Kid Comes Back

by John R. Tunis

  Roy glanced up sharply at the earnest, wrinkled face, at the blue eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses. Was he kidding? Not at all. The puzzled expression was honest and direct.

  “Couldn’t be Ray Tonelli of the Giants, could it?”

  “Of course! You told me his name when you were in here ten days ago, didn’t you? It took time to straighten that lad out.”

  With difficulty Roy kept silent. If it took time for Ray, how long would it take for himself? This was the 25th of April. Roy had learned the hard way that doctors never enjoy committing themselves on a patient’s recovery, and seldom do. So he said nothing.

  The big hands, the powerful thumbs were working underneath his body now, running a tattoo along his spine, easing the pressure. All the while he conversed in a kind of monologue.

  “You had pain all up and down your left side and your left leg, didn’t you? Yes, well, consequently you favored it, you leaned toward your right, you overworked your right side and neglected the muscles all up and down your left side, through here. They became soft through disuse. Now we must build these up again in order to regain normal equilibrium.”

  “But how?”

  “Partly by treatment, first; but mostly by exercise.”

  “Exercise! You mean I can cure myself by exercise?”

  “Certainly. If you do them faithfully.”

  “Doc, I’ll walk on my head up and down Broadway if it’ll get me back on that ballclub. You see, I’ve been around quite some time, and I never ducked anything yet.” Hope surged up within him; for the first moment in long months his spirit rose.

  The doctor straightened up, smiling. “Good. This is the stage when you must fight, when you can help yourself by fighting. If you will, you are cured.” Now he was working again on the hip, going down the leg, kneading the calf with the softest of touches, then suddenly unfastening the shoe.

  “My foot’s O.K., Doc.”

  The big man paid no attention, yanked off the shoe and removed the stocking. “Yes... h’m... you never get a hip out of place that you don’t affect the muscles and the ligaments. These you have to correct by working on the foot.” He was massaging the instep, then pulling and working on the bones round the toes, always gently, always slowly, and always competently. The stocking and shoe were replaced, and he got after the other foot. Again he replaced sock and shoe when finished.

  “There! That about does it for today. I shall want to see you... let’s see... about Friday. Suppose we say Friday next, at the same time. Then perhaps twice next week, and maybe once more; maybe not. After that it’s up to you.”

  “You mean the exercises?”

  “Yes, let me show you now.” With the agility of a youngster, he flipped himself over on the table, upon his back, his hands flat along the surface.

  “Only three of them; but you must do them correctly or they are of no value, and you must do them regularly, twice a day.”

  Roy stood erect and comfortable for almost the first time since Fried Spratt came down upon the tiny airfield in the Dordogne. “You don’t need to worry about that. If I say I will, I will.”

  “So, good. Now, here is the first one.” Carefully the doctor explained the exercises to Roy, demonstrating each one in slow motion, repeating them until he was certain he understood.

  “D’you think, doctor, I might... maybe get back in there before the end of the summer?”

  “It depends on you. You can run; you’ll probably be able to run as fast as you ever did in two months. But if you make sudden jerks or starts, you’re likely to throw that back of yours out again.”

  “Then we start from the beginning?”

  “That’s right. Watch yourself carefully; above all no sudden movements. And do those exercises.”

  Roy stepped into the taxi. Bending over had ceased to be the incredible agony it formerly had been, and he got in almost with ease.

  Will I take those exercises! Will I! If I’m not a fighter, I’m nothing.

  CHAPTER 19

  THERE WERE TIMES when the loud-voiced president of the club bothered Roy; but Jack MacManus had one quality that endeared him to every man on the team—loyalty. If a man tried and tried hard, he was for him. He was especially loyal to those who had helped him win pennants. Some club owners might have released Roy outright, or at any rate taken him off the active list. As he sat in the boss’s outer office waiting for their first conference since his crackup, Roy had no fear of either event happening.

  From within could be heard the booming voice of the big executive, and softer tones which Roy recognized as the voice of the pitcher, Bones Hathaway. Roy immediately guessed Bones was getting a call-down. Although MacManus had great loyalty for the players, if he felt one of them was not trying, he jumped him immediately. The fact was that the big pitcher had been in and out all spring. When the team left for their western trip two days previously, he had been kept in Brooklyn.

  All this Roy knew. He did not, however, anticipate the sentence he heard from the adjoining room.

  “So there you are! I don’t know whether you’ll be back or not. That’s entirely up to you, my boy, strictly up to you, as it is to everyone on this club. Truth is, you’re plain lazy. You’re trying to coast along on your reputation, and you just can’t do that in this post-war baseball. And you’ve developed one bad fault. You’re unable—or else you are afraid—to hit that strike zone with your first two pitches any more. Consequently you are behind the batter and always in trouble. I can’t tell whether you can correct this in Montreal or not. It’s up to you.”

  Montreal! Sending Bones to Montreal. Say, that’s tough, that’s exile, that is.

  “No pitcher can be behind the hitters and win. Bones, look, I believe in you. I know you have the stuff. I have faith in you or I’d give you an outright release here this morning. But whether we pick up your option depends entirely on you.”

  There was a pause in his lecture, as the pitcher answered in despondent tones that Roy was unable to hear. Montreal! This must hurt. It’s hard on a man’s pride to be sent to the minors after three seasons in the big time, one on a championship club. To be going up river after three years in a Dodger uniform, with a one-way ticket in your pocket, isn’t funny.

  Suddenly the similarity of their situations came to him. Bonesey must come back the hard way, just as I must do. He’s got to work things out for himself, same as I have, to prove himself all over again. And it won’t be so easy for either of us, with these kids coming along.

  Then the door burst open, and a red-faced Hathaway flew out of the president’s sanctum. He was so agitated that he never even noticed Roy sitting quietly on a chair at one side.

  “Come in, Roy, come right in, boy!” The handshake of the boss was warm and sincere. He glanced up under his thick eyebrows. “Got good news for me this morning?”

  “Why, yes, sir. Yes, Mr. Mac, believe I have... at least I hope so. The doc thinks, he says now...”

  The secretary was handing MacManus three or four letters, and he stood there reading them, issuing dictates, returning the letters to her, one by one; all the time paying not the slightest attention to his visitor, who slowed up, hesitated, stopped talking.

  “Sit down, boy, sit down. Now tell me all about it. This man seems to have done you some good, doesn’t he?”

  Roy would have liked nothing better than to talk about his doctor; but it was difficult. The phone clicked gently every few seconds, and often the secretary entered and laid a memorandum, or the name of some caller waiting outside, upon the desk before the president’s gaze. Only two things resulted definitely from the interview. One was that the boss still had faith in his ultimate recovery and still considered him a member of the club. The second was that he had arranged for Roy to work out each morning with the Yankees while the Dodgers were on their western trip, if he were well enough to try it.

  Roy had finished his six treatments with Dr. Rittenbusch, and had been doing those exercises daily for weeks. The pain
was gone, and he felt looser and freer in his movements from day to day, yet he dared put no pressure upon his leg. Indeed he was afraid to do so, because too much depended upon it. After a check-up in mid-June, the doctor told him he was ready to start training again if he would work into it gradually. He noticed Roy’s hesitation.

  “See here now. This is where you must learn to help yourself. There’s nothing wrong with your leg now, but you’re afraid to use it. You’ve got to get over that. If you believe in yourself, I’m convinced you can do anything. It’s a problem of faith. This is something you must work out for yourself.”

  So Roy began, gingerly, tenderly, each morning at the Yankee Stadium. At first just a gentle jog around the field; then after several days two laps, and next three laps, faster still. Ever so slowly his confidence returned. In a week he found himself shagging flies, yet all the while half expecting that agony to return. The pain had become too much a part of him to put aside easily. But he kept at it, meanwhile going through the doctor’s exercises twice each day with a fervor that was almost religious.

  I’m gonna come back... I’m determined to come back... I will get back on that club again.

  Each day he went a little further and did a little more, each day watching anxiously for the advent of those first spasms of pain. His speed returned, and only in his stopping and starting motions, the jerky movements, did he find himself slowed up. That, he realized, was mostly due to fear. Little by little he found himself thinking less of his handicap and more of that ball soaring toward him through the sky. One day he discovered himself racing hard for a deep drive, sweat pouring from his face. It was a wonderful, a happy fortnight. It also helped one afternoon when he stayed round for the opening game of a double-header, to see Ray Tonelli hopping about on second base like a rookie.

  Finally the Brooks returned in triumph from their safari in the west, leading the league by nine games. The boys were affable and pleasant, genuinely glad to see Roy, even though Lester Young, as predicted, was tearing up the basepaths and starring in the Kid’s old spot in center field. But everyone welcomed him back: his old friends, Fat Stuff and noisy Raz and Bob Russell and quiet Jocko Klein; also the rookies, Elmer Shiells, who was doing such a fine job at the hot corner, and the new pitchers—Mike Mehaffey and Eddie Stone and Jerry Fielding.

  That first afternoon, Lester Young, big, powerful, sure of himself, strode up to the dugout where Roy was sitting.

  “Glad to have you back again, Roy. How you making it?”

  The Kid looked at him quickly. Yes, he meant it. Roy, who had disliked him at first, was disarmed. “Shucks, I’m coming along, I guess, Lester. But it looks to me like you boys out there are doing O.K. without me.”

  The slugging outfielder went over to the batrack and yanked out his war-club. Striding to the plate, he called back over one shoulder: “You wait. We’ll need you plenty before this summer’s over.”

  Yes, it was great to be back, to wear that old 34 again, to haul on the blue socks with the white undersocks showing beneath, and the flannel shirt with the word “Dodgers” across the front, and the trousers patched over the hips where rival spikes had gashed them, and the blue cap with the dirty-white “B” on it. To step once more into the batter’s box, to feel his spikes dig into the thick turf of the outfield, or just to sit there in the dugout watching the splotched stands, the blue and white patches of shirts, the dimness of the rows of seats in the upper tier. It was great to be again in that familiar atmosphere and hear the talk.

  “Looka that! See that stop!” Charlie Draper’s tones sounded over the bench. “Yes, sir, the professionals are back. As Raz put it, during the war a pitcher stood out there and listened to the base hits ringing past his nut. Now he looks up to see a double-play on the same sort of ball.”

  Then from the other end Roy heard Casey’s tones, needling, trying as usual to get information from Spike Russell, their fighting manager. Canny Spike was too much for the clever sportswriter, although they fenced each other verbally each time they met.

  “But suppose he does, even if he does,” persisted Casey, “where you gonna use him?” This made Roy sit up. They’re talking about me. “Swanny’s better’n ever he was,” Casey went on. “Paul Roth is batting third in the league. As for Young, well, you wouldn’t bench him for DiMag, would you?”

  Then came Spike’s tones and words that helped: “A good ballplayer is a good ballplayer and a manager can’t have too many of them. You can always use them, and I’m stringing along with him.” His voice had decision and finality. The sentences and the confidence that clung to them were like a pat on the back.

  There, that’s the sort of manager to have, that’s the kind of guy to work for. I’m not quitting on this thing. It may take time, it may take all summer, but I’m coming back to this club.

  Count Roy Tucker out! Lemme see, who was it said that?

  CHAPTER 20

  NINE GAMES AHEAD the middle of July, that’s really all right. Especially with the other teams back in the ruck, cutting each other’s throats for you every day in the week. To stay on top, the Dodgers had to win the hard ones under the arc lights of the west. Those were the games they took. So back to Brooklyn, loose, easy, and confident. It was a good ballclub for Roy to return to, and this was the best return of all. Now he could almost see the end of his long, uphill climb.

  Sitting on the bench in the dugout with its wide floorboards cut by the scraping and scuffing of thousands of spikes, Roy thought, I’d rather warm the bench for Spike Russell than be a regular on the Yanks. But I’m not going to be a bench-warmer all season. I’m determined to come back; I will get back on that club.

  He sat listening to the crack of bat against ball, the thud of the catchers’ mitts as the hurlers took their warm-ups, the friendly voices around, the shouts from the stands, the cries of the scorecard men, of old Jake Schultz especially. No one could mistake his tones.

  The old fellow drew nearer. “Peanuts, they’re ten a bag. Fresh roasted peanuts, they’re ten a bag. Who’s next up there? Getcha fresh roasted... fresh roasted... who’s next? Why, Roy! Hullo there, glad to see you back, son.”

  “Hullo yourself, Jake. Mighty glad to be back. How’s tricks?”

  “Just fine, boy. How are you?”

  “Me? I’m coming along. Business good this year, Jake?” It was no secret that he was the plutocrat of Ebbets Field. Never reticent regarding his earnings, Jake confessed to clearing from thirty to forty dollars a day on scorecards alone. He received a penny on each card and each bag of peanuts sold. His big money came from peanuts, and he had a system of his own in selling them.

  “See now, I’m a psychologist. I don’t chuck the bags any old way. I throw ’em hard, with a flip, Roy, like this... see? And some wise guy with a girl, some show-off, he hollers and holds out his mitt. So I let him have it, hard as I can. He catches it and comes back for another. Slick, see? Yes, sir, business is good. You can’t lose with a winning club; you can’t help making dough. Well, kid, take care of yourself. We’ll need you out there afore September.” He passed on, his strong tones resounding over the hubbub. “Who’s next? Fresh roasted... they’re ten cents a bag... getcha fresh roasted.”

  Now that’s the second person who has said that. Roy was only vaguely aware of the music from the organ above. Suddenly he really heard it. “Take me out to the ballgame...”

  Then the hot haze of that summer morning on the big Queen came back to him—the bands on the pier and the guys aboard yelling at the Red Cross girls. “For it’s one... two... three strikes, you’re out... at...” No, sir, I’m not out. I’m back. They’ll need me before September, and I’m gonna get my spot back on this club once more if it kills me.

  The bell rang and the game commenced. It was a long game and a tough one, a pitcher’s battle, with Eddie Stone, the young ace of the Brooks, against Earl Wingate, the Cub star. It was one of those dingdong affairs in which the pitchers handcuffed the batters, and the great crowd was tense
and restless all afternoon as neither side could get a run. Inning after inning saw only goose eggs on the scoreboard in right. When you have hurlers in the box with perfect control and two clubs playing errorless baseball, you have a stalemate. Lester Young had a couple of chances to bring home that important run, but was unable to get the ball out of the infield. Other hitters were just as bad. So they came into the tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth, and the thirteenth, with lots of cold suppers waiting for their owners around Flatbush.

  As the Dodger pitcher slumped down on the bench at the end of the Cub’s thirteenth, Roy noticed his heavy breathing. Quite obviously tired; Spike will go for someone else. Yet although a pinch-hitter was indicated, for he was lead-off man that inning, Spike’s voice down the bench startled Roy. “Go on out there, Tuck, and get us a hit.” Roy didn’t move for a moment. Well, here goes! Will I stiffen up again? Will that leg tighten up the way it did before?

  He rose, stepped outside to the batrack, picked up the lumber, cracked the two bats together, and tossed one aside. As he walked out, a shriek from the stands drowned out the voice of the announcer.

  “Tucker... number thirty-four... batting for...”

  He came up to the plate, the fans still yelling as he went into the box, loyally waving at him, thus making it harder to sight the ball in the fading light. He waited a second, stepped back, knocked the dirt from his spikes, and took his place once more. The pitcher wound up and whipped in the first one, straight at his chin. Roy whirled, stumbled, fell over onto the dirt, his bat rolling away.

  Well, things are sure getting back to normal when they start knocking me down at the plate, he thought. Standing there, he dusted off his pants and took the wood from the bat boy. Now then, let’s see what this guy’s got.

  The next ball fooled him completely. The pitcher powdered a fast one by him for a strike. He swung all the way round; he really went after it, but his timing was slow and he missed, as the crowd roared. Then came the one he wanted, a curve whipped in above the knees and over the corner. He met the ball, pulled it gently down the line, and was off toward first.