“Heh-heh! Say, heh-heh, that’s good, that is.” Men standing around turned curiously. “Don’t smoke. Don’t worry about that, Roy. Neither does Hammy, neither does Elmer Kennedy of the Sox or Sig Schecter of the Cardinals. Don’t smoke...say, that’s a scream!” He put one hand on the Kid’s arm and yanked an official-looking document from his pocket.
“Just you sign here...on this line here...I witness your signature below...and you’ll have a check for five hundred smackers round at your hotel tomorrow.”
Now he was annoyed. This was baseball, a Series game, the first Series game. Why didn’t they let a guy alone? “But I tell ya, I don’t smoke. You want me to say I like those cigarettes of yours, don’t ya...with my photo, and all...”
“Sure! That’s the idea, Roy. You don’t hafta smoke ’em. Now that Whispies crowd, they tell me a man stands right over the boys and makes ’em eat the darn things. Yessir. We don’t go in for foolishness of that sort. You sign here, and that’s as far as...”
“No, thanks...”
“No, thanks what?”
“Just no, thanks.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I don’t smoke. That’s why not.”
A frown came over Mr. Swan’s face. As an account executive of the J. W. Frost Agency he had met many strange types. But these ballplayers sure were queer. Imagine a boy of nineteen holding up the agency that way. “Well, now, er...maybe we could...I mean...say, if you have a good Series...and it sure looks like you will...we might raise that...a little, say six fifty...”
Roy swung his bat. Gosh, how he’d like to smack it down on that expensive gray hat. “No, thanks.” He turned toward the diamond where Harry Street, his roommate, was hitting balls over the fence.
“But, Mr. Tucker, here, wait a minute.” The man grabbed him by the arm. “Wait just a minute; don’t be so hasty about this. Let’s say seven fifty. There! That’s as far as I’m authorized to go. That’s the limit. Seven fifty.”
“Sorry. Nothing doing.”
“You mean to say you’ll chuck seven fifty smackers out the window because you don’t happen to smoke?”
“I guess so. Anyhow, I’m not interested.”
He walked away, the man following like a little dog, trying to hold on to his sleeve, to his arm. Roy stepped up to the plate.
He dug in his spikes, faced Speed Boy in the box who was tossing them up, took a toehold and put the wood on it cleanly. There! And there! And there! The balls sailed far, deep into the field. That was something like. It shook off the bad taste of that man from the J. W. Frost Agency. As he went back to the bench he saw him deep in conversation with one of the Indians.
Half an hour later Roy came back after fielding practice to the bench and watched the Indians run out.
Yessir, they were a good team. Nine old men...well, maybe. But they had lots of pep and ginger. And that second base combination was a dandy. Not as good as Harry and Ed; nosir, no one was as good as Harry and Ed. Those boys could get the ball away.
The stands covered with flags and bunting were filling up, and the swarm of reporters, radio men, and camera fiends on the field hadn’t lessened either. Some of them sat on the bench surrounding Dave, kidding and joking with him. Dave laughed as if it was merely another game instead of one of the most important of the year.
Important to him, too, for if they won the Series he’d have a three-year contract as manager. If not, well, if not...Taunton, maybe, or Elmira, or maybe nothing. Dave was old. He was forty, someone said. Yep, it was important, this game. If they got off to a good start, they’d win. That’s what Casey said, and all the sportswriters. If you won the first; the team that won the first game always won the Series. So on the first game was the difference between two thousand and four thousand. He thought of what it would mean; Grandma listening in on the farm, and the boys at the drugstore, and prob’ly old Mr. Haskins, the president of the First National Bank, who advised him not to leave his job and go wasting his time playing ball. Four thousand! Think what he could do with that. Oil the road past the house, bring in electricity from the state highway, get a new oil burner for Grandma, and an electric cookstove, maybe, and...
“What’s that? Who? Miller starting for them?” Someone was talking at the other end of the bench.
“Yeah. Least that’s what Sandy Martin says. Says Casey said Baker told him so.”
“Those ginks! What do they know?”
Back of home plate Razzle was warming up, slowly, leisurely, as if this was just another game. The Kid admired him, admired the way he rolled the ball round in his hand, glanced out over the diamond, lifted his head when someone yelled from the stands, and then burned the ball into his catcher’s mitt. He was warming up all right, but so were Elmer McCaffrey and Rats Doyle.
A clown in a monkey suit with a dress coat over it and a battered silk hat appeared on the third base line. Cheers, especially from the bleachers. “Schacht!” Yes, it was Al Schacht, the famous baseball comedian, tripping, falling, stumbling through his act. The groundsmen were white-washing the batter’s box, dusting off the infield.
Inside his stomach the Kid had the same sinking sensation he had the first time he came out to pitch at Ebbets Field. He suddenly wished that it was over. With all his heart he wished he was on the farm, back in MacKenzie’s drugstore on South Main, in a Florida training camp; that he was any place anywhere save in that dugout.
The crowd seated above the big diamond, now empty save for Al Schacht going through his tricks, roared with delight as he ran to spear a liner, stumbled, and fell on his face. Even Harry on one side and Red Allen on the other laughed. The Kid couldn’t. He was all tight inside.
“...for Brooklyn...Nugent, No. 14, pitching...” A roar from the stands. With Raz in the box, they couldn’t lose. Razzle was the favorite of all Dodger fans. “...West, No. 18, catching. For Cleveland...Miller...” The roar rose again. So the big boy was going in. He was out there to win the first game...“and McCormick, No. 2, catching.”
Somewhere a band began playing. Everyone stood, so the Kid stood, mechanically, without realizing it was “The Star-Spangled Banner.” As the last note died away, a burst of chatter rose up and down the dugout. Dave stood facing them on the step.
“All right now, boys. Get out there and upset ’em. Hustle every minute, hustle....”
Like a wave they jumped up the step and onto the sunny diamond. The stands rose, cheering. Well, here it was, two, four thousand...
Once out in the field he felt better. The old familiar noises came to him through the haze of his concentration. “Score card...twenty-five cents...can’t tell the players without a score card...anyone else wanta...popcorn and peanuts...five centsa...anyone else there...cold drinks, ice cold drinks...who wantsa ice cold...root beer, CocaCola...” And the half-heard, half-understood shouts from the bleachers to his left, from the Knot Hole Gang, fans who had sat there through blazing summer heat and knew him for their friend.
Yep, it was something to start at home. And there in front were the same figures; Eddie Davis mechanically scooping up dirt in the basepaths, the broad back of Red Allen with the number 3 on it directly ahead, and the dancing figure of Jerry on the hot corner. And over all the noises and the chatter from the dugouts and the field came the voices of men he knew, voices he could pick out even in the crowd-roar as Razzle mowed down the batters...one...two...three...
“Atta boy, atta boy, Raz, old boy old kid...tha’s pitching...that is, Razzle...give ’em the old dipsy doo, Raz...” “Hurry up...take yer time....” Harry Street’s favorite cry rose above the others as the side was out on a slow bounder to Eddie Davis and almost before he knew it half the inning was over.
“All right, gang, le’s get us a run now. Roy, you’re on deck.”
Red Allen was up. The Kid watched the big man in the box wind up, noticed his ease and grace, the smooth motion of his shoulder as he swung into the pitch, the tremendous speed as the ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt
.
Crack! A hit! Nope; just another can of corn.
The ball settled lazily into the center fielder’s hand as Roy, swinging two bats, stepped to the plate.
Well, here goes. Whew! Fast! It was high, inside, but awfully fast. The old scout hadn’t exaggerated. The big boy in the box shook off his catcher, half opening his mouth as he did so and exposing an empty space in front where a tooth was gone. Gosh, he was big; big as all outdoors. Ball two! Ah, that’s it. Wait him out. The next one came...right across. He shouldn’t have taken it. That was a dilly to hit.
Cracking the plate with his bat, the Kid pulled his cap down and took a good toehold. The ball came up, he swung...hit...and started for first, giving everything he had. But it was there before him. Slowly he walked back to the dugout.
“What’s he got, Roy?” asked old Cassidy on the first base coaching line.
“He’s got plenty, lemme tell you. Fast as they make ’em, that baby.”
From the dugout came the chatter of the gang. “Save me a rap, Swanny. You can hit it, Swanny. All right, Swanny, old boy, this is the one...”
Swanson drew a base on balls. Miller had only one fault—he was inclined to be wild. Every speed merchant was, at times. The whole dugout leaned forward, while the crowd above yelled as Karl Case beat out a slow roller to third. Now Harry Street walked up to the plate. The Kid felt sorry for him. He realized the pressure on anyone facing baseball’s best pitcher at that critical moment. Miller went to work on him as if it were the deciding run of the game. The big pitcher was determined to knock that rally in the head right there. A minute later, Harry struck out. Roy wasn’t surprised. Very likely he himself would have done the same thing.
Up to the fourth inning it was a ball game. No one had scored or seemed likely to do so. Razzle was pouring in his best stuff, and Miller was in command for Cleveland. Then in the Brooklyn fourth the pitcher drew a base on balls. Maybe this was the inning. Behind the dugout the Dodger fans went wild, and on the baselines the coaches began shouting through cupped hands. You had the feeling this was the time. This was the start, the beginning of the end. Razzle on first and the top of the batting order up.
Allen tried to bunt. Foul, strike one. Shucks, why don’t these birds take it from the old scout. Well, some folks just have to learn for themselves, that’s all. Oh, boy...there she goes...that’s a hit...go on, Raz you old ice cart...go on, you old elephant...go on, you...you...you truck horse...go on....
The first real hit of the game. A clean single between second and first, to the right of the fielder. But Raz was too slow to make third. Anyhow, men on first and second and no one out as Roy came to bat. Now the stands were up. He could hear them calling his name, crying for a hit. Walking to the plate an idea came to him.
Why not give Miller the old gag? Pretend to take the first pitch, act as if he was going to let it go by, and then if it was good, sock it.
He stepped up carelessly, and instead of assuming his usual alert stance, stood waggling his bat, tugging at his cap, hitching his belt, and watching Charlie Draper on third for the signals. Miller shook off his catcher. That meant a fast one.
Boy, here goes that old ball game.
He tried hard to conceal his thoughts, to stand negligently at the plate as the big chap in the box drew himself up. Waiting till the last possible second he saw the ball leave Miller’s hand and come on a line with his right shoulder.
Here it comes...I’ll...no...it’s too close to hit...I’ll just turn and take it on my shoulder blades...get my base...here it comes...here...
Then ten feet from the plate the ball suddenly shot upward. He tried to shift, to move, to duck back; but his feet were locked.
BONG.
A bell rang in his head. It rang day and night for the next six weeks.
3
HARRY WAS STANDING over him. And McCormick, the Indian catcher, his mask off. And old Stubblebeard the plate umpire. And Karl Case. Beaned! That was it. Beaned!
Someone was feeling the side of his head. No, not that side, not the left, the right side. Not the left, the right side. Nobody understood. Meanwhile, bong...bong...bong...bong...went that bell in his head.
He tried to get up. Someone pushed him back. Charlie Draper was supporting him. “Take it easy, Kid. Just take it easy now.” Then he saw Gene Miller, a queer frightened look on his face, peering down.
“Is he all right...is he all right?...”
Someone was hauling him onto a stretcher. A stretcher! Nuts to that! He wanted to take first, to run the bases, to get out there; and he tried to move. Three men on and nobody out. Three on and...“Hey, lemme get out there, will ya, you guys, lemme...”
Bong...bong...bong...gosh, he was dizzy.
“Take it easy, Roy, just take it easy.” Yeah, take it easy. Maybe that was better after all.
The clubhouse was cool and darkish. Or was it the ice pack over his head as he lay stretched out on the rubbing table? The club doctor came in and began feeling his left temple and asking questions. Did that hurt there? There? Did that hurt?
“Not that side, Doc. Not that side. I bat left-handed, see. Not that side.”
But the doctor continued feeling his left temple. No sense, these people. No sense at all.
Outside there was a sudden burst of noise. It kept on, louder, louder. Someone had scored. Must have been us. “Hey, Chiselbeak, what happened? Anyone score?” Where was that old dope? Never round when you wanted him.
A minute later the noise increased and before it died away there was a tremendous roar, a roar that grew and grew. A player came running in, his spikes clattering on the concrete.
“Gimme some tape, Chisel, quick. Ya, two bases on balls...an’ Strong cracks a double down the left field line...I think they’re yanking Miller now.”
Yanking Miller! About time, if you ask me. Imagine, a gink like that, beaning men in a Series game.
Chisel came over to the table as the doctor left. “How ya feel, boy?”
“Kinda dizzy-like. And that bell, Chisel, can’t you shut off that bell?”
“What bell?”
“That bell ringing. Don’t you hear it?”
“Ain’t no bell ringing. That’s yer head, Roy. Take it easy, now. Just take it easy.”
He pulled the ice pack off and started to replace it with a fresh one. As he did so a shadow in the door darkened the room for a second. A player was standing there; hot, sweaty, hair mussed up. He wore a Cleveland uniform. They both saw him but it was the Kid who spoke.
“You...you...you Gene Miller...you call yourself a pitcher...why, you oughta be ashamed of yourself...you mug...you...a pitcher...that’s been round as long as you have...and can’t keep the ball over the plate...imagine, beaning a guy in a Series game...say, if I was you, I’d take off that uniform...you great big thug, call yourself a pitcher...listen, you bum you...if I was you...” For several minutes he went on, unable to stop, pouring out abuse on the distressed man in the door.
Miller never replied. Without saying a word he stood there, his big brown eyes open, his mouth twitching. Finally he turned and went away.
All the while Chiselbeak was patting him on the shoulder. “Now, boy, jest you take it easy; take it easy, Roy old boy. They’ll be here with the ambulance in a minute.”
The ambulance came. All night in the hospital he was hitting home runs and making impossible catches in the field. The next morning he was weak, and no wonder. But he felt better, more normal. Shortly after breakfast, which consisted of orange juice, the nurse said a man wanted particularly to see him.
It was Gene again. He stood trembling in the doorway. “Roy, gee, I’m sorry. Honest to goodness I didn’t mean for to hit you, Roy. How are you this morning? Feel any better, do you? Say, I’m all busted up over this, honest I am, Roy. Please believe me, I hadn’t any idea when I threw that ball...”
“Why, Gene, what you doing here? Of course I’m better. I’m okay now. Gene, don’t you take on one little bit. I know y
ou didn’t do it on purpose. It was my own fault anyway; my feet were locked and I couldn’t dodge back. Just one of those breaks, that’s all. Everybody has to take ’em, so don’t you worry about it, Gene. Don’t you worry the least bit, hear me?”
His face lightened up. “You feel better, don’t you, Kid? Sure ’nough?”
“Yeah, I feel better.” He did, too. In fact he was sitting up for the first time without any dizziness. Only that continual bong-bong-bong-bong in his head. How long would that last? All day, maybe. “Yes, sir, you bet I am. And Gene. One thing. Don’t pay attention to what I said in the clubhouse to you yesterday. I was wacky then. Understand? I was getting set to step into that one and you had a right to dust me off. I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Understand?”
The big chap came over to the bed. He had a frank, open face, warm brown eyes, and when he smiled there was the gap in his teeth in front that made him look boyish—the same gap Roy had noticed when he came to bat. “Why, certainly, that’s okay. I knew that, Roy, all the time. I knew you hardly realized what you were saying. Now get yourself well, hear me?” He leaned over. “Brought my radio along; thought you might like to get the play-by-play if you’re stuck in here a few days.”
The nurse poked her head in the door. “Your telephone, Mr. Tucker. Tomkinsville, Connecticut calling. Long distance wants you.”
“’Scuse me, Gene. That’s my grandma, that is. She thinks I’m dead most likely. Hullo. Hullo there, Grandma...well, how are you?...”
All morning they had him in the X-ray room. Or so it seemed. Walk? No, he couldn’t walk or at least they wouldn’t let him, and he hated to be carried along on a stretcher. But they insisted. For an hour they took pictures of his head, his neck, his shoulders. From the top, from every side, from all possible angles. Early in the afternoon a doctor in a long white coat came to examine him.
Patiently the Kid explained. Everyone seemed to make the same mistake. “Nosir, you see I bat left-handed, so the ball hit me here, on the right side, not the left.”
World Series Page 2
