It was a low ball and he met it in front of the plate. That was all he saw, that and his brother roaring, head down, toward second. He felt the catcher’s throw behind his ear just as he stepped on the bag. He was out, but Bob was on second in scoring position. He walked slowly back to the bench, with that same decision again before him. Bones was sauntering slowly up to the plate, while on the steps of the dugout stood Paul Roth and Alan Whitehouse, swinging bats in their hands.
No, sir. No, sir. I’m gonna stick with Bonesy all the way. He’s got a right to win his own game, and he darned near did it for us in the ninth. I’ve stuck with my pitchers all season in times like this, and I’m not gonna change my style of baseball in the last game of the year. He walked slowly in and wedged himself beside old Fat Stuff, with half the team on the steps calling for a hit. Two out, and the fastest second baseman in the league in scoring position.
Bones took the first one. Shoot, thought Spike, that was a pip. A fast ball right across. There was the ballgame riding on that one. Now he’ll give him a change of pace most likely.
Bones walked away, scooped up some dirt and rubbed it on his palms, tapped his spikes, and resumed his place in the box. The next pitch was not a change of pace; it was a hook, low and slightly wide.
To Spike’s amazement he heard the voice of Stubblebeard behind the plate.
“Steerike tuh...”
A jeer rose from the stands instantly. For a second the boy at bat stood motionless. Then something seized him. Bones Hathaway, the quiet Bones, the pitcher who never engaged in rhubarbs on the field, who always let Draper and the coaches carry on the arguments, suddenly went wild.
“Strike!” He turned back. “Whazzat... you called that a strike?” He dropped his bat and stood beside the old umpire, and his voice carried to the dugout. “Hey, there, Stubble, what’s the matter with your eyesight these days?... Why, that ball was a foot outside....”
This was enough for the crowd. They rocked and roared above and around him, they supported him to a man, they whistled and catcalled, they stormed and shrieked and shouted disapproval. The ancient umpire shifted his chest protector with his elbows and kept his gaze fixed firmly on the pitcher standing motionless in the box.
“You blind, Stubble, or what? It was bad enough the other day... without you have to hang it on us again.”
The blue-clad figure took off his mask, held it in one hand, and turned away. He took three or four steps toward the stands; the stands on their feet, howling for his blood. This man was an enemy of Brooklyn. Bones followed at his heels, pouring invective on him. Suddenly the umpire wheeled around.
Spike Russell jumped from the dugout followed by Charlie Draper. They saw trouble in the way the old man turned, and they heard his voice plainly. “One more word, Hathaway, and you’re through for the day. I mean that, and don’t think I’m foolin’. One more word....”
The old chap’s tone yanked Bones from his anger. He stood silent, uncertain for a minute as he saw his manager and coach rush toward him. Then, smothering his resentment as well as he could, he turned back to the plate, took his club from the bat boy, and stepped into the box. To his surprise he was trembling all over. He got ready. Nothing and two. Two strikes and no balls.
The next pitch was a duster, directly at his head. Angry now, his reflexes were slow. He had trouble dodging the ball, and it sent him sprawling foolishly back into the dirt, his bat clattering from his hand. The fall was so unexpected it shook him badly. This made him more angry than ever. He took his time rising, got up slowly, slapping dust from his uniform.
Maybe I made a mistake, thought Spike. Maybe I should have put in a pinch hitter; maybe the kid can’t take it. Yep, it looks as if I guessed wrong. It looks as if I made a mistake.
“Oh-oh. That’s bad; that’s really bad.” Old Fat Stuff on the bench beside him shook his head. “I know that boy Hathaway. That pitcher couldn’t have done anything worse. He’ll be right sorry he threw that duster, you wait and see. Oh, that’s bad, that is.”
The next one was inside. A ball. Two and two. Again the rookie pitcher took a toehold as the pitch came. It was a medium high fast ball, and he caught it squarely. You could tell by the sound this was a hard blow. In exactly the same place, the slot between left and center, but this time a shot that cleared the outstretched hands of Splinter Danaher and roared past, that rolled and rolled on to deep center with the two Cards in hot pursuit. While Bob Russell romped across with the winning run.
The fans were on the field, mobbing the players. They caught Hathaway before he could get back from second base; they pulled at his sleeves and slapped him on the back, while the team stuffed their gloves in their pockets and ran in triumph for the clubhouse. Old Fat Stuff stood before the bench watching the scene.
“Yes, sir, I told you he’d go and do something like that. The best way to get along with Bones Hathaway at the platter is not to go chucking at his noggin. I knew he’d clout one after that duster, I sure did. Good work there, Bonesy, you sure delivered that time... and now, boy, bring on them Yanks!”
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1944, renewed 1972 by Lucy R. Tunis
cover design by Milan Bozic
978-1-4532-2116-7
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
Rookie of the Year Page 13
