Now there, Red. Red’s a good man in a tight place. We’re sure in a pinch. Coupla runs behind, and there they are on the bags, Dave and Paul Roth.
On one knee in the circle Roy watched with reluctant admiration as a fast one sizzled past Red’s ear. No use talking, that baby is a pitcher. He can pitch. Now Red, powder that ball. A foul. Another foul high in the stands. And another. Atta boy, Red. That’s the old stuff; wear him down; make him throw his heart out. Red’s unselfish; he’s a team player all right.
The next pitch was fast, low and outside. The catcher half stopped it, but somehow it got away and spun along the ground. Like a shot he pounced on it, but Dave, ever alert, was quicker still. With a desperate slide he came down the basepath head first, the last fifteen feet on his belly, catching the edge of the bag as Painter with the ball in his glove groped down for something to tag.
The stands rose yelling. There’s a break. Leonard on third, Roth on second, only one out. Who said the Dodgers were quitters?
Almost the whole field was deep in shade as the big man in the box looked round at his outfield, nodded to his catcher, and stepped on the rubber. He smoothed the dirt with one foot, hitched up his pants, and glanced over his shoulder at second base. Then he threw. A ball. 3 and 2. Now Miller was on the spot.
He’s got to put it over. Smack it, Red! Give us that hit for Dave. Give us one for Leonard, will ya?
IT’S A HIT. A HIT. The ball, struck well and cleanly, was high and deep. But the wind carried it back; that same wind which was to work against the Indian power hitters was ironically saving the day for them. Rock was there waiting under it as it fell. Dave dashed for home, straining. The fielder, however, made no attempt to catch him. Instead he threw into third to prevent Roth advancing beyond second.
The bat boy came up to take Red’s bat. He had a towel in his hands. “Hey, there, boy, gimme that towel,” said the Kid, wiping his hands. In the dugout they were all on the step, frantically yelling.
Now then. It’s up to me. Here’s a poke for old Dave. I’m not scared now. I’ll sure punch that ball. If he’s gonna bean me he’s gonna bean me. I’ll crack it, sure enough. Two out, but I’ll hit one for Dave. This is for Leonard.
He stepped to the plate. One glance showed Miller’s fatigue, his tired face under the cap, his mouth open in an exhausted pant. The first ball was low. Roy got a piece of the second and fouled it off. Then that low one again, the sneaker pitch.
Didn’t fool me, did ya, mister? Gimme a good one, boy, I sure want to hit it. Nope, wide. Not that time.
McCormick returned the ball with a quick wrist motion. Miller spun round and snapped it to Lanahan. The old fox beat Roth to the bag at second and the Dodgers were out. Still one run behind.
Shucks! Roy hurled his bat on the plate with all his force. There’s a rookie for you. The kid wasn’t watching. That would never have happened to Karl or Swanny or me. Shoot! And we’re still one run behind.
20
NOW WHO’LL PITCH? Now who’ll Leonard throw in? Not Fat Stuff—he’s washed up. Not McCaffrey—he pitched yesterday. Rats is a cousin for these birds.
Walking wearily to right, the Kid watched the activity in their bullpen. Two men were burning in quick last pitches. Then a tall figure came walking through the shadow across the field.
Not Rog Stinson. Yep, Roger Stinson. The freshman pitcher, the quiet kid who never said a word to anyone, the colt who had only seen a few months’ play; who was trying to put the Columbus Red Birds in the first division only the summer before. The whole crowd was stunned. They listened in silence to the loudspeaker.
“Stinson, No. 22, pitching for Brooklyn.” What a spot for a kid, although he had Dave there working with him and for him. Dave walked onto the diamond, met the boy, and put his arm round the rookie’s shoulder. He said something to him as the team in the field chattered.
“Okay, Rog old boy....”
“Le’s go, there, Roger....”
Roger burned in several pitches. What a spot! The start of the ninth, the field enveloped in shadow, the Dodgers one run behind, and McCormick, Miller, and old Lanny taking their raps. Boy, you’ll either be a bum or a hero. One or the other, thought Roy, as he watched the two go to work, the kid fresh and cool from the bullpen, the old catcher sore and exhausted after two hours of struggle.
McCormick hit the second pitch. It rose in the air, high, high, and settled in Harry’s glove. The crowd yelled. They were all behind the boy in the box. Miller took a strike, then smacked a hard one to the right of first. Red knocked it down and tossed it to Stinson. Racing in to cover up, Roy saw the pitcher wheel, get across to the bag, and grab the ball just as the runner flashed past. A cool customer, that boy. Dave was correct in placing confidence in him. Dave’s judgment was good. They’d come through yet. They’d have to pull this one out for Dave.
Now for Lanny. Lanny’s one tough baby. He’s hit my way so I’ll hafta watch close. The Kid clawed the dirt from his spikes, feeling an ache in his legs as he did so. Imagine how Dave must feel, sore and lame all over. The first pitch got away and rolled in front of the plate. Dave too tired to reach over, kicked it back along the ground to the pitcher. That betrayed plainly enough how Dave felt.
Lanny hit. The ball was tagged, too. Roy playing toward center tore back, gauging its flight as he neared the stands. Closer he went, closer. Might get hurt; that didn’t matter; he was going to risk injury to get the ball as all money players do. Over one shoulder he saw the stands, the fence of concrete and wire, then the ball high above descending. His cap fell off as he clutched at the wire with his right hand and pulled himself up as far as possible. Above his head his glove shot into the air...and there was the ball. He lost hold, tumbled down, rolled over on the turf, all the time clutching that ball.
They yelled. They yelled and yelled. They were still yelling when he came to the plate swinging the two bats a minute later. He threw away the big lead bat, weighted so that when you swung the real bat it seemed lighter and quickened your reflexes. They were still yelling when he stepped up, so he touched his cap. The field was ominously dim as late afternoon descended over the ballpark, covered the stands and the outfield, shrouded the diamond and the box and Miller wiping his face with his sleeve. It shrouded them all; Lanny there at short and old fox Gardiner at second, familiar faces by this time; Charlie Draper coaching behind third, and...yes...Dave. The manager himself had taken over the coaching box at first. Dave was standing there, pleading for a hit.
The Kid took one perfect strike, let Miller’s sinker go past, fouled one, and had another ball. 2 and 2. Often he had heard Dave on the bench remark that you could usually slip a fast one by most batters at 2 and 2. Watching Miller carefully during the Series he had counted five times the big man threw a fast ball at 2 and 2, and only once a curve. So he set himself for the fast one.
It was fast, too, straight, and straight he caught it. Dave was urging him on as he passed first, and from third Charlie gave him the sign to slide. With everything he had he went in, low, hard, on Lanahan’s ankles. The old timer had his legs well anchored, but the fierceness and rush of Roy’s body upset him. He tottered, stumbled, fell, and the Kid was safe.
Lanny growled something as he picked himself up and limped back to his position. Roy leaned over and snatched a fistful of dirt in each hand so he would remember to keep his fists up when sliding. Now tempers were high, nerves rasped, everyone was on edge, and a man couldn’t be too careful. The roar about the field increased, rose, fell, rose again as Swanson shuffled confidently to bat. In the stands the smoke of thousands of cigarettes made a kind of haze through the gathering dusk, and panting there on second Roy could see wisps of flame from lighted matches. The crowd was yelling furiously.
Nope, the Dodgers weren’t licked yet. No sir! In the coaching box Dave clenched his fists at Swanny. Fight, fight, fight! Dave, who always said that the best manager was the man who did the least managing, was out there lifting them by his will power bac
k into the game. Hauling them, pulling them along, making them hit, setting an example to every man on the team.
Come on now, Swanny. Roy took the signal. Swanson watched a low one. Then he laid a perfect bunt toward third. Painter dashing in thought it was rolling foul and stood watching it. By this time Roy was perched on third and could see the whole drama; the slow roller, the men gathering about it, Painter, Miller, Baker who ran out of the dugout, Draper, Lanahan, and Stubblebeard, the umpire. Then the ball trickled off into foul territory and came to a stop. All this Roy noticed. He noticed what the rest had missed. Lanahan, the old trickster who had run over from short, had quietly scraped a trench with his spikes directly in the path of the ball. As it neared third and caught the track it was deflected foul. Instantly the Kid ran up to Stubblebeard and Catfish Simpson, the third base umpire, standing over the ball with the others.
“Look! Hey, look here, Stubble...look...see what he did...see, this track here took the ball off the diamond...made it roll foul...he can’t do that....”
The fans back of third were roaring, also. Some of them had seen what everyone on the field except Roy had missed. Stubblebeard waved Swanson to first and Roy back to third. And nobody out.
Pandemonium. Anything goes now. Any kind of a scratch hit, Karl. Anything at all, old boy. Just a Texas Leaguer, a looping Lena, anything, yep, even a doubleplay ball. I’ll get home on a doubleplay ball, I’ll get home on any kind of a hit.
Karl caught the first pitch dead on the nose. By the sound Roy knew it had carry. On third he saw McClusky go back, hands up, head in the air. He stood, poised for the flight, ready to run as never in his life before. He ran. Beside the plate was McCormick, fists clenched in the air, watching the play which was to second base. Roy flashed across and into the arms of Dave.
Above, the stands shrieked and thundered. They howled, they yowled, they stamped and whistled. They called and catcalled at Miller. Now the score was tied. When he reached the dugout the entire team was on the step, arms outstretched. It was a sea of hands, and he had to shake every hand all the way up and down the bench before they’d let him get to the water cooler. 3 to 3.
The Dodgers were in there once more. They were back in the running. No wonder the bleachers boiled over in deep right, no wonder the bench was in turmoil, no wonder Whitehouse and the relief pitchers were croaky from shouting. What did it matter if Harry struck out and Ed Davis popped to Hammy, leaving Swanny and Jerry Strong on bases? The Dodgers had come back. They hadn’t quit. They were in the race again.
When he took his position in the field, the stands, his stands, rose to greet him. He felt their loyalty and waved. They shrieked still louder and tossed score cards and rolled newspapers into the air. Their Tucker, their Kid, had come through with the tieing run.
First of the tenth. The flashes of lighted matches in the smoky gloom were plainer now than ever. It was getting late, for the game had lasted over two hours already. At the plate, Dave held up one clenched fist, turning slowly from left to right, waving it at Jerry and Karl, then at Harry and Swanson in deep center, then at Ed and Red and himself, pulling them up, onward, knitting them together as a team. The rookie in the box went to work. Roy was confident. This kid did so well last inning we don’t have to worry. As long as Dave lasts we’re set.
McClusky popped up on the second pitch. His mask on the ground, Dave turned, following the ball toward their dugout, his head in the air. Could he get to it...reach it...hold it? Yes. He was there, he hugged the ball. For just a second or two he stood puffing beside the bench, slapping the ball into his mitt. Roy couldn’t hear the words but he knew the tune. Lemme know on those balls, boys, lemme know when I’m close to the bench...
Gardiner. At the 2 and 2 count he hit. But he swung late, and Harry sensing this started for second. The ball hopped over Roger’s head into the hands of the alert shortstop. There, that’s heads-up ball for you. Dashing behind first to cover up, Roy could see Harry on second take plenty of time and then rifle the ball to first like a bullet. As the Kid slowed down back of the foul line he saw Dave also hauling up behind first, haggard and exhausted. Gosh, what a trier, what a ballplayer that man is!
Rock. Dave waved him over. Way over. We’ll nab Rock okay. He fouled one. Then he took a strike and fouled another, a high one, close to the Dodger bench again. This time the whole dugout was up yelling.
“You got it, Dave....”
“Plenty of room, old timer....”
“Ten feet, Dave....”
“You got room, Dave....” He gathered in the ball. The side was out. And Leonard at bat.
No wonder the stands rose cheering. He wouldn’t touch his cap so they roared the louder. Then he had to touch it. Give us another hit, old timer; show us the way this time. He hit the ball hard but Rock was under it. Dave pulled up at first and took over the coach’s box from Cassidy.
Roger’s up. Rog isn’t a bad hitter, either. Give us a start there, Rog. Win your own game. Save me a rap, Roger. The whole dugout was now on the step, full of fight and pepper, shrieking through cupped hands, pleading, yelling. Come on now, Rog; just get to first. But old Miller had something still left. He struck Rog out. Two down and Red at bat.
Red took a vicious cut but it wasn’t even close. Roy stood yelling with the rest. C’mon on there, Red, show him what the Dodgers can do. Two out and one run to go. We’ll get it, boys. We’ve done it with two gone before this.
In the coaching box back of first Dave turned toward the stands with uplifted arms. Give us some encouragement. Make some noise. Show these boys you’re behind them. He knew also the effect that pandemonium was having on the Cleveland team. The field boiled over. On the Dodgers’ bench and in the dugout no one could stay still. They flowed onto the step, out on the grass. Red hit a foul. As one man the team jumped to watch it curve and die away in the upper stands.
Then Red hit. It was a low line drive at Painter. The ball took its first bounce right by his feet, struck his glove and rolled behind him. He turned the wrong way and for just a second or two could not find the ball. Then he pounced on it and threw to first hurriedly. The throw was wide, and Red beat it to the bag.
There’s our break. The Dodgers make the breaks. They fight for the breaks and get ’em. Now watch us move. The dugout was in an uproar. Deep in right field the fans, Roy’s fans, were on their feet, shrieking at him, appealing for a hit. He felt their support and was confident of his ability to end the game. The chance never came. Miller, anxious not to give a ball he could hit, got himself in a hole. The last one was close, but the umpire waved Roy to first. Two out and two men on base. Swanny at bat. I know he’ll come through, thought the Kid as he stood with one foot on the bag. He’ll come through in the clutch, Swanny will. He’s a team player, he never lets us down, he’ll come through for us now.
In the dim dusk the Kid saw the ball rise, a high, hard hit swing off Miller’s fast one. Gordon in right went back, hands up. A tough catch but he’s a good player; if I can make ’em out there he can, too. Roy’s friends in the bleachers were in a frenzy. As he neared second the Kid saw the stands as a queer dissolving, squirming mass. Gordon stood strangely motionless by the wire watching the ball vanish in the confusion above.
You fought, you struggled. You pushed, you shoved. You laughed, you grinned, you elbowed your way from second through the howling mob pouring onto the field. They reached to touch you, they grabbed at your uniform, your cap was gone, they stabbed at your sweaty hand, they slapped you on the back, on the shoulder, they poked at you, they tapped you on the chest with rolled programs and newspapers, shrieking all the while in furious delight. Dodger fans. It was dusk and from the lower stands they swept upon the diamond, showering it with a storm of cushions. Panting, exhausted, alone in an ocean of frenzied fanatics, the Kid finally fought his way to the players’ entrance.
Clack...clack...clack-clack, clack...clack...Up the concrete ramp and into the dressing room, so filled with players, officials, men with micro
phones, photographers, and reporters one could hardly move. Chisel at the door tried helplessly to stem the wave of intruders, to bar entrance to some of the mob. The old man was beaten back, his arm pushed away.
Inside over the noise and confusion someone let out a hog call. Roy paused a moment at the door of Dave’s little dressing room. Fans and players were clapping him on the back and trying to shake his hand but he paid no attention. Instead he stood watching the old catcher slumped in a chair while the Doc ripped yards of tape from his weary body. They were laughing with him, and someone in the din said something about next year and the next Series.
“Don’t make me laugh. Ahh...careful there, Doc, that hurts...no, sir, this is the end, this is. Give it back to the Indians. I’ve caught my last game of ball.”
“Yeah.” Charlie Draper came in hauling the leather ball bag. “And no one ever caught a better one. Hey, Mac?”
MacManus was at Roy’s side in the door, watching Dave in his chair, those yards of tape still being torn off his thighs and legs. “Right, Charlie. What a game he caught. Boy, you could kiss a sweetheart like that.”
The Kid’s heart jumped. There’s the pay-off. That could only mean one thing. Dave was to be manager for next season. Roy seized MacManus by the arm to attract his attention through the uproar.
“Then it’s Dave, Mister Mac; now you’ll sign him up for next year, won’t you?”
The owner turned and looked hard. “Sign him hell! I signed him ten days ago. Before the Series started. Take the pressure off him, to make him loose, see; able to concentrate on running the team.” Someone distracted his attention on the other side. “Hullo, Judge...thanks...thanks lots; but don’t congratulate me...congratulate Dave and the team. Here...meet Roy Tucker, our right fielder, who did as much as anyone to win that game today. Shake hands with Judge Landis, Roy.”
World Series Page 14
