At the Old Ballgame

by Jeff Silverman

  So I says I’d tackle it, because I didn’t want to throw John down. When we got to Cincy they stuck Elliott and me in one room, and we was together till he quit us.

  III

  I went to the room early that night, because we was goin’ to open next day and I wanted to feel like somethin’. First thing I done when I got undressed was turn on both faucets in the bathtub. They was makin’ an awful racket when Elliott finally come in about midnight. I was layin’ awake and I opened right up on him. I says:

  “Don’t shut off that water, because I like to hear it run.

  Then I turned over and pretended to be asleep. The bug got his clothes off, and then what did he do but go in the bathroom and shut off the water! Then he come back in the room and says:

  “I guess no one’s goin’ to tell me what to do in here.”

  But I kep’ right on pretendin’ to sleep and didn’t pay no attention. When he’d got into his bed I jumped out o’ mine and turned on all the lights and begun stroppin’ my razor. He says:

  “What’s comin’ off?”

  “Some o’ my whiskers,” I says. “I always shave along about this time.”

  “No, you don’t!” he says. “I was in your room one mornin’ down in Louisville and I seen you shavin’ then.”

  “Well,” I says, “the boys tell me you shave in the middle o’ the night; and I thought if I done all the things you do mebbe I’d get so’s I could hit like you.”

  “You must be superstitious!” he says. And I told him I was. “I’m a good hitter,” he says, “and I’d be a good hitter if I never shaved at all. That don’t make no diff’rence.”

  “Yes, it does,” I says. “You prob’ly hit good because you shave at night; but you’d be a better fielder if you shaved in the mornin’.”

  You see, I was tryin’ to be just as crazy as him—though that wasn’t hardly possible.

  “If that’s right,” says he, “I’ll do my shavin’ in the mornin’—because I seen in the papers where the boys says that if I could play the outfield like I can hit I’d be as good as Cobb. They tell me Cobb gets twenty thousand a year.”

  “No,” I says; “he don’t get that much—but he gets about ten times as much as you do.”

  “Well,” he says, “I’m goin’ to be as good as him, because I need the money.”

  “What do you want with money?” I says.

  He just laughed and didn’t say nothin’; but from that time on the water didn’t run in the bathtub nights and he done his shavin’ after breakfast. I didn’t notice, though, that he looked any better in fieldin’ practice.

  IV

  It rained one day in Cincy and they trimmed us two out o’ the other three; but it wasn’t Elliott’s fault.

  They had Larry beat four to one in the ninth innin’ o’ the first game. Archer gets on with two out, and John sends my roomy up to hit—though Benton, a lefthander, is workin’ for them. The first thing Benton serves up there Elliott cracks it a mile over Hobby’s head. It would have been good for three easy—only Archer—playin’ safe, o’ course—pulls up at third base. Tommy couldn’t do nothin’ and we was licked.

  The next day he hits one out o’ the park off the Indian; but we was ’way behind and they was nobody on at the time. We copped the last one without usin’ no pinch hitters.

  I didn’t have no trouble with him nights durin’ the whole series. He come to bed pretty late while we was there and I told him he’d better not let John catch him at it.

  “What would he do?” he says.

  “Fine you fifty,” I says.

  “He can’t fine me a dime,” he says, “because I ain’t got it.”

  Then I told him he’d be fined all he had comin’ if he didn’t get in the hotel before midnight; but he just laughed and says he didn’t think John had a kick comin’ so long as he kep’ bustin’ the ball.

  “Some day you’ll go up there and you won’t bust it,” I says.

  “That’ll be an accident,” he says.

  That stopped me and I didn’t say nothin’. What could you say to a guy who hated himself like that?

  The “accident” happened in St. Louis the first day. We needed two runs in the eighth and Saier and Brid was on, with two out. John tells Elliott to go up in Pierce’s place. The bug goes up and Griner gives him two bad balls—’way outside. I thought they was goin’ to walk him—and it looked like good judgment, because they’d heard what he done in Cincy. But no! Griner comes back was a fast one right over and Elliott pulls it down the right foul line, about two foot foul. He hit it so hard you’d of thought they’d sure walk him then; but Griner gives him another fast one. He slammed it again just as hard, but foul. Then Griner gives him one ’way outside and it’s two and three. John says, on the bench:

  “If they don’t walk him now he’ll bust that fence down.”

  I thought the same and I was sure Griner wouldn’t give him nothin’ to hit; but he come with a curve and Rigler calls Elliott out. From where we sat the last one looked low, and I thought Elliott’d make a kick. He come back to the bench smilin’.

  John starts for his position, but stopped and ast the bug what was the matter with that one. Any busher I ever knowed would of said, “It was too low,” or “It was outside,” or “It was inside.” Elliott says:

  “Nothin’ at all. It was right over the middle.”

  “Why didn’t you bust it, then?” says John.

  “I was afraid I’d kill somebody,” says Elliott, and laughed like a big boob.

  John was pretty near chokin’.

  “What are you laughin’ at?” he says.

  “I was thinkin’ of a nickel show I seen in Cincinnati,” says the bug.

  “Well, says John, so mad he couldn’t hardly see, “that show and that laugh’ll cost you fifty.”

  We got beat, and I wouldn’t of blamed John if he’d fined him his whole season’s pay.

  Up ’n the room that night I told him he’d better cut out that laughin’ stuff when we was getting’ trimmed or he never would have no pay day. Then he got confidential.

  “Pay day wouldn’t do me no good,” he says. “When I’m all squared up with the club and begin to have a pay day, I’ll only get a hundred bucks at a time, and I’ll owe that to some o’ you fellers. I wisht we could win the pennant and get in on that World’s Series dough. Then I’d get a bunch at once.”

  “What would you do with a bunch o’ dough?” I ast him.

  “Don’t tell nobody, sport,” he says; “but if I ever get five hundred at once I’m goin’ to get married.”

  “Oh!” I says. “And who’s the lucky girl?”

  “She’s a girl up in Muskegon,” says Elliot; “and you’re right when you call her lucky.”

  “You don’t like yourself much, do you?” I says.

  “I got reason to like myself,” says he. “You’d like yourself, too if you could hit ’em like me.”

  “Well,” I says, “you didn’t show me no hittin’ to-day.”

  “I couldn’t hit because I was laughin’ too hard,” says Elliott.

  “What was it you was laughin’ at?” I says.

  “I was laughin’ at that pitcher,” he says. “He thought he had somethin’ and he didn’t have nothin’.”

  “He had enough to whiff you with,” I says.

  “He didn’t have nothin’!” says he again. “I was afraid if I busted one off him they’d can him, and then I couldn’t never hit agin him no more.”

  Naturally I didn’t have no comeback to that. I just sort o’ gasped and got ready to go to sleep; but he wasn’t through.

  “I wisht you could see this bird!” he says.

  “What bird?” I says.

  “This dame that’s nuts about me,” he says.

  “Good-looker?” I ast.

  �
��No,” he says; “she ain’t no bear for looks. They ain’t nothin’ about her for a guy to rave over till you hear her sing. She sure can holler some.”

  “What kind o’ voice has she got?” I ast.

  “A bear,” says he.

  “No,” I says; “I mean is she a baritone or an air?”

  “I don’t know,” he says; “but she’s got the loudest voice I ever hear on a woman. She’s pretty near got me beat.”

  “Can you sing?” I says; and I was sorry right afterward that I ast him that question.

  I guess it must have been bad enough to have the water runnin’ night after night and to have him wavin’ that razor around; but that couldn’t of been nothin’ to his singin’. Just as soon as I’d pulled that boner he says, “Listen to me!” and starts in on ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold.’ Mind you, it was after midnight and they was guests all round us tryin’ to sleep!

  They used to be noise enough in our club when we had Hofman and Sheckard and Richie harmonizin’; but this bug’s voice was louder’n all o’ theirn combined. We once had a pitcher named Martin Walsh—brother o’ Big Ed’s—and I thought he could drownd out the Subway; but this guy made a boiler factory sound like Dummy Taylor. If the whole hotel wasn’t awake when he’d howled the first line it’s a pipe they was when he cut loose, which he done when he come to “Always young and fair to me.” Them words could have been heard easy in East St. Louis.

  He didn’t get no encore from me, but he goes right through it again—or starts to. I knowed somethin’ was goin’ to happen before he finished—and somethin’ did. The night clerk and the house detective come bangin’ at the door. I let ’em in and they had plenty to say. If we made another sound the whole club’d be canned out o’ the hotel. I tried to salve ’em and I says:

  “He won’t sing no more.”

  But Elliott swelled up like a poisoned pup.

  “Won’t I?” he says. “I’ll sing all I want to.”

  “You won’t sing in here,” says the clerk.

  “They ain’t room for my voice in here anyways,” he says. “I’ll go outdoors and sing.”

  And he puts his clothes on and ducks out. I didn’t make no attemp’ to stop him. I heard him bellowin’ ‘Silver Threads’ down the corridor and down the stairs, with the clerk and the dick chasin’ him all the way and tellin’ him to shut up.

  Well, the guests make a holler the next mornin’; and the hotel people tells Charlie Williams that he’ll either have to let Elliott stay somewhere else or the whole club’ll have to move. Charlie tells John, and John was thinkin’ o’ settlin’ the question by releasin’ Elliot.

  I guess he’d about made up his mind to do it; but that afternoon they had us three to one in the ninth, and we got the bases full, with two down and Larry’s turn to hit. Elliott had been sittin’ on the bench sayin’ nothin’.

  “Do you think you can hit one today?” says John.

  “I can hit one any day,” says Elliott.

  “Go up and hit that lefthander, then,” says John, “and remember there’s nothin’ to laugh at.”

  Sallee was workin’—and workin’ good; but that didn’t bother the bug. He cut into one, and it went between Oakes and Whitted like a shot. He come into third standin’ up and we was a run to the good. Sallee was so sore he kind o’ forgot himself and took pretty near his full wind-up pitchin’ to Tommy. And what did Elliott do but steal home and get away with it clean!

  Well, you couldn’t can him after that, could you? Charlie gets him a room somewheres and I was relieved of his company that night. The next evenin’ we beat it for Chi to play about two weeks at home. He didn’t tell nobody where he roomed there and I didn’t see nothin’ of him, ‘cep’ out to the park. I ast him what he did with himself nights and he says:

  “Same as I do on the road—borrow some dough some place and go to the nickel shows.”

  “You must be stuck on ’em,” I says.

  “Yes,” he says; “I like the ones where they kill people—because I want to learn how to do it. I may have that job some day.”

  “Don’t pick on me,” I says.

  “Oh,” says the bug, “you never can tell who I’ll pick on.”

  It seemed as if he just couldn’t learn nothin’ about fieldin’, and finally John told him to keep out o’ the practice.

  “A ball might hit him in the temple and croak him,” says John.

  But he busted up a couple o’ games for us at home, beatin’ Pittsburgh once and Cincy once.

  V

  They give me a great big room at the hotel in Pittsburgh; so the fellers picked it out for the poker game. We was playin’ along about ten o’clock one night when in come Elliott—the earliest he’d showed up since we’d been roomin’ together. They was only five of us playin’ and Tom ast him to sit in.

  “I’m busted,” he says.

  “Can you play poker?” I ast him.

  “They’s nothin’ I can’t do!” he says. “Slip me a couple o’ bucks and I’ll show you.”

  So I slipped him a couple o’ bucks and honestly hoped he’d win, because I knowed he never had no dough. Well, Tom dealt him a hand and he picks it up and says:

  “I only got five cards.”

  “How many do you want?” I says.

  “Oh,” he says, “if that’s all I get I’ll try to make ’em do.”

  The pot was cracked and raised, and he stood the raise. I says to myself: “There goes my two bucks!” But no—he comes out with three queens and won the dough. It was only about seven bucks; but you’d of thought it was a million to see him grab it. He laughed like a kid.

  “Guess I can’t play this game!” he says; and he had me fooled for a minute—I thought he must have been kiddin’ when he complained of only havin’ five cards.

  He copped another pot right afterward and was sittin’ there with about eleven bucks in front of him when Jim opens a roodle pot for a buck. I stays and so does Elliott. Him and Jim both drawed one card and I took three. I had kings or queens—I forget which. I didn’t help ’em none; so when Jim bets a buck I throws my hand away.

  “How much can I bet?” says the bug.

  “You can raise Jim a buck if you want to,” I says.

  So he bets two dollars. Jim comes back at him. He comes right back at Jim. Jim raises him again and he tilts Jim right back. Well, when he’d boosted Jim with the last buck he had, Jim says:

  “I’m ready to call. I guess you got me beat. What have you got?”

  “I know what I’ve got, all right,” says Elliott. “I’ve got a straight.” And he throws his hand down. Sure enough, it was a straight, eight high. Jim pretty near fainted and so did I.

  The bug had started pullin’ in the dough when Jim stops him.

  “Here! Wait a minute!” says Jim. “I thought you had somethin’. I filled up.” Then Jim lays down his nine full.

  “You beat me, I guess,” says Elliott, and he looked like he’d lost his last friend.

  “Beat you?” says Jim. “Of course I beat you! What did you think I had?”

  “Well,” says the bug. “I thought you might have a small flush or somethin’.”

  When I regained consciousness he was beggin’ for two more bucks.

  “What for?” I says. “To play poker with? You’re barred from the game for life!”

  “Well,” he says, “if I can’t play no more I want to go to sleep, and you fellers will have to get out o’ this room.”

  Did you ever hear o’ nerve like that? This was the first night he’d came in before twelve and he orders the bunch out so’s he can sleep! We politely suggested to him to go to Brooklyn.

  Without sayin’ a word he starts in on his ‘Silver Threads’; and it wasn’t two minutes till the game was busted up and the bunch—all but me—was out o’ there. I’d of beat it too, only he
stopped yellin’ as soon as they’d went.

  “You’re some buster!” I says. “You bust up ball games in the afternoon and poker games at night.”

  “Yes, he says; “that’s my business —bustin’ things.”

  And before I knowed what he was about he picked up the pitcher of ice-water that was on the floor and throwed it out the window—through the glass and all.

  Right then I give him a plain talkin’ to. I tells him how near he come to gettin’ canned down in St. Louis because he raised so much Cain singin’ in the hotel.

  “But I had to keep my voice in shape,” he says. “If I ever get dough enough to get married the girl and me’ll go out singin’ together.”

  “Out where?” I ast.

  “Out on the vaudeville circuit,” says Elliott.

  “Well,” I says, “if her voice is like yours you’ll be wastin’ money if you travel round. Just stay up in Muskegon and we’ll hear you, all right!”

  I told him he wouldn’t never get no dough if he didn’t behave himself. That, even if we got in the World’s Series, he wouldn’t be with us—unless he cut out the foolishness.

  “We ain’t goin’ to get in no World’s Series,” he says, “and I won’t never get a bunch o’ money at once; so it looks like I couldn’t get married this fall.”

  Then I told him we played a city series every fall. He’d never thought o’ that and it tickled him to death. I told him the losers always got about five hundred apiece and that we were about due to win it and get about eight hundred. “But,” I says, “we still got a good chance for the old pennant; and if I was you I wouldn’t give up hope o’ that yet—not where John can hear you anyway.”

  “No,” he says, “we won’t win no pennant, because he won’t let me play reg’lar; but I don’t care so long as we’re sure o’ that city-series dough.”

  “You ain’t sure of it if you don’t behave,” I says.

  “Well,” says he, very serious, “I guess I’ll behave.” And he did—till we made our first Eastern trip.