He knew some of them were repeaters. They were doubling up on him; one autograph for themselves and one for trading purposes. However, having started, he had to continue. Gradually he worked his way toward the gate, still pursued, still signing.
“Taxi...”
“Taxi, mister?”
“Hotel Nevada.” He sank back and slammed the door, almost taking off the fingers of several autograph hounds. The car moved away and he realized how tired he was. Tired, even though they’d won. You were more tired when you lost, to be sure, yet he was tired. The nervous tension was what took it out of you; the mental straining, the hoping, the anxiety, the effort of body and will to pull a game out when the score and the chances were all against you. For just a moment he contemplated an early supper and going to bed. Then he knew he wouldn’t rest. He’d lie in bed going over that game the next day. Besides he had promised and he’d have to show up. It would be a dirty trick to walk out if only a couple of them were attending. At the hotel he paid the taxi, went through the crowded lobby, faces turning as he passed, bought some newspapers and took the elevator to his room.
On one bed was Harry’s laundry, carefully laid out with a slip, waiting to be counted and checked by its owner. But no Harry. Then the telephone rang.
“Hullo.”
“That you, Harry?”
“Nope, this isn’t Harry, it’s Roy. Harry isn’t here yet.”
“Oh.” The speaker rang off.
Now that’s funny. Funny too that Harry wasn’t there. By rights he should be in the room going over his laundry and grumbling because a pair of pajamas or his green shirt hadn’t been returned. The Kid looked at his watch. Three-thirty. Stopped. Must have forgotten to wind it. He took up the telephone.
“Give me the right time, please.”
“The correct time is...five forty-two.”
Quarter to six! And no Harry. That’s strange. Where could he be? The Kid took off his coat, lay down on the bed, and opening a newspaper glanced at the pictures. A snap of the field and Kenny Rock sliding into first in a column of dust; Eddie back of second, poised for the throw to Harry, with Gordon straining for the bag. Then his own figure racing for the dugout, left arm extended, the ball shown with a white arrow. Wonderful pictures they took nowadays. Wonderful, yessir.
The telephone jingled again. “A telegram for you, Mr. Tucker. Shall we send it up?”
Now what? Grandma? No, she had refused to come down. She wasn’t, she said, traveling to Brooklyn to see Roy hit on the head with a baseball. It was quite bad enough to hear about it over the radio. Well, maybe she’d changed her mind. He dug out a quarter and had it ready when the boy knocked.
“Thanks. And, Mr. Tucker, would you mind giving me your signature here...on this white paper here?”
Roy signed for the telegrams, signed the white paper also, and took the envelopes, for there were two. He opened one.
“IN EVENT VICTORY TOMORROW WOULD YOU BE INTERESTED APPEARING TED FALLON HOUR OVER NBC NETWORK THURSDAY NIGHT NINE STOP FEE SEVEN HUNDRED FIFTY STOP IF AGREEABLE WILL HAVE REPRESENTATIVE CALL YOUR HOTEL PLEASE CONFIRM JAMES C PARSONS ROCKEFELLER CENTER.”
Whew. He tore open the other envelope. It was from Chicago.
“GENERAL STORES OFFERS YOU TWO THOUSAND FOR YOUR ENDORSEMENT ITS GROCERY PRODUCTS IN EVENT TEAM VICTORY AND YOU BAT OVER THREE TWENTY FIVE PETER J KINGDOM VICE PRESIDENT.”
Whew again! He sat down quickly on the bed. Then he rose and sat down on a chair. Then he went over to the window, saw nothing, came back and sat down on the bed again. You couldn’t endorse cigarettes when you never smoked, but he supposed he ate General Stores’ groceries. He certainly did at home; he remembered buying them in the village for Grandma.
Let’s see now; seven fifty, that makes fifty-two sixty, that makes, no, wait a minute, that makes...He went to the desk and wrote down:
Series . . . . . . . . $6,400
Ted Fallon . . . . . 750
General Stores . . 2,000
$7,150
No. That wasn’t right. Why, he couldn’t even add straight. $9,150, not $7,150. Nine thousand one hundred and fifty bucks on one ball game. On one inning, maybe, on a catch in the field, or a scratch single at the plate. And perhaps the other way round; on one of their catches in the field or one of their scratch singles. All that dough, more than he had made from his two seasons in the majors, on one game alone. On one inning, one lucky stab in the field.
He grabbed a newspaper and turned to the sports pages where the batting averages of both teams were listed. His eye skimmed the column. Case...Swanson...Street...Allen...Tucker...there it was, Tucker...now, he was .272 the day before...and .285 tonight.
.285. Well, if he got a couple of hits tomorrow, say two out of two, and that wasn’t impossible, that would make...no, wait a minute. Miller would be pitching tomorrow. How would he do against Miller? Would he tighten up and get scared or be loose and easy in the box against him?
The telephone rang. It had, he realized, been ringing some time.
“Hullo.”
“Harry Street? Street there?”
“Nope. He isn’t. He ought to be, though, any minute.” The speaker rang off. A vaguely familiar voice, but Roy was far too excited to pay much attention. Over nine thousand dollars! Enough to put electricity on the farm, to oil the road up from the state highway, to get Grandma the new electric stove and a Frigidaire, too. All on a single game. On one single inning, maybe.
Well, he couldn’t go on this way. It would tighten him up and he’d be so jittery he’d be useless the next afternoon. So he lay down on the bed, arranged the pillow, and tried to read the newspapers. Yesterday’s game. It seemed a thousand years ago. The account was stale, dull reading. But there were pictures—of Dave in the dressing room, his pants half down and a cigarette in his mouth; of Fat Stuff rolling on the ground in pain. Then there was the mix-up at the plate. That must be Karl and No. 6, that was Swanny. Doesn’t look like him, though. And there was his own back with the big 34, half rising from the circle, his bat in one hand. He turned to Casey’s column and started reading.
“There’s no quit in the Dodgers. This bunch of gamesters outfought...” The telephone jingled once more.
“Hullo. Raz Nugent there?”
“Nugent? Nope, he’s in 1235.”
“Oh! Thought he was in there.” The speaker rang off. That was funny. The same familiar voice. He went back to Casey and the newspaper.
“Yesterday the vaunted Indians looked like fugitives from a Class AA League, while the Dodgers were the Dodgers of old. That ancient mariner, Dave Leonard, who’s hardly as fast on his feet as Paul Whiteman and about twice as old, stole second under the eyes of McCormick and the Cleveland fielders. The last time Dave stole a base was when Pershing took Chateau-Thierry. Roy Tucker came to life out in right and speared the ball in his old-time fashion, and the whole team played heads-up baseball. But it was Ed Davis who really came through for the Flatbush gangsters. He covered more ground than a tarpaulin and handled a gaudy total of ten chances in the field, and his run in the 7th set the Brooks back in the game and the fight for the Series. He also started two doubleplays with the bases as loaded as a shoplifter’s pocket. All in all, if anyone tries to tell you this isn’t a game team, call a cop.”
“Come in, come in...” Suddenly Roy came out of his dream to realize that someone was knocking at the door.
The door opened and Fat Stuff stood there with Jerry Strong. It was not the queer, barrel-chested figure in the monkey suit with the long arms hanging from his flannel shirt, but a tanned gentleman in evening clothes. Jerry, too, was all dressed up.
“Hey, there, Kid. Aren’t you going to the banquet tonight?”
“Sure, I am.”
“Well, you better climb into your soup and fish, then. They’re calling for us in about twenty minutes.”
“Gosh!” He jumped up, hurriedly ransacking his drawers for a shirt, a collar, and a black tie. “Here, Fat Stuff, be a good
guy, will ya? Put those studs in for me.”
The telephone rang again. “I’ll answer,” said Jerry, who was the only unoccupied person in the room. “Hullo. Who? Nugent? Why, no, this isn’t Nugent’s room....”
“1235,” the Kid shouted from the bathroom. “Tell him Nugent hasn’t been here since the game.”
“He’s in 1235. This is Tucker and Street here. Well, I’ll be darned. He rings off in my ear.” Jerry replaced the telephone. “That’s funny. Seems as if I knew that voice.”
Down in the lobby they found Dave dressed and waiting for them with Elmer McCaffrey near the desk. A bellboy came through the crowd. “Mr. Dave Leonard. Calling Mr. Leonard....”
“Here you are, right here, boy.”
“Mr. Leonard? Long distance call for you, sir. If you like you can take it here on the desk.” Dave turned and removed a telephone by his elbow. Standing beside him the Kid heard his first words.
“Hullo...yep...all right, put her on here...hullo...hullo, Helen...yes, we did all right, didn’t we...sure...we sure did...uhuh....I don’t know why not...yes...nothing definite yet....I say I haven’t anything to tell you so far....”
Roy didn’t want to hear any more. He turned away. Dave was talking to his wife about next season. Evidently MacManus hadn’t signed him up. It all depended on that game. He forgot his endorsements and the Ted Fallon hour and the rest of it. They’d have to go out and powder that ball for Dave. By gosh, they’d win on that field for Dave Leonard; they’d make him manager next year.
13
MACMANUS HAD THE Kid’s arm in a vise-like grip. Boy, was that man strong!
“And this is Roy Tucker, my right fielder, Mr. Jameson. I wouldn’t trade him for any right fielder in either league today.” He dropped the Kid’s arm, and leaning over, his face close to the other man’s, tapped his chest. “No, sir. Not for Masters or Benny Rogers or Dan Pike, even. You can have ’em. The whole lot. I’ll take this lad.” He glared at the stout gentleman, as if anxious to be contradicted. The stout man merely held out his hand.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Tucker. It’s good of you to come here tonight, and we’re happy to have you with us.” Roy felt more ashamed than ever that the rest of the team had walked out on the party. Moreover he was dazzled into silence by MacManus and his eloquence. But chiefly by MacManus.
Jack was dressed for the occasion. The ballplayers—Dave, Jerry, Fat Stuff, McCaffrey, and he himself—all wore tuxedos and black ties. So did the majority of the diners who were to sit at the long table raised above the rest of the huge ballroom. But that wasn’t good enough for Jack MacManus. He wore a dress suit. His big chest filled out the coat, his white tie was immaculate, and a red carnation in his buttonhole added a finishing touch that made the others, now moving to their seats, seem almost shabby.
“For my money,” whispered Elmer in his ear as they took their places near the toastmaster at the head table, “for my money he’s as good as Clark Gable.” To which the Kid earnestly agreed. No doubt about it.
The big hall was festooned with flags, pennants, bunting, and banners bearing the inscription: BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB. NATIONAL LEAGUE CHAMPIONS. Others bore the sign: WE WELCOME THE WORLD’S CHAMPS. It was indeed a festive occasion. The gentlemen of the Chamber of Commerce had done things in good style, with huge bunches of roses on the tables, a menu tied in colored string, pictures of the team on one cover, and souvenirs in the shape of baseballs at their plates. The Kid opened his ball and there in a satin cover was a wrist watch, presented by Lowells, Inc., Jewelers, of Atlantic Avenue. The name of each player, the date, and the event were engraved on the back. Maybe Grandma wouldn’t open her eyes when she saw that watch!
“Baby! That’ll sure come in handy,” remarked Elmer. “I dropped mine in the shower the other day and bust it completely.”
“Me, too. Mine’s been stopping every little while lately. It’s all worn out.” The Kid took the gold watch from the satin cover inside the baseball, looked at it carefully, and slipped it on his wrist.
“Hey, Roy...” Fat Stuff leaned toward him, his red face beaming. “Won’t Rats Doyle be burned up he didn’t come when he spots these watches?”
“Will he!...”
“Yeah, and Razzle, too. Won’t Raz be sore he kept that date with his blonde.”
“I’ll say. That’s some watch.”
They laid their presents aside and addressed themselves to the serious business of eating. The Kid slowly lost some of his uneasiness, though he still felt unpleasant and uncomfortable on that platform before the crowd, with those hundreds of eyes below staring at him. He dipped into his soup. “Hey there, Fat Stuff, you know everything. What’s this soup?”
“Turtle soup.”
“Turtle soup?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you ever eat turtle soup in Florida at the training camp?”
“Nope. It’s good, isn’t it? Well, if you know so much, what’s that—there on the menu?” He spelled out the words. “B-o-m-b-e D-o-d-g-e-r. There! What’s that mean?”
“Dunno. Prob’ly some kind of ice cream, see, sort of fancy, all fixed up and named for the Dodgers. That’s the way they always do at these banquets.” Fat Stuff who had been in other Series knew the banquet technique.
The Kid was impressed. It was one thing to know the weakness of every hitter in the league or to get over to the bag before the runner on a hit to the first baseman. But to know the terms and technology of banqueting showed experience indeed.
“Like that peach thing we had in Dave’s room in Cleveland the other night?”
“Better, better,” said Fat Stuff, handing his watch to his wife who inspected it with a proprietary air and tried it on before returning it.
Better than the peach thing! Roy couldn’t believe that. But he had to admit the dinner was good. Yes, the dinner was all right. Chicken and wild rice and string beans and salad and then the dessert. The dessert was ice cream in the shape of a bat and a ball. It was green pistachio, red strawberry, and white vanilla with loads of whipped cream all over it.
At the end of the table he caught a glimpse of MacManus talking to the white-haired gentleman next to him. Jack was talking with his whole body, his arms, his hands, tapping the man’s chest and emphasizing his points. His ice cream was melting and the bat already had a wilted look. Why, that guy would rather talk than eat ice cream. Once served, the Kid attacked his immediately. It was as good as it looked.
Then someone was knocking on the table. The white-haired gentleman arose, several slips of paper in his hand. There was a scraping of chairs on the floor below, cigars and cigarettes were passed round and lighted. Boy, did Razzle miss it! Imagine, a free cigar for Raz. The Kid took one and put it beside his place to save for the big pitcher. But Fat Stuff was too quick. He reached over and grabbed the cigar, stuffing it into his pocket.
“Hey, Kid, you don’t smoke. I’ll just use that to celebrate tomorrow.”
By this time the white-haired man was going on all six cylinders. “Fine representatives of this great city...magnificent sportsmen...brought new renown to our town....” His remarks were spattered with interruptions of applause.
“Now I shall call on our fellow townsman, a gentleman you all know, Mr. Harry J. Martin of Martin Motors, Incorporated, who has an announcement to make.”
Mr. Martin was a short, nervous and fussy little person. He tapped his cigar continually on a plate before him as he rose to slight clapping. There was more scraping of chairs on the floor below and people began looking round toward the rear of the room. Then, for the first time, Roy noticed two large draped mounds in the back of the hall. Evidently something was about to happen.
“On behalf of the Ford Motor Company which I have the honor to represent in this district, and also on behalf of Martin Motors, I want to say we here in Brooklyn are proud to have with us tonight these splendid representatives of the best in baseball.” Cheers from all over the room. “We have, what is more, complete confidence that they’ll bri
ng us the championship tomorrow...that they will go out there...” His words were lost in the noise. “And win!” He emphasized this statement. “And win!” Roy wished he was as certain of it as Mr. Martin.
The nervous little man passed his finger inside his collar, tapped his cigar on the plate before him, and looked at a small paper in his hand. “I regret...that is, Mr. Jameson of the Chamber of Commerce and I regret that this dinner had to be arranged on such short notice that it was impossible for all the players to be with us. However, as you see, we have a goodly number....” Cheers, during which he consulted the paper again. “We have, however, a goodly number present, and I want you to meet them. Beside me here, of course, you all recognize our old friend....”He turned toward MacManus.
Applause burst spontaneously through the hall. Jack MacManus was a Brooklyn favorite, no stranger to anyone in the room. He rose, erect, his sandy hair brushed off his face, and stood calmly smiling to the applauding crowd. Gosh, he was better than Clark Gable, at that! For a minute the owner of the Dodgers stood there, his napkin in one hand, his cigar in the other, pleasantly acknowledging the cheers of the crowd in an easy manner, completely successful, completely certain of himself. Then bowing to each side, he sat down before the applause had died away.
“The next man...hardly needs any introduction either. We’ve seen him here in Brooklyn when things were going well, when things were not going well, and when things were going very badly indeed. We’ve all watched him, watched him out there trying hard as a player, as a coach, and then as a great leader and inspiration for the gang of boys who hold the National League pennant today. Last of all, we see him again with pride as an actor in the drama which goes to its conclusion tomorrow, a happy conclusion for us all, I’m sure you’ll agree, so I don’t need...I...you all know...”
He couldn’t continue. The noise was too much. It echoed and re-echoed across the room; it drowned out his voice, every man and woman clapping. Then the Kid noticed someone rising, hands moving, and then another and another. Soon the entire room was on its feet, yelling. For ages they stood, paying tribute to the manager of the Dodgers.
World Series Page 10
