Rookie of the Year

by John R. Tunis

  “Why, the crazy young fool, you know how superstitious these boys are; well, seems he had herring and bacon and eggs for breakfast the morning of the day he pitched that game against the Cubs. Then he goes in and holds them to a couple of hits. So he’s eaten the same breakfast eleven days straight now. Naturally, it caught up with him. He’s got a bad case of indigestion, and if you ask me, it’s a wonder he hasn’t come down with ptomaine or something worse.”

  “Confound these kids! Don’t they ever think? How long will he be out?”

  “Why, Spike, that’s kinda hard to tell. You certainly won’t be able to use him against the Giants; thing of this kind is weakening. You might throw him in against the Braves at home the last of the week; I won’t promise though.”

  “Shoot! I was counting on using him in turn. Well, that’s baseball for you.”

  The Doc shook his head. He had a long knowledge of the game and its personnel. “That’s baseball players, you mean.” He left, and soon after Charlie Draper entered. The coach was in a rare good humor. His reddened countenance beamed from the effects of a good meal and a cigar. The day’s work also pleased him.

  “G’d evening, boss. That was a swell one to cop off this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, it was, only...”

  “These boys are beginning to be a team now. Lemme tell you, too, that lad Baldwin can really hit. He makes me think of Cobb and Ruth and the best of ’em. Don’t fool yourself, he’s a natural hitter.”

  “Yes, he’s sure gonna be useful this year.”

  “Spike, I been watching him at the plate. They’ve curved him, they’ve pulled the string on him, they’ve hi-lowed him, they’ve thrown him everything but the kitchen sink, and still they can’t seem to get him out in the pinches. I asked him to account for it at dinner.”

  “Thasso? What’d he say?”

  “Says, ‘I guess it just happens that the pitchers out there are throwing where I’m swinging!’ ”

  “Well, I wish they threw that way to me. I’ve gone one for seventeen this week. I can’t seem to buy me a base hit these days.”

  “Spike, know what I think? You’re pulling your fanny away from those inside pitches. You aren’t hitting like you used to hit; you’re hitting like old Case did toward the end, with one foot free.”

  “I’m not conscious of it.”

  “You are, just the same. I was watching you carefully this afternoon. You gotta stay in there, gotta keep that old right foot solid. Now that’s what I like about this kid Baldwin, his stance.”

  “It ain’t his stance that worries me. It’s his roommate. You know what that crazy kid has gone and done?”

  “Who... Baldwin... Hathaway?”

  “Yeah. Ate herring and bacon and eggs for breakfast eleven days running; now he’s laid up with a bellyache and can’t pitch at the Polo Grounds tomorrow.”

  “Shoot! We wanted his game the worst way.”

  “Of course we did. I’m not sure if Hathaway is the man for Baldwin to room with. Two young rookies like that living together may be bad. I’m thinking of breaking ’em up and putting Hathaway with old Fat Stuff Foster.”

  “With Foster? Don’t do it, Spike.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause it won’t work out. The kid wants to live different from the old man. Fat Stuff he wants to live different from the kid. And these pitchers are so darn temperamental, you put one of ’em in with a guy they don’t happen to know very well and they may go all to pieces on you just when you need ’em bad. I’ve seen it happen.”

  “Yes, and I’ve seen it happen the other way round. I’ve seen a young rookie cooled off living with an old timer.”

  “Maybe. Sometimes it works out, I know. Well, you’re the manager, Spike.”

  That’s it. He was the manager. And here again was one time when being manager was no fun at all. He thought about it at breakfast before the train pulled into the Pennsylvania Station. They were slightly late when they finally did stop and the team piled off. Spike, with Bob at his side, went up an escalator, followed by the rest of the boys.

  As they reached the top a strange sight met their eyes. Although it was still early in the morning, a vast sea of people, a huge semicircle of curious faces dotted at intervals by policemen, met their astonished gaze. Then there was a shout, a dozen shouts, a roar.

  “Hey there! Spike...”

  “Where is he... where is he....”

  “An’ Bob... an’ Raz Nugent....”

  The shrieks and cries burst into a roar. They were in the midst of a sea of fans. They fought their way up a flight of stairs and there a still larger crowd greeted them. The noise echoed against the lofty vaults of the station, it increased with the appearance of every new player, it grew louder, louder. Suddenly the crowd broke the police lines and Spike was seized from behind. His feet went from under him; his bag was snatched from his hand. He was above everybody, looking down on them from someone’s shoulder, looking on an ocean of excited, upturned faces; near him Razzle was also tossing on an angry sea, and even big Swanny was coming up to join them, and others. Then the cops began clearing a narrow passage through the mob, and the Greenpoint band began blaring somewhere up ahead, and they were being rushed across the station floor to the open-mouthed astonishment of the few early morning patrons of the road. While all around and behind rose that roar.

  Well, that’s baseball for you. That’s being a baseball manager.

  Baseball nothing! That’s Brooklyn.

  13

  WHITEHOUSE, NUMBER 18, batting for Hathaway, number 15.” The loudspeaker droned the words above the shouts and yells of the fans.

  It’s the suddenness of baseball that makes it such a game. A team goes rolling along with everything clicking, the pitcher throwing shutout ball, the fielders making brilliant stops and grabbing liners off the fences, the opposing batters retreating inning after inning to the dugout in disgust. Then with no warning the storm breaks. The club that is moving like a machine falls apart for no reason at all.

  That afternoon, with Bones Hathaway pitching brilliantly, the club had a comfortable lead of two runs going into the seventh against the Boston Braves. Not a man had reached second base, and with two down in the first of the seventh Hathaway seemed to have a no-hitter in his grasp. Then the strain told; the effects of the long season began to show, and he weakened. A base on balls was followed by the first clean Boston hit of the game, a stinging drive over second base. The next batter dumped a short one in front of the plate, and Jocko Klein, who was usually death on those balls, fumbled it momentarily. The bases were filled.

  A two-bagger down the line, a lucky drive that missed first by inches, cleared them. Then the Boston catcher caught one of Bones’ fast balls and drove it over the fence. A game that had seemed to be in the bag suddenly went out from under. The score was five to two.

  At last they came in shaking their heads. Shoot! Do we always have to win the hard way? Do we always have to come from behind? Can’t we ever have a day to coast home? That was the hardest part of it, the feeling once more of having to pull up from behind, the necessity once more for giving from their store of nervous energy, of drawing again on those hidden reserves which they had been using so frequently of late. Yet something inside each man forced him on when his whole being told him he couldn’t; something inside every man refused to let him quit. They had to struggle on.

  So they stomped into the dugout, hot, wretched, perspiring, angry, nervous, upset. “Five to two. We gotta do it; doggone, we gotta do it, that’s all. Seems like we always hafta win the hard way.” It wasn’t any doubt of their ability to pull it off in the clutch that bothered them; it was a doubt as to whether once again they would be able to call on that painfully small reserve of nervous energy which was left.

  Bob, the first batter, responded by singling to center, making Spike tingle all over. What a ballplayer, yep, and what a brother he is! Always there when you need him; what more can a guy ask? Now, Jocko-boy. Jo
cko Klein shuffled up to the plate. After trying twice to bunt and fouling off each time, he struck out.

  Spike looked down the bench.

  “O.K.... go up there, Alan; go up and take a cut at that ball.”

  The loudspeaker droned its message. “Whitehouse, number 18, batting for Hathaway, number 15.”

  The boy responded by hitting a stinger to the left of second base; but the shortstop nabbed the ball and Bob was lucky not to be doubled, saving himself only by a fierce scramble back to the bag. Swanny, the next batter, tried hard; but his deep fly was caught close to the fence, and there they were going into the eighth, three big runs to the bad.

  The Braves went down quickly before Rats Doyle, the Brooks’ relief hurler; but so did the Dodgers in the last of the eighth. Then the top of the ninth and the last of the ninth, with the score still five to two. As they came running in for their final raps, a quick shout went up around the stands. They turned back and saw a figure 6 in the fourth inning of the Cards’ game against the Phils in St. Louis. It was all right to say don’t watch the scoreboard. But those six runs for the St. Louis team didn’t make pleasant reading. It tightened the tension inside the Brooklyn dugout.

  “Three runs. Only three runs, gang. We can do it against these palookas. That guy in there is a big fellow; he’s tiring; he’s plenty tired right now. Only three runs, gang; le’s go get ’em. We can do it!”

  Of course they could. They believed this, they knew they could. Hadn’t they been coming from behind to win all season? Wasn’t that their specialty? They could do it if only they could summon those reserves, if only they could call on that extra bit of energy and will power and determination, which they had been so recklessly spending all summer. Now they were down to the bottom of the barrel and their reserves were dangerously low.

  Harry Street stood at the plate cautiously waiting for a good one to hit, fouling off pitch after pitch, until the weariness of the man in the box was visible by the length of time he took to get ready, and the way he stood with hands on hips beside the mound, panting.

  Three and two. Three and two, what’ll he do?

  He clouted it, a fierce liner over second base. Then the shortstop appeared from nowhere, flying through the air to spear the ball, falling in a heap to the ground. He rolled over and over but came up with it in his hands.

  “Can you beat that? A drive that wouldn’t be stopped once in a thousand times. Shucks, honest, howsat for bad luck? Just when we need hits like diamonds.” The bench, which had jumped up with the sound of the bat, subsided in agonizing silence. To lose that one hurt. Harry Street returned, shaking his head.

  “Hard luck on that, Harry!”

  “Boy, that’s tough; that’s really tough, Harry.”

  “O.K., Bobby, save us one up there.”

  From the bench Spike watched the familiar figure of his brother at the plate, thinking of the many long hits the boy had made throughout the season. Just get on, Bob, he said to himself; get on anyhow, anyway at all.

  Bob got on the right way by smacking a solid liner into left field that nobody was near, took his turn, retreated to first, stood there and exchanged his batter’s cap with Johnny Cassidy, the coach. Spike spoke to Fat Stuff at his side on the bench.

  “Freddy, y’know I b’lieve that man is really tiring, that pitcher. He’s tired; if we can only get a man over now....”

  Jocko Klein, at the plate, waited carefully. The Braves’ hurler threw wide on the first pitch; but the catcher refused to go fishing. He fouled off a low one, then another. Then another. Yet somehow his swing lacked conviction; there was no authority in it. Finally he worked the count to three and two.

  The next pitch was low and Klein trotted down toward first. Spike watched him go carefully, noticing that there was no spring in his step. These boys are just plain tired, that’s all. They’re tired, they’re feeling the long summer, the pull-up, the strain of this campaign. Why not?

  Now the stands were up, waiting to see who would hit for the pitcher.

  “McCaffrey, number 19, batting for Doyle, number 6.” Spike was desperate now, trying every possible method of working in those runs. Elmer McCaffrey, besides being a good relief pitcher, was an excellent batter himself. But he wasn’t equal to it that afternoon. A long fly was hauled down in center field, and neither runner could advance.

  Then Swanny came up to the plate, nervously touching his cap, swinging his club, doing all those things a man does unconsciously in a tight spot. The pitcher was annoyed. He, too, was weary and nervous, but couldn’t betray his feelings. He waited until Swanny got through fiddling round, then he called time and stooped down over his shoelace.

  Swanny immediately backed away from the batter’s box, as the crowd jeered him. Then he stepped in. The Braves’ hurler took the rubber; but the little duel was not over. Swanson, in his turn, called time, stepped back again and knocked the dirt from his spikes. And ever and always that fearful figure 6 on the scoreboard beside the word St. Louis looked bigger and bigger. Two out, and three runs to the bad.

  At last everyone was ready. The catcher gave the sign, the man in the box nodded, checked the men on base, and wound up quickly. He pulled a string and it was right over for a called strike. The next pitch was a strike, too.

  From the dugout, Spike heard his brother’s cocky call. “The big one left, Swanny old kid, the big one left.”

  That’s what it was, the big one. Swanny met it, hard, and from the sound everyone knew the shot was deep. The left fielder, running desperately, charged headlong for the stands. He looked up just in time to save himself from crashing into them. The ball was disappearing in a mass of frenzied kids in the stands above.

  The dugout dissolved in a fever of joy. Jackets and caps and towels went into the air and fell outside on the well-worn ground. Someone upset the bat rack; the bats tumbled out; behind them the fans went wild. Pandemonium conquered the park, while the three players trotted around the bases. Half of the Dodger team was at the plate to meet them, and Spike, throwing his arms around big Swanny, hugged him as he charged over. Across the way, the Braves’ dugout was the only quiet portion of the field.

  Now the score was tied, the Brooks were back in the ballgame. A new pitcher shuffled across. From the dugout Spike saw Townsend, the Boston manager, shifting the outfield as Clyde Baldwin, his young slugger, came to bat. Townsend moved the score card in his hand to the left, then he rose, stood up, and holding it horizontally in his hand moved it again. Meanwhile the pitcher was standing in the box, and Baldwin was waving his bat threateningly at the plate. After a few moments of signaling and wigwagging, everyone was set. The man on the rubber took his sign from the catcher and threw. He only threw one ball.

  Clyde Baldwin caught it squarely and hoisted it high, deep, over the right field fence. Up, up, up and down. It disappeared into Bedford Avenue. Before he reached the plate the crowd was pouring onto the field below, and most of the Dodgers, to avoid the mob, were racing for the showers.

  The clubhouse was a happy scene. Spike came in, proud of his team, watching them peel off wet clothes, yelling at each other, their fatigue forgotten. No one had to urge them that afternoon to get their clothes off and get into the showers; they were ready enough that day. Only Jocko Klein sat quietly on his bench, weary and beaten.

  Doc Masters, the trainer, came into the manager’s dressing room as Spike, without any clothes on, stood talking to Charlie Draper, the bat bag in his hand as usual.

  “Spike... this kid Klein... he has what it takes.”

  “You tellin’ me! He’s a bear for work. Charlie, know what I think about that boy? He’s a short kid, only five feet eight or so. I think a feller that size has to be extra good to make a team. Understand what I mean?”

  The Doc interrupted. “I’m telling you he has what it takes. He caught that game today with five degrees of fever!”

  First Hathaway, then Klein! Just with the critical series against the western teams coming up, too.
/>   Spike’s first thought was for the club. “Is he... will he... is it serious?”

  “Nope, it’s just a touch of intestinal flu. That hot weather in Pitt and those darn air-conditioned rooms and trains, they raise hell with a man when he’s tired. Like Klein is. The wonder to me is we haven’t got more of it. He’ll be O.K. in a couple of days — say by Saturday. But with five degrees of fever — why, most guys would have been in bed this afternoon.”

  Spike threw a towel over one shoulder and went out to talk to the catcher, followed by his trainer.

  Yeah, and most guys wouldn’t have made this team, either.

  14

  THE BRAVES LEFT and the Phils came to town. The Phils departed, and the Giants moved over from the Polo Grounds. The western clubs next descended upon them as the days shortened, and the heat of summer gave way to cooler days and longer nights. Braves, Phils, Giants, Reds; it was all the same to the Brooks. They assaulted each team in turn, running up their string of victories to five, to six, to seven. They had been ten games behind the worried Cards when they started in August, five games early in September, then four games, three games, and at last two games. And as they came roaring up the stretch, tense and tight and tired and lame, it wasn’t the Dodgers who looked like cracking when the crisis came.

  Their rise was easy to explain. They were a unit, a team playing together. They had this spirit and something more; they had five hitters in the three hundred class; they had the one-two punchers in the National League in Roy Tucker and the freshman, Clyde Baldwin, walking up his heels; they had a wise and knowledgeable pitching staff, strengthened by young Hathaway who was developing into the rookie of the year; they had an infield as solid as a rock; a veteran at first base, who knew the answers and was always there in the pinches; a snappy young second sacker who was a holler guy, the spark plug of the team on offense and defense; a shortstop, who was a manager plus, who could go far to his right and make the hard plays look easy; and a reliable third baseman, with a wonderful pair of hands, who kept the hot corner under control, coming up with stabs and stops at vital moments in tight games to turn hits into doubleplays. Add to all that the fastest outfield in the business, and there’s a prescription for a winning club.