Rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat...
“Hey there, Jake.” The man turned quickly, saw them, stopped, pulling off one glove.
“Hullo, kid.” He shook hands with Jim.
“This is Ronny. Ronald Perry. He’s a football halfback and a darn good one, and he packs a mean left, too. And this is Gordon Brewster, boy I spoke to you about over the phone.”
“Say, what is this anyhow?” Gordon looked worried.
“Boxing. Boxing, see? Ronny and I, we figured what you needed was a little toughening up. So we arranged with Jake here...”
“But I don’t want to box. I don’t know how to box, I...”
“That’s just it.”
“And I don’t want to know how. Besides, I’ve got to work. A history paper due tomorrow. And a book report for Thursday. I haven’t cracked that book yet.”
“Do you good, young fella,” said the man called Jake, not in a reassuring tone.
“He’ll take it. And like it. Now...”
“Tomorrow! Tomorrow!” cried the unhappy Gordon. “Not today, please, not today. I have too much work today, honest I have.”
“Gordon, you’ve got to begin and you might just as well make up your mind to begin now. Three times a week you’re to report down here at three in the afternoon to Jake, understand? It’s only for half an hour, but we aren’t afraid you’ll be getting any detentions to keep you in, so be sure you come on the button.”
“Another thing, Gordon.” Stacey towered over him. “No sloping off, get me? If he doesn’t show up regular, Jake, you just let one of us know. We’ll get him if we have to leave a ball game in the middle of the eighth. Hey, Ronny?”
“That’s correct. Take your coat off and roll up your sleeves, Gordon. And get to work. Goodbye, Jake. Be sure and treat him rough. So long, Gordon; don’t hurt the Professor, whatever you do. Remember, three o’clock three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. If he misses out one single day, we’ll hear from you, Jake.”
They were in the passageway again, through the little office, and at their bikes. Up and back on the street they walked along together, laughing.
“Bet he’ll leave us alone now.”
“I’ll say. Boy, how he’ll hate the two of us.”
“Yeah. Well, it’ll do him lots of good. Do us good, too.”
“You said it. Do the school good. A swell idea of yours, Ronny.”
“The idea was ok, but the thing was I didn’t know any boxing instructor. How’d you get to know him so well he’d take on a kid like Gordon for nothing, Jim?”
“Me? Oh, well, it’s like this. He knows me, Jake does. I took lessons from him four years running.”
“You did! I never knew that.”
“Sure. I got to know him pretty well. And I love boxing. You know I was lightweight champion of the Y last two years I was under him, and now he says maybe next year he’ll enter me in the trials for the Golden Gloves. If I can only pick up ten pounds, he will.”
“Good heavens! And you’re the guy I pasted in the face. Out of that whole school, I had to pick on a fighter who’s good enough to enter the Golden Gloves. Twelve hundred students, and I had to pick on you....”
They laughed together. “’At’s all right, Ronny.” He patted him on the shoulder as they paused by a traffic light at the corner of South Main. “’At’s all right, boy. You’re the only person I can remember who got the first crack in on me, and I’m still tasting blood and teeth from that smack you handed out. So you did ok, boy, you did ok. Here’s where I leave you. We’ll keep after that kid, you and I, huh? Ok. S’long.”
“You bet. So long, Jim. And thanks a whole lot.” He walked his bike slowly down the street, smiling to himself. To think I had to pick on a Golden Gloves boxer! In all that school, with all those boys, to think I had to smack a guy who’s the lightweight champion of the Y. No wonder he knocked me out. But to think I should have jumped down a guy’s throat who turns out to be the best boxer in his class in town, and a Golden Gloves...
“Hey, Ronny...”
“Ronald!”
“Hey there, Ronald! Perry! Hey, Perry!”
He looked up. Familiar voices came through the traffic. Across the street they were waving. He saw them, waved back.
They came over, deftly dodging a line of cars and trucks. Keith in his checked jacket, Eric with a fawn-colored polo coat open at the neck, and Tommy Gilmore in a new blue suit. They all wore saddle shoes, and neckties striped blue and black. Those were the ties of Heptameron, the senior society. It meant they’d just been taken in at the spring elections. If he had stayed, he would now be wearing one of those striped blue and black neckties.
“Hi, fellas, how are you? Hullo, Eric, hi there, Keith, Tommy.” It was the first time he had seen anyone from the Academy since the morning he had walked out of Keith’s room forever. “What you people doing downtown here this time of day?”
“Baseball equipment.”
“What?”
“Baseball equipment. We came down with the truck for the new uniforms and baseballs; they’re at the express station and we need them today.”
“Boy, will we have a team this year! That young Heywood is a real pitcher.”
“You mean the kid that was right half last fall?”
“That’s right. Say, he’s a pitcher, Ronny.”
“You bet he is; got a mean sinker.”
“Yessir, we’ll sure beat you guys this time, no mistake.”
“Maybe,” said Ronald. “Maybe. How’s things on the Hill? How’s the Duke and everyone?”
“Just fine.”
“How are you, Ronald? We hear they beat you up pretty bad.”
“Who beat me up?”
“Those lugs down at the High School. Your buddies down there.”
“Well, they didn’t. I mean I... that is... where did you hear that? Who told you that?”
“They ganged up on you and put you in the hospital, that’s what we heard. Didn’t they?”
“Yes, and fractured your skull?”
“No! Yes. I mean, does my skull look as if it had been fractured?” He was confused and disturbed. “Why, we had an argument, that’s all. I fell and hit my head on the stone floor in the corridor.”
“An argument! Get that one! He calls it an argument. We were told a crowd ganged up on you because you came from the Academy and they thought you were a sissy.”
“Well, they didn’t, see? Here’s what happened. Remember Jim Stacey, their end...”
“Oh, that goon.”
“He’s not a goon. He’s a good guy, a real fella, and he’s my friend, too. Also, he’s the best boxer in town for his size, Keith. Well, we got into an argument—oh, all right, a fight if you like that word any better—and he knocked me out. That’s absolutely all there was to it....”
“If you make friends with lugs like that, you must expect brawls....”
The traffic light was changing. What was the use? He planked his bike with force down beside the curb and jumped on. “I’m going uptown. So long, you fellas.”
“So long, Ronny.”
“Take it easy, Ronny.”
“Hey, Ronald, tell ’em we got a real pitcher this year, with a sinker and everything.”
He rode down South Main. Faster, faster. He was glad he wasn’t wearing a blue and black Heptameron necktie.
II
Nine more outs. Only nine more outs and they would go against the Academy for the final game of the year, an undefeated team. Nine more outs, Mike, nine more outs, Chester, nine more outs, Jim. That’s what everyone thought to himself when they dashed out for the end of the seventh. While the Bannister batter, tapping the dirt from his spikes, came to the plate.
“Nice and loose there, Jim.”
“Cool and nervous, Jim-boy.”
“Ok, Jim, let’s us get this first man.”
As Ronny trotted back toward his place near second, he could hear the coach yelling at them from the bench through cuppe
d hands. Almost he sounded like a professional ballplayer.
“Lotsa pep out there, boys; lotsa pep alla time, Jim, alla time, Mike; talk her up, Bob....”
“Ok, Jim, old boy, here’s the easy man. This the one we want.”
“Cool and nervous, Jim, alla time, Jim-old-boy-old-kid-old-boy...”
The tall Irishman in the box drew himself up and burned the ball into Mike Fronzak’s mitt. The batter swung clean around, almost hitting the dirt, and drawing a barrage of noise from the entire field. Stacey watched as Mike leaned over, pulling up the tip of his chest protector to his stomach and giving the signals. Then he threw again. This time the batter caught it and hit a slow, dragging roller toward short, a hit that would have been safe on anyone but a fast shortstop with a sure arm. Ned LeRoy came in, perfectly balanced. With one movement he stopped the ball and without pause or hesitation shot it across to Bob Patterson on first. The umpire, still clutching his mask in his hand, ran down the path behind the batsman. Up shot his hand. A howl rose from the Bannister bench, but the man was clearly out.
In several minutes more they were trooping in toward the bench before the start of the eighth. Only six more outs now; six outs, Jim, six outs, Dave, six outs more, Bobby. They didn’t say that because the coach wouldn’t permit it; however, that’s what everyone thought to himself. Only six more outs. While that one-run lead looked bigger than ever. Usually their scores ran into two figures. That day the pitchers were good and the fielding better, so the score was low.
Ronald squeezed in beside the coach on the bench. “No, no, move down one, Ronny. I want LeRoy to sit next to me. And whatever you do, don’t cross your legs.”
Tom Quinn, the coach, was superstitious. He believed it was bad luck to talk about future games, to cross your legs while on the bench, and good luck to sit next to a Negro. When there was no Negro boy on the team, he always picked one in school to act as bat boy. This amused Ronny very much. At the Academy where there were separate coaches for every sport, baseball was coached by Mr. Spencer who taught ancient history. He had no superstitions, but instead a Harvard accent and a college background in baseball. No one ever got familiar with him.
At Abraham Lincoln one man coached baseball, football and basketball. Tom Quinn, a former all-American end at Indiana University, was tall, well built, and with his peaked cap down over his eyes looked exactly like a big leaguer. No wonder, for after leaving college he had played baseball with the Syracuse team of the International League. You wouldn’t call the former center fielder of the Chiefs, Mr. Quinn. Naturally not. So you just called him Coach. That’s what everybody called him.
Bud Talbot, the center fielder, popped up and then Ned drew a base on balls. Ronny leaned over for his bat.
“Watch me on every pitch, Ronald. And take the first one.”
“Ok, Coach.” His cap stuffed in his hip pocket, he stepped to the plate, hearing the cries from the field and the shout from the bench of the Bannister coach to his pitcher.
“Up and around his ears, Ike.” Ronny was used to this one. Everyone threw high balls at him, figuring that because he wore no cap the glare of the sun would prevent his seeing them when they were high. It hadn’t prevented his making the only extra-base hit of the game, nor kept him from standing third in the team batting average for the season.
The first pitch which he took was a ball. He turned, looking toward the coach on the bench. Hit it! Ok, I’ll hit. He got a good hold and smacked a sizzling roller between first and second. The fielder made a stab for the ball, held it, and tossed quickly underhand to the shortstop on second who shot it in time to first. One out! Two out! The side retired.
Shoot! We wuz robbed. You wuz robbed, Ronny, on that one. Hard luck, Ronny; hard luck, kid. Ok, gang, let’s go now.
They ran out onto the field.
All right, Jim; c’mon now, Jim-boy, you can do it, Jim. Bear down now, Jim, old kid. This the man we want.
Jim bore down. He seemed to be getting better as the game went along. He struck the first batter out; the next man popped to Mike Fronzak.
Only four more outs, gang, only four to get. Here’s their dangerous man, the captain and left fielder.
He hit the first ball between first and second, right in the slot. But Ronny, well back on the grass, knew he had a chance and started with the ball. Running with his head over, his gloved hand out as far as possible, he tried to reach the ball cutting through the thick spring grass. With a last effort he got to it, stabbed it, the ball resting in the webbing of his glove. But that rush carried him too far and fast. He tried to right himself, to stop; tottered, stumbled and almost fell. For a second he was sure he would fall. Staggering, he managed to recover enough balance to toss the ball over into Bob’s waiting glove.
The runner thundered down the basepath, sore and angry at being cheated out of a hit. As he passed first, he came down hard on Bob’s heel beside the bag. The big boy went down in a heap, and instantly the whole field became a pattern of motion. The coach, the umpire, the Bannister coach, the entire infield, ran across. Bob in pain on the ground was holding his foot in his hand.
“Naw... my ankle... my ankle... my ankle I tell you.”
Someone shouted something at the Bannister runner who walked slowly down the foul line. “Aw, he oughta have kept his big hoofs outa the way.” A fight seemed in the cards. But the Bannister coach stepped in. “Get back to the bench, Jake. You too, Sammy; all you boys. Get back there where you belong.” Then he helped them carry Bob across and lay him on the grass behind their bench.
The coach leaned over and felt of the injured ankle. “You can’t play anymore today, that’s certain. Don’t worry, Bobby, I’ll get you back next week for the Academy game. Here, Tommy, you and Roy help him back to the bus. No, no, you cannot go back in; I don’t care how it feels. You’ve had your ankle twisted, I’ll tape it after we get home. Take his shoe off and help him to the bus, boys.” The yellow bus which had brought them down was waiting in the drive behind the outfield. The coach looked round for a sub. His second string catcher?
“Hey, Coach, I’ll take over first if you want.”
“You? Ever play first before?”
“Yessir. Once at the Academy I did when our regular man was sick with flu.”
“Ok. You take first, Ronny. Let’s see now; George, suppose you go in at second. All right now, boys, forget all that. Only one more inning. How you feel, Jim?” The big pitcher was yanking on a windbreaker he always wore on the bench.
“Me? I’ve got one more good inning left, Coach.”
“Ok, I’ll string along with you. I’m gonna stay with you, Jim. Now come on, boys; let’s see if we can’t get a bigger lead to make things easy for Jim.”
But Abraham Lincoln went out in order and they came to the last of the ninth with that one run bigger than ever.
Only three more outs; three more outs, Jim, three more outs, Mike, three more outs and we’ll go against the Academy an unbeaten team. If we can lick this pitcher, we’ll sure show that boy Heywood something, too. Only three more outs, thought Ronny, as the infield burned the ball across to him and Mike Fronzak shot one at him from the plate. Three more outs.
“C’mon now, guys; c’mon, Jim, stay in there, Jim, every minute...”
Aw, shoot!
The first batter leaned back to avoid a high inside one. The ball hit his bat and looped over third base in safe ground near the foul line. Shoot! Only good fielding prevented the runner from stretching it into a double.
Now the Bannister bench was up and yelling. Last of the ninth, one run behind, nobody out, and a man on first.
“Throw it and duck, big boy. Throw it and duck up there.” Jim stood in his familiar pose, not hearing their comments, cool and undisturbed. He stepped to the rubber and quickly shot in the pitch.
“Strike one!” The clatter and clamor from the opposing bench died suddenly away. Instead, their own confident noise rose over the diamond. Jim still had his stuff. Jim was as good
as ever.
“Atta boy, Jim! ’At’s pitching!”
“Nice and loose now, Jim, boy...”
“You’re the baby, Jim...”
“Stay in there, Jim, every minute, Jim...”
The batter hit. A slow, looping ball which lofted over Ronny’s head and spun smack on the right field chalkline like a boy’s top. Aw, nuts! There’s luck for you! Eight innings of perfect pitches, a couple of bloopers, a couple of fluke hits and there you are, bang goes your ball game. Chester came racing in from right and was fortunate to get the ball in time to hold the runner on third. Shoot! Third and first, nobody down. This is bad, this is sure bad.
Now the Bannister bench and the crowded stands behind were wild with excitement. The clatter and noise and shouting increased when the runner on first ambled down to second on Jim’s first pitch. Mike, behind the plate, made no play on him. From the bench the coach was shouting, his hands around his mouth. Ronald heard nothing. Then he saw. He was beckoning, beckoning the whole infield in closer on the grass.
Ronald came in slowly, while the batter took a toehold and the stands shrieked at him.
“Step in front of it, Tommy.”
“Hey, Tommy, thizza one you want...”
“This the big one, Tommy-boy; a hit means a run, anything goes...”
Tommy hit. Ronald saw the ball passing, a line drive between where he stood and second base. He made a desperate dive with his gloved hand, speared it, stumbled, fell, and the ball rolled away on the grass.
The field was confusion. Everyone was running. Then over all the uproar he heard Jim’s cool tones from the box.
“Home, Ronny, home, home!”
Ronald didn’t need to be told. He knew they were all going as hard as they could, giving everything they had. Picking himself up he lunged for the ball, grabbed it, and burned it in to the plate. Mike slapped it hard on the sliding runner and whipped it back to third where the other Bannister runner was bearing down. Mancini had to get down for the throw, somehow he held it, and put it on the man at his feet. Two out! Two out and a man on first.
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