by Troy Soos
I nodded toward the young men working in the storage room. “Were they here? Or any delivery men?”
He snorted. “Them lazy bastards? Nah. They don’t put in the hours I do.”
“Has anybody else talked to you about Pollard?”
“Just you. And the police and Mr. Vey when they found the body. I told them the same thing I’m telling you: I didn’t know nuthin’ about the man. He was just a body in the wall.”
“Alright. Thanks, Mr. Zegarra. I appreciate you talking to me.”
“Call me ‘Joe,’ ” he reminded me. “Just do me one favor, will yuh?”
“If I can.”
“I was told to keep quiet about this, and except for talkin’ to you I have. I know Mr. Barrow wants you nosin’ around a little, but could yuh keep it quiet, too?”
“I’ll try.”
“Yuh know how people are,” he went on. “They hear a dead guy was found in my place, it could spook ’em. Hell, they’ll probably even start rumors about what’s in my sausages. Speakin’a which—” He yelled to one of his helpers, “Hey, Carlo! Remember to clean the damn grill!”
I thanked Zegarra again, wished him well with his business, and left for the clubhouse.
* * *
Like everything else in Yankee Stadium, the locker room was better than any other in baseball. The lockers actually locked, each player had his own chair, there was an adequate supply of clean towels, and the showers had plenty of hot water. I’d played in some old ballparks where I had to hang my clothes on a nail in the wall and wash up in a trickle of liquid rust. Being a Yankee was definitely the big time. And I wanted to stay.
A few other players were already in the clubhouse. Bob Shawkey, who would be going against Washington Senators’ ace Walter Johnson, was getting a rubdown from the trainer. Shawkey was a veteran of the Great War as well as a veteran pitcher; because of his naval service aboard the battleship Arkansas, he’d been tagged with the nickname “Bob the Gob.” Hinkey Haines was early, too, talking to centerfielder Whitey Witt about how to play balls hit off the fence. The main job of a rookie is to learn, and I was glad to see Haines putting in the time and effort.
With a passing nod at Haines and Witt, I walked to Miller Huggins’ small office. He was alone, seated behind a plain oak desk, scowling down at a lineup card. Through four games we were undefeated on the season, but he looked as mournful as if we’d lost ten in a row.
I knocked on the open door. “Got a minute, Hug?”
The manager looked up. “Sure. Come on in.” He slid the card aside and leaned back in his chair.
After less than a week of use, his office already smelled faintly like the rest of the clubhouse, a mixture of sweat, leather, tobacco juice, and liniment. A canvas satchel of baseballs and a jumble of bats were in one corner, and a coat rack with several uniforms and sweaters hanging from it was in another. There was also a small bookcase with works by famous authors—actual literature. Most managers read nothing more challenging than the Sporting News or the daily newspapers, but Huggins was something of a bookworm.
“Mr. Barrow and Col. Ruppert talked to me,” I began, “and I’m not sure what to do. I figure I work for you, so I want to ask you about it.”
“Yeah, they told me what’s going on.” Huggins waved me into the room’s only other seat, a spindle back arm chair next to the bookcase. “I’m sorry they’re getting you involved. Ruppert has it in his head, though, that he’s under some kind of attack and he wants to know who’s behind it.”
“He’s under attack? Spats Pollard is the one who got killed.”
The manager smiled wryly. “That’s not the way Col. Ruppert sees it. As far as he’s concerned, Pollard was merely a means by which to give the new stadium a bad name.”
I took a breath. “So what’s my job here? Am playing baseball for you, or detective for the front office?”
Huggins pondered that before answering. “Well, just like anybody else in organized baseball, you have two jobs—and they’re both important. One job is on the field, playing the best you can and helping the team to win. Then, as in any profession, you also have the responsibility of keeping your bosses happy. Maintaining a career in baseball has a lot to do with who you know and who your friends are.” He didn’t point out—and didn’t need to—that it was especially important to get along with the boss when one didn’t exactly have the athletic skills of Babe Ruth.
I remembered Jacob Ruppert’s offer to be a friend. “So I need to do what they ask.”
“That would be the wise choice,” he said. “We are all called upon to do a little more than should be required of us sometimes. Especially for the man who signs the paychecks.” A rare smile slowly took over his face. “Let me talk straight with you.” At my nod to continue, he leaned forward. “You’re thirty-one. You’ve been a utility player for your entire career—a good one, but still utility. Now you’re worried you only have a few years left and you don’t know what you’re going to do afterward. Am I right?”
I was taken aback that he had such an accurate read on me. All I could do was nod again.
“Mickey, you’re me ten years ago. And I got you pegged to be a manager yourself someday.” He paused. “When I needed a pinch runner the other day, and I put in Hinkey Haines, did you think that was the right move?”
I hesitated briefly. “It was the right move for the team, I suppose.”
“You’re not sure?”
“If I was in your job, I’d have put in Haines because he’s a helluva runner. But I can’t say it was right for me because I’m still a ballplayer, not a manager, and I want to be in on every play. When I’m in the field, I want the ball hit to me. When we’re facing a tough pitcher, I want to be the one going to bat. I know other fellows might be better than me, and if I ever do become a manager I’ll put in whoever’s most likely to help us win. But I can’t give up on being a player yet. I can’t!”
“Believe me. I understand.” Huggins smiled. “There are times when I’m itching to get in a game again myself.”
There was a rap at the door. Charley O’Leary, a former shortstop who’d been coaching for Huggins ever since his retirement as a player, stuck his large head inside. “We got a problem, Hug.” The rubber-faced O’Leary performed in a comic vaudeville act during the off season, but there was no humor in his expression now.
“What is it?”
O’Leary hesitated and gave me a glance. Huggins nodded that it was okay to speak in front of me. “Babe had himself quite a night last night,” the coach said. “Might not show up—and if he does, probably won’t be in any shape to play.”
I said softly, “He’ll be here. And he’ll play.”
Huggins gave me a quizzical look.
“This is the kind of game he lives for,” I explained. “A Sunday game against Walter Johnson is sure to be a full house—and Babe does like an audience.”
“You’re probably right,” Huggins said after a moment’s thought. To O’Leary, he added, “Just in case, tell Haines he might be starting today. Even if Ruth does show up, I might let the kid start for him. Maybe it’ll teach that big sonofabitch a lesson.”
When O’Leary left us alone again, Huggins resumed our earlier conversation. “As I was saying: I know what it’s like to want to play. And when I can use you, you’ll get in the game. But I won’t put you in unless the situation calls for it. You are only going to play when I feel you’re the best man at the time to help us win.” He leaned back. “When you’re a manager, you’ll understand, and I know you’ll do the same.”
I already understood, but I didn’t necessarily like it.
“Meanwhile,” Huggins went on, “there are some other ways you can help the team.”
“How?” I asked, wondering what else the team could possibly want of me. I was already playing nursemaid to Babe Ruth on the road and looking into a dead ballplayer for Jacob Ruppert.
“Teach the other players,” he suggested. “Especially the young kids
like Haines. Coach them some.”
“Sure, I could do that.”
“And maybe help me out a little, too. I might ask your advice from time to time. You know, I’ve noticed you on the bench: You listen when I’m talking strategy, and you always have your head in the game. Most of the other fellows are yapping about their dates and their dinner plans for after the game, but you’re always focused on what’s happening on the field. That’s part of what makes a good manager.”
“I’ll help however I can,” I said. It was refreshing to be asked to do something that involved baseball.
“Good.” Huggins studied me for a long moment. “Let me ask your opinion on something right now: What do you think of Scott’s chances against Johnson?”
“Lousy,” I answered promptly. “But hardly anybody has much of a chance against Johnson.” Walter Johnson’s fastball bordered on invisibility, and you can’t hit what you can’t see. Relying on that fastball and extraordinary control, the Senators’ pitcher had dominated the American League for more than a decade.
“True,” Huggins said with a faint smile. “But any particular reason you think Scott might have trouble today?”
“His bad ankle. It’s hurting him and he has to take an extra split second to step off it when he’s hitting. He’s playing hurt and doing the best he can, but with Johnson pitching he can’t afford that split second—the ball will be past him before he can get his bat around.” Everett Scott, although an outstanding shortstop, was not a particularly strong hitter and that slight delay could be fatal for him against Johnson.
The manager smiled more fully. “You noticed that little hitch in his swing, huh? So have I, and I believe your evaluation is correct.” He looked down at the lineup card. “Can you hit Johnson?”
“I have before.” I chose not to mention that it was only once and just a single—although it had felt like a grand slam at the time. I stared at the lineup card on the desk, trying not to let my eagerness show. Was he going to put my name on it? Would I finally get into a game as a Yankee?
“Scott’s starting,” Huggins abruptly said. “He’s got that streak on the line, and he deserves a chance.”
I swallowed hard and tried to shrug off the bad news.
Huggins dismissed me with jerk of his head toward the door. As I left, I made an effort to keep my disappointment from showing. I walked out the door with my back straight and my shoulders high. My steps suddenly became lighter when Huggins called after me, “Get some extra batting practice today!”
* * *
My flannels were still perfectly clean through the first three innings. I sat near Huggins, my scarred old baseball mitt clasped between my hands. I was so antsy about getting into the game that I kept squeezing and kneading it like a lump of raw dough.
Just as he had for so many years in so many other games, Walter Johnson completely dominated the Yankee batters. The tall right-hander, with arms that dangled nearly to his knees, had an easy motion and a side-armed delivery that flung blurry white bullets across home plate. The “Big Train,” as Johnson was called, was on track today. With a clear sky above, a temperature of seventy degrees, and a near-capacity crowd murmuring at his every pitch, he retired batter after batter in order. Meanwhile, he had been staked to an early lead when Senators left-fielder Goose Goslin knocked in a pair of runs with a triple.
Babe Ruth did make it to the park shortly before game time, and Huggins elected not to give Hinkey Haines his spot. It was again the right decision for the team; against Johnson, we needed Ruth’s bat in the lineup. But Haines couldn’t have fared any worse than the Babe did in his first at bat. Ruth clumsily struck out on three straight pitches and stormed back to the dugout spewing profanities in every direction.
With the Yankees failing to put any runners on base, it wasn’t until the bottom of the third that Everett Scott, batting in the eighth spot, came to the plate. I watched closely as the shortstop dug in, certain that Huggins had his eye on him too. Scott went into his normal stance—a mistake, I thought. With his delayed step, he should have moved back in the box to give himself a little more time.
Scott took Johnson’s first pitch for a strike, then a fastball low for a one-one count. When he swung at the next pitch, the delay in his step as he strode forward was noticeable. Scott’s bat wasn’t half way around when the ball popped into the catcher’s mitt. The final pitch was almost an exact repeat of the previous, and Scott was out on strikes. There was certainly no shame in being struck out by the tall man from Kansas—Johnson had struck out about three thousand batters during his illustrious career—but Scott’s effort was completely futile.
I glanced at Huggins. Although the manager gave no indication, I was sure that I would be going into the game when it came time for Scott to bat again. It turned out I was mistaken. After Bob Shawkey grounded out to end the inning, Huggins barked at me, “Rawlings! See if you can use that mitt for something more than a squeeze toy. You’re going in at short.”
Scott had already taken a couple of steps out of the dugout when he heard that he was pulled from the game. The usually mild-mannered shortstop hurled his glove at the bench in anger. “Rest that ankle of yours,” Huggins said to him calmly. “You’ll be back in tomorrow.”
I trotted out to my position, enjoying the feel of my cleats digging into the well-tended ground of the new ballpark. As I did, I was aware that too many thoughts were running through my head. I almost wished that Huggins hadn’t gotten me started thinking like a manager—it was tough enough to play baseball without having to think so much!
Instead of simply appreciating the fact that I was about to make my first appearance as a New York Yankee, I was considering Huggins’ rationale for putting me in at this point in the game. I had assumed that I wouldn’t take over for Scott until his next at bat, but I realized that Huggins’ judgment was sound. Although Scott was the best fielding shortstop in all of baseball, the position required so much range that it put a great deal of stress on the feet and legs. One tough play and his strained ankle could be injured far worse. By putting me in now, Scott got some time to let it heal, his consecutive game streak was still on track to hit a thousand, and I could get my feet wet in the game before having to face Johnson’s fastball.
While we threw the ball around in infield warm-ups, I became aware that Yankee Stadium was most impressive from the vantage point of the playing field. I was surrounded by sixty thousand fans in three tiers of stands, the biggest crowd I’d ever played before. And while my eyes were diverted to a quick scan of that enormous crowd, they were all treated to the sight of me dropping an easy toss from Wally Pipp. Furious at myself, I picked up the baseball and threw it back to him hard. I could feel my face turning red. What a way to make my Yankees debut: an error on a warm-up throw. I’d probably just given Huggins a heart palpitation and Scott a good laugh.
From that moment, I kept my eyes and mind on the field of play. Forget everything else, I told myself, just play the game. By the time Bob Shawkey threw the first pitch to start the fourth inning, I was fairly relaxed. The only jitters were in my feet, but that was an asset; I was ready to move in any direction that the ball might be hit.
The Senators’ first two batters went down on an easy fly ball to Babe Ruth and a hard liner up the third base line that Joe Dugan snagged with a low dive. Then came my first fielding opportunity: Roger Peckinpaugh hit a slow chopper directly at me. It was a catch that any of the street kids who played near my apartment could make, but I felt good about playing it cleanly and throwing Peckinpaugh out to end the inning. I trotted off the field happy that I had done my job well.
In the fifth inning, with the Senators up 3-1, two outs and nobody on, I got my first chance to hit. I picked my bat off the ground and gripped the handle tightly. As I approached the plate, I looked directly at Walter Johnson as if to show that I had no fear of him. His expression was stolid, and I was pretty sure he had no fear of me, either.
As soon as I scratched my
cleats into the hard-packed dirt of the batter’s box, I had the calming sense of being in a familiar place. I’d played in a hundred ballparks over the years, but one small rectangle of earth was always the same: the batter’s box. I tapped my bat on the outer edge of the plate and took my stance. The Louisville Slugger in my hands, the red clay under my spikes… it felt so natural and so comfortable, all the worries of the past weeks were gone. This was exactly where I belonged.
My strategy for hitting Johnson was simple: I would reduce the strike zone as much as possible and then swing at what remained. If the gentlemanly pitcher had any weakness it was that he didn’t want to injure anyone. One of his fastballs to the head could kill a batter instantly. My new teammate Carl Mays had killed Indians’ shortstop Ray Chapman with a pitch a couple of years ago and Mays didn’t throw nearly as hard as Johnson.
I dug in at the back of the box to give me more time, but close to the plate, trusting that his kind nature would keep him from throwing inside. I also crouched a little more than usual to cut down the height of the strike zone.
From behind the plate, catcher Muddy Ruel chuckled, “He ain’t even thrown the damn ball yet, and yer already duckin’.”
I kept my eyes riveted on Johnson as he went into his wind-up. I looked for his release point when he threw. There would be no time to react if I waited to pick up the ball after it was in flight, so I watched his hand with the idea that I could tell where the ball would be heading. Of course, everyone had a system for hitting Walter Johnson; the problem was that none of them worked any better than the systems used by gamblers to bet horses. Still, I felt I had more control of the situation by going in with a plan.
With his side-armed delivery and long right arm, Johnson’s first pitch seemed to come at me from the direction of third base. It was all I could do not to hit the ground in panic.
“Strike one!” bellowed umpire Billy Evans.
I’d barely seen the ball as it blurred past me. It popped into Ruel’s mitt with the sound of a rifle report.
