World Series

by John R. Tunis

  On the next pitch McClusky grounded to Ed Davis who was obliged to throw to first to get the runner, with no chance of catching Lanahan at second. Old Fox Gardiner came up. He hit a looping ball...the Kid raced in....

  Can’t make it. Too late ! Over the crowd’s roar he heard Red and Davis both yelling at him. “Home...home! Home, Roy!” He took the ball on the second hop, all poised for the throw. From his place in short right he decided to throw all the way. The ball went on a line exactly where the veteran catcher straddled the plate. Lanahan, seeing the ball was waiting, made no effort to slide but struck Dave with the full force of his right shoulder and knocked him spinning in the dirt. Dave fell, still clutching the ball, and the runner was out. Some players might have dropped it; not Dave Leonard. The next batter flied to Karl and again Elmer was out of a bad hole. The Kid felt better as he came trotting into the dugout.

  “That was the right throw on him, wasn’t it, Dave?”

  Cleveland finally managed to put a run over in the fourth, a run which kept looking bigger and bigger as the game progressed. A two thousand dollar run, it was. The way Thomas was pitching, that run was as good as ten. The Dodger batters were swinging ahead of the ball, sending easy grounders to third or short balls which the pitcher nabbed in time to get them at first. Dave tried not to fret. Surely they’d get one run. One run wasn’t asking much. Then in the Cleveland sixth, Hammy got a curve on the business end of his forty ounce club and smashed it to deep center. When Swanny at last relayed it to the infield the big first baseman was puffing on third.

  Bruce Gordon swinging three bats in his hand came to the plate. He fouled one into the stands and the Kid watched Dave take a new ball from Stubblebeard and throw it over to Jerry Strong on third. Jerry rubbed it up well before tossing it to Elmer. Jerry was the team’s official rubber-up. They always threw him new balls.

  Two strikes. Then two and one. Gordon hit the next, an easy grounder to Harry. Before his eyes the Kid had the whole panorama: Hammy cautiously retreating to third, Gordon straining for first, Harry at short set for the ball and all ready to throw.

  Then! It struck a pebble, took a bad hop, and bounced over Harry’s head into center field. Hammy scored standing up and the count was two to nothing.

  My gosh, don’t we ever have any luck? Don’t we ever get any luck at all? A run like that, a scratch hit on what should have been an easy out! Two to nothing. Now the pressure will be on Elmer. One run is bad, two runs to get with only three innings left is tough. And this isn’t over yet. There’s Gordon on first and Painter, a dangerous man, at bat.

  Dave and Elmer conferred together. Then they separated. A hit-and-run, possibly.

  Yes, it was a hit-and-run. A clean hit, too. No! Eddie had the ball, way back of second. How the heck did he manage to get over there? He was on one foot, off balance, all tied up in knots, but somehow he got the ball away with that split second quickness so vital in doubleplays. Harry had it just as Gordon slid into the bag in a vain attempt to upset him. The little shortstop deftly sidestepped the spikes of the runner and burned the ball into first. Up went the hand of the umpire on second. Up went the hand of the umpire behind first. And up went the roar from the throats of thousands of fans. It was the first time the Dodger crowd had really had a chance to yell since the game began and they made the most of it. This was the Dodgers again.

  End of the seventh. Those two runs looked big on the scoreboard over the Kid’s head in right. Two runs; we need three but we’ll settle for two. Who’s up? Bottom of the batting order. Ed Davis at the plate. Here’s hoping the boys save me a rap. Gee, I hope they save me a rap. My last rap of the game, maybe. Perhaps the last of the Series, he thought. Then with every other man on the bench he leaped to his feet. Ed was slinging his bat away. The first base on balls Thomas has given. He’s weakening.

  Dave at bat. A man on first and no one out. He touched his cap, wiped his right hand carefully on his trousers. The entire Cleveland team, knowing how badly a run was needed, were looking for anything. So on the pitch, as Ed dashed for second base, Gardiner went over to cover the bag. Dave, an experienced batter, waited until from one corner of his eye he saw Gardiner break. Then he cracked a lazy bounder straight through the open position between first and second. It was a clean hit. Ed slid easily into third and Dave planted himself on first. Now the entire dugout was on the step, yelling. Two men on, no one out. Two runs to make up!

  The Kid went over to the bat rack for his stick. Yep, I’ll get my rap all right. And if that old bird Leonard can hit this pitcher, by ginger I can. Here’s our chance. This is our inning, fellas.

  11

  “WIN YOUR OWN game, Elmer.”

  “All right, now, Elmer, you can do it.”

  “Just a single, that’s all we need, Elmer, old-boy-old-kid.”

  The dugout like the stands was in delirium. Every man was on his feet roaring from the step. Two runs behind. A hit meant a run this time. The Cleveland catcher and pitcher stood with their heads together in the middle of the path. Two runs behind. A hit would mean a run and another hit would tie the score. It was a bad situation for a pitcher.

  Come on there, Elmer. Win your own game. He gripped the bat, attempted a bunt to score the man on third, but missed the ball completely. Shucks! Strike one. It silenced the dugout temporarily. Now he’ll have to hit. A ball! More chatter from the dugout. Then a mighty shout in the bleachers. Two balls. Yessir, Thomas was weakening. The pitcher smoothed the dirt back of the rubber, hitched nervously at his pants, and passed his arm over his forehead. The battery was working carefully on Elmer, trying to get him to hit into a doubleplay, and the Kid, watching from the dugout, realized the two forces contending, each attempting to outguess the other. For a second he forgot the thousands of spectators above, the thousands of extra dollars at stake, forgot winning even, in watching the play and interplay which made baseball the game it was.

  Suddenly there was a yell from the Cleveland dugout. He saw Dave and a cloud of dust arrive together at second. The old man had actually stolen a base with the Indian catcher completely napping. Dave had swiped second! What do you think of that? The idea that a slow, forty-year-old manager with, as they supposed, two charley horses, would dare go down, seemed impossible. The Cleveland team had been crossed beautifully. Men on second and third now. That’s better still. In the excitement he had failed to notice the pitch. A glance at the scoreboard showed the count 3-1. It was a ball.

  All through the Series Dave had refused to allow his pitchers to hit the 3-1 throw. This, he felt, was percentage baseball. The man who wasn’t going to take could hit, but he ordered his pitchers to take. The Kid watched him flash the signal for Elmer to hit. It was a set-up play if, as seemed probable, the catcher called for a straight ball. He did. Elmer cracked it with all the force of his powerful body deep into right field. Gordon went back for the catch but didn’t try for the throw-in. One man down, a runner on third, and one run across. Now they only had one run to get. One run worth two thousand dollars to every player on the team.

  Big Red Allen strode to the plate. He hit the first ball sharply to the right of the second baseman. Old Gardiner was slow getting across, reached it late, stooped to pick it up, threw, and the runner was safe. And Dave was over with the tieing run!

  There’s our break! There’s the break we had coming. “Ed Davis would have had that one in his pocket. Sure he would, wouldn’t he, Karl?” Never mind, we needed that break; it came just at the right moment. Boy, if I can only hit one now we’re really set.

  He watched one pitch and caught the next. But he failed to meet it squarely. It struck the end of his bat and the ball looped over Painter’s head for a scratch single into left field. Red Allen streaked to second.

  A base on balls! Swanny trotted to first while out in the bullpen the two Cleveland pitchers stopped watching and began to concentrate earnestly on their warm-up throws.

  Three on and only one out! They weren’t done yet. Now, Karl! C’mon
there, Karl! The Kid stood on second, watching Karl come confidently to the plate.

  A hit! Oh, that was a hit! A clean liner into deep center. That ball is traveling. McClusky couldn’t get that one with a motorcycle.

  The Kid, head down, rounded third and dug for home, while Karl planted himself defiantly on second base. As Roy trotted across the plate, he observed the hot, disappointed face of the Cleveland catcher. He was holding his mask in his hand, shaking his head. The Kid couldn’t resist jabbing him.

  “It’s not how hard you hit ’em, Mac, it’s where you hit ’em, hey?” The catcher heard but paid no attention whatever.

  Behind the plate, over opposite in the rear of the Dodger dugout, in the stands in deep center, the fans were on their feet, giving the raspberry to the visiting team. This was something like! The Cleveland players, their confidence gone, their noisy chatter now subdued, stood watching as a relief pitcher hurried over from the bullpen.

  Harry Street hit the first pitch between short and second, a sizzling grounder no one could reach. Why, everyone was hitting at last. Then Jerry Strong got a single and Ed Davis came to bat for the second time that inning. When it was over they had scored seven runs, eventually knocking the Indian relief man from the box and coming into the ninth with a safe lead. Elmer allowed another run, but working carefully he and Dave always had the situation under control. There were two out and a man on second when Hammy came to the plate in the ninth.

  The most dangerous man on the field. But even a homer will only mean two runs, thought Roy. Hammy hit hard. From the sound Roy knew it was headed his way. He went back, back, back as far as he could. The sun was in his eyes, he could see nothing. He reached up his glove.... There it was! The game was over.

  Instead of stopping, he wheeled and kept on running past the shrieking bleachers all the way to the clubhouse, his hand still uplifted, the ball clutched in his glove, a grin a mile wide on his face; while the fans were running to form lines at the box offices to buy tickets for the seventh game.

  Meanwhile the team stormed into the dressing room. Clack-clack, clackety-clack. The ball was still stuck in the webbing of his glove.

  “Boy, they’ll have to take a hammer to get that one out.” Someone was slapping him on the back. Someone else called across the room. Once again it resounded to shouts and laughter. The photographers were climbing on chairs and tables, on the tops of lockers, their flashlights popping. The Dodgers were still in the fight.

  “Yippee...yippee!”

  “Yippee! Who said we couldn’t hit their pitchers?”

  “Hey there, Chisel, you old slowfoot, gimme a Coke.”

  “Naw. We ain’t started yet.”

  “Yippee. Yowser!”

  “Nice going there, Elmer.”

  “That’s chucking, Elmer.”

  The big pitcher seated on a table was sucking a Coke through a straw. Reporters surrounded him.

  “What were you throwing out there today, Elmer?”

  “Same stuff I been throwing for years. Mostly fast balls. I threw a few high neck-in pitches, and they got hungry.”

  “You sure poured it in those last few innings,” said Dave. “Almost too fast for these old eyes.”

  “Yessir, Elmer, you pitched a grand game out there. They were stretching most of the time.”

  “Aw...when you got a catcher like Dave Leonard a man can’t help coming through. He’s with you all the time.”

  “That’s right.” This emphatic remark came from Charlie Draper who entered dragging the big leather ball bag. “Dave, you caught a darn fine game, I’ll tell the world. A couple of those low pitches there in the sixth or seventh, if they’d got away we’d sure been out of luck.”

  “He pulled me through. Don’t I know it,” said Elmer.

  “Who’ll you pitch tomorrow, Dave?” As usual, Casey was on the job.

  “Dunno. The man who’s the whitest, I guess. The man who’s most scared.”

  Old Chiselbeak circulated through the room, his face smiling and happy, catching wet garments thrown to him as the players got ready for the showers. More people came in. Across the big room the team shouted remarks.

  “Congratulations, Roy.”

  “Nice work yourself, Eddie. How you ever got to that one in the sixth I dunno. It looked like a hit from my place.”

  “Shoot! We’ll beat those birds tomorrow. Yes, sir, Miller and all of ’em.”

  “We sure will.”

  “Yippee...yippee....”

  “Great work, fellas.”

  “Thanks lots, Pete. Thanks, Casey.”

  Back in his dressing room off the main quarters, Dave with a cigarette in his mouth began to undress. He was tired. No fooling, he was tired. The strain of playing and running the team and holding the pitchers together was telling. He felt he couldn’t face up to the next day. His thighs and legs ached. His muscles were sore all over. Slowly he threw off his shoes and started to pull down his pants when he found himself surrounded by a circle of reporters. The Dodgers had won. True, but old man Leonard was the story. Old man Leonard who pulled a shaky pitcher through to triumph, who caught a grand game of ball, who started the rally that won, and who at forty actually stole second under the eyes of the best catcher in the American League.

  Dave was the angle. They’d have to concentrate on Dave. More men entered and he glanced up at the growing circle, the reporters with pads out, some with folded paper, all with pencils at the ready. There were Casey and one or two more columnists, there were Rex King of the Times, bespectacled and kindly, quickwitted Sandy Martin of the Post, big Jerry Regan of the Tribune, Dennison of the News, as well as lots of Cleveland writers he had never seen before. A mob of them! It was a formidable assembly.

  He paused, sitting there on his four-legged stool, his trousers half-on, half-off.

  “Don’t tell me you bums want me to give you a story tonight. Get out of here, the whole lot of you. Go into the big room there and talk to the boys. They’re the ones that did the work.”

  12

  DAVE WAS TIEING his necktie before a cracked mirror in his dressing room. This cracked mirror dated from the time twenty years before, when as a cub he had broken in with the White Sox. Everywhere he went he carried the cracked glass and hung it on the wall of his quarters.

  “Charlie...”

  Charlie Draper on a stool, thick in conversation with Cassidy, looked up. He saw Dave motioning with his head, rose and went over to the manager. Finishing his tie, the old catcher said in an undertone:

  “Charlie, I want you should see how many players are going to the banquet tonight.”

  “Yeah, Dave. I stuck that notice on the board.”

  “No, no. That won’t do any good. I want you should round them up, personal-like. Make ’em feel they oughta show up. Point is, they don’t want to go. But I’d rather they did. You can’t send players to bed at ten o’clock, that’ll only increase the pressure on ’em.”

  “But looka here, Dave; I spoke to one or two of the boys. They somehow just don’t want to go.”

  “’Course they don’t. That’s your job. You must persuade ’em. Otherwise, Charlie, they’ll spend their time thinking about tomorrow. They come to dinner and pick up a menu with their faces all over the cover. Then they go into the lobby to be pestered by autograph nuts, or take in a movie and tire their eyes out, or sit all evening in their room reading newspapers and tightening up over this-here game. I want them at that banquet where their minds won’t be on the game. For a while, anyhow.”

  So Charlie with a pad and pencil went dutifully around the room. He didn’t have a great deal of luck.

  “What banquet?” asked Rats Doyle, with scorn in his voice. He had played in other Series and been to other banquets.

  “Nuts,” said Harry Street, struggling into his coat. “I got something better to do than go to banquets.”

  “How ’bout you, Razzle?”

  “Naw. I have a date tonight.”

  From player t
o player, always the same response. They were busy, they were bored, they were not having any banquets. The Kid began to feel sorry for the people running the banquet, and as Charlie, pad and pencil in hand, went around the room, he changed his mind. He’d go. Fat Stuff was going also. Apparently he and Fat Stuff would represent the team that evening.

  What kind of a banquet was it? At the bulletin board near the door he paused as he went out and read a letter pinned there.

  “The Chamber of Commerce in conjunction with Martin Motors, Inc. requests the pleasure of the company of the members of the Brooklyn National League Baseball Club at a dinner to be held in their honor at the Hotel Morton on the evening of Tuesday, October 6th.” Now that was mighty nice of those folks. Roy felt glad he had accepted. You try to be kind, to arrange a feed and show appreciation of the team’s pull-up, and then nobody takes the trouble to attend. That’s ballplayers for you!

  Outside and down the ramp. The game had been over almost an hour but a few stragglers hung round the wire netting, watching the players emerge. Red Allen was standing at one side talking to a group of ladies. His wife was there and Fat Stuff’s wife and several other ladies including a blonde in furs. That might be Razzle’s girl.

  They looked at him curiously as he went out the exit and past them, immediately to be assailed by a bunch of boys, pads, notebooks, scorecards extended. For ten minutes he stood there signing his name, the group seeming never to diminish. Finally he worked his way through. No, not quite.

  “And mine...”

  “And mine, please...”

  “Aw, please, Mr. Tucker...”

  “Mr. Tucker, just one more, please...”