Now Grouchy, how would Grouchy handle this kid, thought Spike, anxious not to make a mistake. He began cautiously. “Well, Jocko, things don’t look so good for our side, do they?”
The boy seemed relieved. He agreed. But he said nothing as he nodded. Silence once more.
“Nope,” Spike continued, more because he had to keep on than because he knew how to proceed. “No, we ain’t clicking. Grouchy Devine—you know Grouchy, he was my old manager on the Vols—he always used to say when things are darkest, that’s when a manager has to be able to yank his club out of a hole.” He paused. Maybe he would get some help. No help came.
Instead the catcher, seated on the stiff chair across the room, glowered at him sullenly. The embarrassing silence continued. Boy, we aren’t getting anywhere fast. This won’t do, thought Spike. He looked at the rookie catcher. “What seems to be the trouble, what’s the trouble do you think, Jocko? I’m asking you.”
The black eyes spoke volumes but the lips never moved. Still that sullen look hovered over his face. This was even more difficult than Spike had imagined, and he had foreseen plenty of trouble. But he persisted. “Seems to me... kinda... as if... well, as if the club’s not together. I felt it was going real good right after Ginger Crane left. Now they’ve slumped again.” Silence. “Haven’t they?”
The boy assented but nothing more. He still refused to talk. Gosh, thought Spike, this is sure a tough one. What would Grouchy do next?
“Jocko, I’m not so old myself, but I been in this game quite some time. Baseball is two things for my book—ability and confidence. You got the ability all right; you showed us all that last month. You can throw, you can hit, you have a bean and you use it. But your confidence is all washed up. What’s the trouble, boy?”
Klein shook his head in a gesture that could mean anything. But talk he would not.
“What’s the matter?” Spike was getting annoyed. He knew he should above all keep control of himself; yet he was tired, and the stubborn persistence of the rookie catcher was upsetting. “Listen, Jocko, what’s eating you, anyhow?”
“I... we... the club... I dunno.” He was trying now, he tried but he couldn’t go on. The thing was far too deep and too bitter, and he was unable to let himself go. “You wouldn’t understand...”
“Jocko-boy, le’s have it straight. I’m your friend. I got all kinds of confidence in you. I know you have the stuff, see, otherwise you’d be sitting in Elmira right this minute.”
The boy was grateful. He tried once more, he stuttered and stopped. “Case... it’s Case, and your brother...”
Spike wanted to be patient, to understand. Yet he found difficulty as a ballplayer in comprehending these things. “Why, now, the boys don’t mean anything. You know how they are. They’ll needle their own sister if it gets under her skin. That’s baseball. You know that.”
Klein shook his head in despair. “Spike, seems like you just can’t understand.”
“Jocko, tell me, what’s the matter? Why can’t you take it? When did this hit you first?”
“You wanna know?” He leaned suddenly forward toward him. “You wanna know? All right, here goes. I’ll tell you... only you won’t understand....”
17
IT CAME WHEN I was... le’s see... I must have been eight or nine years old. We lived with my grandfather, me and my cousins, a bunch of us kids, so naturally we always played together and stuck together. We never got to know other kids very well. Then one day I was playing alone in the street, and another boy from down the road came by and said, ‘Hey, are you a kike? Are you a kike?’ ”
The words poured out. Klein had no trouble talking now as he told the story of himself which was the story of his people. “ ‘Are you a kike?’ And I said, ‘Am I a kite? Of course I’m not a kite.’ ‘Ha,’ he said, ‘I guess you don’t know what a kike is.’ So I went inside and found my mother. ‘Ma,’ I said, ‘what’s a kike, what is it?’ My mother, she looked at me a long, long while.
“Finally she told me. She told me lots, what was behind us Jews, back, way, way back, Spike, back so far you wouldn’t understand, back thousands of years. ‘Son,’ she said, ‘you’ve got to know some time; you might as well know right now. This is what we’re up against, all of us, what we’ve been up against, what we’ve had to fight since the start of things.’ And she told me, told me everything, a lot you wouldn’t hardly realize, a lot I couldn’t explain. How my grandfather Klein escaped from Vienna, and his grandfather was chased out of Poland, and... and...”
“No... sure... yes...” Spike hardly knew what to say, how to answer. What could you say? What could you answer?
“I know what you’re gonna tell me. Oh, but you Jews, you’re so pushing, you’re always shoving. I know, I heard. No one but a Jew... only a Jew would act that way, like that. It’s true, too. We have to. How could we live if we hadn’t done that? It comes from a thousand years of torture and hate against us. I don’t expect you to understand. Lemme explain so you will, maybe; lemme see if I can show you what I mean, Spike. Now take St. Loo. We’re in a tough town; here’s where the fans are really tough. You know how it is in St. Loo in a close series; you go off the field together, you stick with the boys or else you may get yourself clipped on the back by some fan with a pop bottle. See, that’s the way it is with us Jews; we’ve stuck together for preservation. It’s deep in us, in our blood. Like a team alone fighting the stands full of fans in a strange town. Funny thing; folks don’t like the way we act; then they make us act the way we do. Spike, I guess you’ll never understand, I guess no one who hasn’t been through it will understand....”
Spike understood. Dimly, feebly, he saw through the words into all that lay back of them. Now he nodded. Now he was doing the nodding and the rookie catcher was talking.
“No, no. You can’t, ever. I guess it’s too hard. I guess I can’t explain. Wait a minute. Look, d’ja ever read poetry?”
Read poetry! Oh, migosh! The question made Spike uncomfortable, and he was uncomfortable enough as it was. He shifted on the edge of the bed. What was this guy, anyhow? A ballplayer reading poetry! There were men who read comics, and a good many who read the racing sheets, and some who read magazines, and a few who read detective stories, and one or two like Red Allen who even did crossword puzzles. But books, never, and poetry!
Then for the first time he noticed a half-opened volume on the dresser. A catcher reading poetry, that’s awful bad. This kid must be wacky or something. That’s bad, that’s really bad. Why, if the boys ever get hold of this, they’ll skin his hide off’n him. Lucky he’s rooming with old Fat Stuff, a gent that keeps his trap closed. You think you’ve been round and seen things, yet you’re forever running up against something new. Imagine, a catcher reading poetry! Ain’t that something!
The boy went on. “I happened to read it in there. Like this, it goes like this. ‘A river runs between these men and me... a river of blood and time.’ ”
Spike broke in. He tried to interrupt. “Yeah, that’s right, I guess. Yeah, I getcha, Jocko. Boy, you really got something there.” Better just kid him along a little, let him work it off; maybe do him good.
But the boy went right on, paying no attention, his voice higher, his black eyes afire.
Gosh, this was terrible. Suppose Fat Stuff opened the door with that kidder, Rats Doyle, right at this minute! Perhaps the poor guy is nuts. Say, maybe we drove him nuts, like what’s-his-name, that catcher on the Reds who committed suicide several years ago.
“ ‘... And we speak to each other across the roar of that river... but no more.’ ” His voice was louder. “Look! I’m a Jew. It’s in my blood...”
“That’s enough!” Spike jumped up from the bed. He walked across to where the boy was sitting taut on the edge of the chair.
“That’s enough!” Now he was the manager, he took charge. This must stop; and quickly. “That’s enough, that’s all of that, Jocko. Listen to me! If you ever pull this-here Jew stuff on me again... if you e
ver do... I’ll... I’ll break every bone in your body... so help me, Hannah, I will. Don’t you ever say those things again, don’t you dare....”
“They all say them, or think them. They’re against me, everyone, ’cause I’m Jewish.”
“Jocko! For the last time! Don’t lemme hear you crack like that again, or I’ll make you so lame you won’t go to bat for a week. I mean it, too. Now listen. You’re a good catcher. You’ve gone all to pieces because these last few weeks Karl Case...”
“Yessir, him and your brother and Swanny and Rats Doyle and...”
“O.K. Them, too, they’ve been on you. They been on you good and plenty. D’you think I’m blind? I can see, I can hear, I know what’s going on. They been on you; so now you quit, you quit on us cold, on me... on the club. You let them bench jockeys get you down. That’s the trouble with you Jews. You’re up against it, sure; you’re up against it plenty, and you don’t fight back when you should fight back. You let them guys get you down. There’s times, Jocko, when a guy has to fight back. They come to us all, every one of us, like they came to me one afternoon down in Nashville when I saw Mugger Smith carving his initials in my kid brother’s legs...”
“But, Spike, it’s different; y’see, the prejudice...”
“Sure, I know there’s prejudice on this team, and you’re the one to suffer; you’re the victim, the one to take it. O.K., only don’t you understand you made it worse yourself. Don’t you get that? They’d have been prejudiced against you if you’d been a Hottentot or a Turk or a Texas boy who acted same as you did. So now...”
“So what? So what? Tell me, what can I do, what should I do...”
“Why, stand up to ’em. Don’t show ’em they can get to you. Don’t quit...”
“It’s easy for you to talk.”
“I know. But I’m the manager of the team. I gotta tell you these things. I hafta smooth out these troubles, that’s what managers are for. These boys aren’t really wrong guys. Now take my brother; he’s an all right sort of a person, he isn’t mean. Sure...” He saw the protest rise to the other’s lips.
“He isn’t, hey? Well, he...”
“I know; he’s wrong on this, but he isn’t a mean guy. Only your fear shows through, your fear of his dislike, and Case’s. Somehow it builds up their bullying and their bullying builds up your fear of their dislike. Wonder am I saying it so you’ll get me? Because now, see, you say like this; I’ll never be any good on account I’m Jewish. They realize you feel that way. They know it. Boy, you gotta take it in this game same as you gotta take it in life. Get me? Understand?” He looked down at him. Yes, he was getting it, slowly. He nodded deliberately at the manager standing above him.
“Now don’t ever let me hear you spouting that poetry stuff any more, never. Oh, that’s bad, Jocko, that’s really bad. I want you. I need you. The team needs you the worst way. Why, we can win if you play like you can; we can go places with this bunch. Once they see you’re a scrapper, they’ll be for you, all the way. You wait and see.”
“Think so? D’you really think so, Spike?”
“I know so. I know my kid brother; I know these guys, every one of ’em. Now stay with us. Remember, I’m behind you, all the time. I’m fighting for you. You get in there and fight for yourself. Fight, Jocko, will ya, kid?”
Klein stood up. His short sturdy figure was straight and firm. As he rose the chair fell over back with a clatter. “O.K., Spike, I’ll try. I’ll give it everything; gimme a chance and I think I’ll pull out of this spin.”
“Darn right you will. I’m not giving up on you, Jocko. Don’t you give up on yourself.”
18
BOB GUESSED WHERE Spike had been the moment he returned to their room that night.
“Well, Spike, how’s your young Jewish pal tonight?”
“If he’s a pal of mine he’s a pal of yours, Bob. We’re all playing on the same side, you know.”
“No, sir.” There was conviction in his tone. “No, sir, he’s no pal of mine, I’m telling you.”
“If you’d only try to understand the guy a little, he might be. And we might become a team, too.”
“Hey, what is this? A Lonely Hearts club? I always thought it was a bunch of ballplayers. Be reasonable, Spike. C’mon now, be reasonable. Be a good fellow; be reasonable about this. You got the whole team against you. What can you expect of a Jew-boy? You better trade him, and the sooner the better, I’d say. No wonder he can’t take it; he never will with you a-babying him the way you do.”
“First off, I’m not babying him. I’m only trying to make him the catcher of this-here team.”
“Well you won’t. Make up your mind to that. You better give up on him. You’re foolish to string along with him.”
“No, sir, I ain’t giving up on him, not yet awhile I ain’t.”
“O.K. You’re a sap, that’s all.”
Bob hung up his trousers and climbed into bed. If he won’t take any advice from his own brother, if he won’t take any help from me, he won’t, that’s all. He always was like that, stubborn and obstinate. Once he gets his mind set he’s like a North Carolina mule. You just can’t do a thing with him. O.K. Let him find out for himself. Let him make a fool of himself if he wants to. I won’t help him again, or try to, either.
Spike stood looking out of the window. It hurt to hear those words but the tone hurt even more; it was a tone his brother had never used before. It hurt also to feel the gap between them widening all the time.
The next afternoon they made a bad slip in the field. Bob was watching Klein, his eyes searching for a sign of weakness in the man behind the plate. With a left-handed pull hitter at bat, Bob ran over to cover second, although Spike had signaled that he would cover the bag. Just as Bob ran over, too, the batter cracked the ball into the slot he vacated, and the runner on second slid home with the winning run.
The following day in St. Louis Spike watched it happen again, realizing bitterly that this difference, this break in their affections, was damaging their play together. It was actually hurting their combination and destroying the understanding and co-ordination which had made them the Keystone Kids; which had brought them from Savannah to Dallas, to the Volunteers in Nashville, and from Nashville to Ebbets Field, Brooklyn.
They were behind 2–1 in a tight game, a game Spike wanted badly. And a game they needed. In the eighth Bob got a base on balls, and when Spike came to the plate, his brother was still on first with one out. Spike managed to work the pitcher into a hole. At three-and-one he put on the hit-and-run sign, and smashed a scorching bounder which would have been behind the runner had Bob not missed the signal. The ball, instead of going through into right field, went directly to the hands of the Card second baseman, who ordinarily on a hit-and-run would have been covering the bag. It was a doubleplay and the end of the Dodgers’ chances.
“Doggone, Bob, you messed that up. You lost the signal again...” Spike was furious.
“No, no, I saw it O.K., Spike. I saw it but I didn’t think you could have meant it.”
This only made him the more angry. First, a missed signal, a thing that never used to happen when they were clicking, something at which they always laughed when they saw other men do it. Then worse, Bob’s refusal to admit his mistake. For just a second Spike was so upset he wanted to call his brother down, to make an example of him there before the other players, to bench him on the spot, to discipline him so he never again would mess up another sign. But he knew how upset and annoyed he himself was. So he trotted out glumly to his place in the field. At times like these being a manager is no fun.
Gosh, he thought, as he burned the ball over to Red on first. Holy smoke, this thing is affecting us, too. Why, Bobby and me, we can’t even play together any more!
19
THEY SAT BEFORE the game on the long benches in front of the lockers, and in the middle of the semicircle stood their manager.
This managing a ballclub is beginning to tell, thought Bob, as his brother
began to speak. Why don’t he chuck that Jewish kid? What’s the sense of it? What’s the use of making an issue of it, of fighting seven clubs in the race and half your own team, too? It don’t make sense. He’s just plain stubborn, he always was that way; he never did like to admit he was wrong, never. Sometimes, like when you’re holding out for a raise on your contract, that’s a mighty valuable thing. Now it’s breaking him in two. He can’t trade Klein without letting Mac and everyone else know he made a mistake. Well, he’ll have to admit it sooner or later.
“Nope,” Spike was saying, “the club isn’t clicking yet the way it can, the way I hoped it would, but we gotta take time to shake down. I don’t ask the impossible of you boys. All I ask is you go out there and hustle. Some of you aren’t hustling as you should. That’s the chief fault of most ballplayers, seems like, not hustling. Yesterday, Swanny, when you were on first, remember, you jogged down to second on Roy’s single. Remember? Their center fielder fumbled and then you broke for third. Lucky the throw was wild. As it was you had to slide in to get there. If you’d been going all out every minute, you might have scored. Case popped up and we were through without a run. That’s bad. One more thing. The hitting isn’t what it should be, not by any means. A few of you boys aren’t hitting as you can; you, Red, and you, Klein, and you, Harry. Never mind. No matter if you go nine times without a hit, get in there the tenth time and grab me that single. It might even win the game. Anyhow it goes in the book, and a hundred is a darn sight better than zero in the hit column. Give me everything you got all the time.”
Old Chiselbeak, the locker room attendant, stuck his nose in the door. “Where’s Jocko Klein? Hey there, Jocko! Long distance call for you in the office upstairs.”
Keystone Kids Page 11
