way in just that tone to Bob, the best guy who ever lived. Somehow it made the space between the two beds wider.
“Aw... what’s the use? He’s a Jew-boy. He ain’t an American.”
The space became wider still.
“Whaddya mean he ain’t an American? He was born in K.C. and raised there, went to school there, same as you were raised in Charlotte.” The gap was wider and wider. “Say, whaddya mean? He works here, on this club; he plays ball same as you do. Where d’you get that stuff, he ain’t an American? He’s just as much an American as you are.”
Bob became irritatingly disagreeable. “Aw, well... anyhow, it’s different.”
Maybe if they hadn’t both been tired, maybe if it hadn’t been Cincinnati in the heat, maybe if the traffic hadn’t drummed continually in their ears, maybe if they’d won that afternoon instead of losing, maybe then it would never have happened. The gap would have closed and they would have remained the Keystone Kids.
Spike picked up the challenge in his brother’s tone. “Yeah? How’s it different?”
“It’s different, that’s all. And you know it’s different. Jews aren’t athletes; they never were. They can’t take it, they’re gonna crack, they always crack...”
“Oh, you make me tired. A Jew’s like anyone else. Some of ’em can’t take it, some can.”
“Listen, I’m telling you, Spike...”
“Nuts to that! You been getting this from those beefers, Karl Case and...”
“See here, Spike! I’m only trying to help you. Of course, if you’re gonna be obstinate about it... if you wanna split the team in two... just keep on... you’re doing fine.”
Obstinate! That was the word that set him off. Obstinate!
He sat up. He turned toward his brother. “Now just one thing! We better understand each other. I’m running this here team. As long as I’m the manager, I don’t need any help from Swanny or Karl or you or anyone else, and as long as I am in charge, I’m not going to see a good boy like Klein torn to pieces by a bunch of snarling bench jockeys. Do you get me? You guys play ball and leave me pick the line-up. That goes for everyone, you, too. I don’t want to hear any more about this. No more. Not a word.”
He sank down suddenly. There was no sound from the other bed. Then Bob turned over. His back was plainly visible. Spike turned over, too, and there they lay, quiet, awake, unable to sleep. It was not the heat, nor the noise of the traffic below, not even throwing away that game that kept both the Keystone Kids awake all night.
16
ST. LOUIS UNDER THE Missouri sun, and no fun either. Red Allen was at bat, and from the bench came Bob’s staccato cry, “Shake it up there, Red; wake up those bats, big boy.” After waiting for three balls and fouling half a dozen pitches, Allen popped up. It was a high fly to short, an easy out. But the big first baseman, refusing to quit, took his turn round the bag at full speed and started with all his strength for second. He was nearly there when the ball settled into the shortstop’s glove. Case, always ready to sneer, leaned down toward Bob on the long bench. In between them sat Jocko Klein, his dark eyes solemn as he looked across the diamond.
“D’ja see that there, Bob? That’s baseball, kid. D’ja see him run out that fly ball?”
“Sure did. There’s a ballplayer, what I mean, in there trying every minute.”
“Uhuh. We could do with a few more on this club,” rejoined Case.
“I’ll say. O.K. O.K., now, Roy. Shake up those bats. Let’s us get some hits now.”
The batting order had been changed by Spike in an endeavor to get the team moving and Klein followed Tucker. He went over to the bat rack, wiped his hands on a towel, and stepped from the dugout while Roy walked up to the plate. He stood motionless, his arms well out like all free arm hitters. On the first pitch he swung hard and missed.
“The big one left, Roy, the big one left,” yelled Bob.
Timing the pitch perfectly, Tucker caught the next ball on the fat of his bat and drove it through the box for a clean single. From the coaching lines back of third Spike clapped his hands as his catcher came to bat.
“O.K., Jocko boy. O.K., boy. Make him pitch to you alla time, Jocko, alla time, boy.” His voice was lost in the sudden noise from the Cardinal dugout when they saw the rookie step to the plate.
“Oh, Jocko, look out now! Don’t let him hurt you up there.”
“Watch out, you yeller Jew-boy, watch out or he’ll burn them letters offa yer chest.”
&nb
sp; The boy at the plate looked at a ball, swung hard at a curve and fouled it off, then attempted a bunt. It was a sorry attempt, a kind of halfhearted try. The ball sailed gently into the air, slowly enough and high enough so the pitcher could step quickly forward and grab it, so slowly that Tucker had a chance to slide safely back to first. Klein returned disconsolately to the dugout. From above came the voice of a fan.
“Hey there, Klein, is that the way they teach you to bunt in Brooklyn? Is that how they teach you?”
Karl Case, the next man, hit with authority. It was a single to left, advancing Tucker. So there were men on first and second with two out. Karl stood nonchalantly on the bag, exchanging caps with Cassidy, mopping his dark face with his sleeve, grinning unpleasantly at the dugout and the rookie catcher. The veteran was pleased with himself. Now if only the rest of the club played this kind of ball....
The first delivery was a pitchout. Suddenly the catcher made a snap throw, low, hard, to the left corner of first base. Although Karl slid back with outstretched arms, he was cut down and the side retired. Four men up, two clean singles, and not a runner past second base. Karl returned to the bench grumbling, reached for a towel, and muttered half to himself, “If that bird only knew how to bunt, this’d never have happened.”
They trooped past the jeering fans above, and into the dressing room, hot, dirty, tired, and disappointed.
This can’t continue, thought Spike, things can’t go on like this. I must do something. I’m the manager. I’ve got to act now.
That evening after dinner he knocked at Klein’s room. Fat Stuff, who had been put with him as a steadying influence, was out, and the dark-eyed boy himself opened the door.
“Oh! Hullo, Spike. Come in.” His tone was hardly overcordial. Spike stepped inside. It was the usual ballplayer’s bedroom; newspapers on the floor, an opened suitcase on a rack, another suitcase on a chair, several magazines on the table beside the telephone. The manager sat on the bed, while the rookie looked over from across the room, eyeing him defensively, saying nothing.
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