the Red Headed Outfield (1948)

by Grey, Zane

  Rube at second. But Spears' warning held or frightened Rube on the bag.

  Vane wasted a ball, then another. Ashwell could not be coaxed. Wearily Vane swung; the shortstop raced out to get in line for a possible hit through the wide space to his right, and the second baseman got on his toes as both base runners started.

  Crack! The old story of the hit and run game!

  Ashwell's hit crossed sharply where a moment before the shortstop had been standing. With gigantic strides Rube rounded the corner and scored. McCall flitted through second, and diving into third with a cloud of dust, got the umpire's decision. When Stringer hurried up with Mac on third and Ash on first the whole field seemed racked in a deafening storm. Again it subsided quickly. The hopes of the Worcester fans had been crushed too often of late for them to be fearless.

  But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense ended. I was like a man clamped in a vise.

  Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with the sprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm and slowly edged off first. Stringer waited for one strike and two balls, then he hit the next. It hugged the first base line, bounced fiercely past the bag and skipped over the grass to bump hard into the fence. McCall romped home, and lame Ashwell beat any run he ever made to the plate.

  Rolling, swelling, crashing roar of frenzied feet could not down the high piercing sustained yell of the fans. It was great. Three weeks of submerged bottled baseball joy exploded in one mad outburst! The fans, too, had come into their own again.

  We scored no more. But the Bisons were beaten. Their spirit was broken. This did not make the Rube let up in their last half inning.

  Grim and pale he faced them. At every long step and swing he tossed his shock of light hair. At the end he was even stronger than at the beginning.

  He still had the glancing, floating airy quality that baseball players call speed. And he struck out the last three batters.

  In the tumult that burst over my ears I sat staring at the dots on my score card. Fourteen strike outs! one scratch hit! No base on balls since the first inning! That told the story which deadened senses doubted. There was a roar in my ears. Some one was pounding me. As I struggled to get into the dressing room the crowd mobbed me. But I did not hear what they yelled.

  I had a kind of misty veil before my eyes, in which I saw that lanky Rube magnified into a glorious figure. I saw the pennant waving, and the gleam of a white cottage through the trees, and a trim figure waiting at the gate. Then I rolled into the dressing room.

  Somehow it seemed strange to me. Most of the players were stretched out in peculiar convulsions.

  Old Spears sat with drooping head. Then a wild flaming-eyed giant swooped upon me. With a voice of thunder he announced:

  ``I'm a-goin' to lick you, too!''

  After that we never called him any name except Rube.

  THE RUBE'S PENNANT

  ``Fellows, it's this way. You've got to win today's game. It's the last of the season and means the pennant for Worcester. One more hard scrap and we're done! Of all the up-hill fights any bunch ever made to land the flag, our has been the best. You're the best team I ever managed, the gamest gang of ball players that ever stepped in spikes. We've played in the hardest kind of luck all season, except that short trip we called the Rube's Honeymoon. We got a bad start, and sore arms and busted fingers, all kinds of injuries, every accident calculated to hurt a team's chances, came our way. But in spite of it all we got the lead and we've held it, and today we're still a few points ahead of Buffalo.''

  I paused to catch my breath, and looked round on the grim, tired faces of my players. They made a stern group. The close of the season found them almost played out. What a hard chance it was, after their extraordinary efforts, to bring the issue of the pennant down to this last game!

  ``If we lose today, Buffalo, with three games more to play at home, will pull the bunting,'' I went on. ``But they're not going to win! I'm putting it up to you that way. I know Spears is all in; Raddy's arm is gone; Ash is playing on one leg; you're all crippled. But you've got one more game in you, I know. These last few weeks the Rube has been pitching out of turn and he's about all in, too. He's kept us in the lead. If he wins today it'll be Rube's Pennant. But that might apply to all of you. Now, shall we talk over the play today? Any tricks to pull off? Any inside work?''

  ``Con, you're pretty much upset an' nervous,'' replied Spears, soberly. ``It ain't no wonder.

  This has been one corker of a season. I want to suggest that you let me run the team today. I've talked over the play with the fellers. We ain't goin' to lose this game, Con. Buffalo has been comin' with a rush lately, an' they're confident.

  But we've been holdin' in, restin' up as much as we dared an' still keep our lead. Mebbee it'll surprise you to know we've bet every dollar we could get hold of on this game. Why, Buffalo money is everywhere.''

  ``All right, Spears, I'll turn the team over to you. We've got the banner crowd of the year out there right now, a great crowd to play before.

  I'm more fussed up over this game than any I remember. But I have a sort of blind faith in my team. . . . I guess that's all I want to say.''

  Spears led the silent players out of the dressing room and I followed; and while they began to toss balls to and fro, to limber up cold, dead arms, I sat on the bench.

  The Bisons were prancing about the diamond, and their swaggering assurance was not conducive to hope for the Worcesters. I wondered how many of that vast, noisy audience, intent on the day's sport, even had a thought of what pain and toil it meant to my players. The Buffalo men were in good shape; they had been lucky; they were at the top of their stride, and that made all the difference.

  At any rate, there were a few faithful little women in the grand stand--Milly and Nan and Rose Stringer and Kate Bogart--who sat with compressed lips and hoped and prayed for that game to begin and end.

  The gong called off the practice, and Spears, taking the field, yelled gruff encouragement to his men. Umpire Carter brushed off the plate and tossed a white ball to Rube and called: ``Play!''

  The bleachers set up an exultant, satisfied shout and sat down to wait.

  Schultz toed the plate and watched the Rube pitch a couple. There seemed to be no diminution of the great pitcher's speed and both balls cut the plate. Schultz clipped the next one down the third- base Line. Bogart trapped it close to the bag, and got it away underhand, beating the speedy runner by a nose. It was a pretty play to start with, and the spectators were not close-mouthed in appreciation. The short, stocky Carl ambled up to bat, and I heard him call the Rube something. It was not a friendly contest, this deciding game between Buffalo and Worcester.

  ``Bing one close to his swelled nut!'' growled Spears to the Rube.

  Carl chopped a bouncing grounder through short and Ash was after it like a tiger, but it was a hit. The Buffalo contingent opened up. Then Manning faced the Rube, and he, too, vented sarcasm. It might not have been heard by the slow, imperturbable pitcher for all the notice he took.

  Carl edged off first, slid back twice, got a third start, and on the Rube's pitch was off for second base with the lead that always made him dangerous.

  Manning swung vainly, and Gregg snapped a throw to Mullaney. Ball and runner got to the bag apparently simultaneously; the umpire called Carl out, and the crowd uttered a quick roar of delight.

  The next pitch to Manning was a strike. Rube was not wasting any balls, a point I noted with mingled fear and satisfaction. For he might have felt that he had no strength to spare that day and so could not try to work the batters. Again he swung, and Manning rapped a long line fly over McCall. As the little left fielder turned at the sound of the hit and sprinted out, his lameness was certainly not in evidence. He was the swiftest runner in the league and always when he got going the crowd rose in wild clamor to watch him.

  Mac took that fly right off the foul flag in deep left, and the bleachers dinned their pleasure.

  The teams changed posi
tions. ``Fellers,'' said Spears, savagely, ``we may be a bunged-up lot of stiffs, but, say! We can hit! If you love your old captain--sting the ball!''

  Vane, the Bison pitcher, surely had his work cut out for him. For one sympathetic moment I saw his part through his eyes. My Worcester veterans, long used to being under fire, were relentlessly bent on taking that game. It showed in many ways, particularly in their silence, because they were seldom a silent team. McCall hesitated a moment over his bats. Then, as he picked up the lightest one, I saw his jaw set, and I knew he intended to bunt. He was lame, yet he meant to beat out an infield hit. He went up scowling.

  Vane had an old head, and he had a varied assortment of balls. For Mac he used an under hand curve, rising at the plate and curving in to the left-hander. Mac stepped back and let it go.

  ``That's the place, Bo,'' cried the Buffalo infielders. ``Keep 'em close on the Crab.'' Eager and fierce as McCall was, he let pitch after pitch go by till he had three balls and two strikes. Still the heady Vane sent up another pitch similar to the others. Mac stepped forward in the box, dropped his bat on the ball, and leaped down the line toward first base. Vane came rushing in for the bunt, got it and threw. But as the speeding ball neared the baseman, Mac stretched out into the air and shot for the bag. By a fraction of a second he beat the ball. It was one of his demon- slides. He knew that the chances favored his being crippled; we all knew that some day Mac would slide recklessly once too often. But that, too, is all in the game and in the spirit of a great player.

  ``We're on,'' said Spears; ``now keep with him.''

  By that the captain meant that Mac would go down, and Ashwell would hit with the run.

  When Vane pitched, little McCall was flitting toward second. The Bison shortstop started for the bag, and Ash hit square through his tracks.

  A rolling cheer burst from the bleachers, and swelled till McCall overran third base and was thrown back by the coacher. Stringer hurried forward with his big bat.

  ``Oh! My!'' yelled a fan, and he voiced my sentiments exactly. Here we would score, and be one run closer to that dearly bought pennant.

  How well my men worked together! As the pitcher let the ball go, Ash was digging for second and Mac was shooting plateward. They played on the chance of Stringer's hitting.

  Stringer swung, the bat cracked, we heard a thud somewhere, and then Manning, half knocked over, was fumbling for the ball. He had knocked down a terrific drive with his mitt, and he got the ball in time to put Stringer out. But Mac scored and Ash drew a throw to third base and beat it. He had a bad ankle, but no one noticed it in that daring run.

  ``Watch me paste one!'' said Captain Spears, as he spat several yards. He batted out a fly so long and high and far that, slow as he was, he had nearly run to second base when Carl made the catch. Ash easily scored on the throw-in. Then Bogart sent one skipping over second, and Treadwell, scooping it on the run, completed a play that showed why he was considered the star of the Bison infield.

  ``Two runs, fellers!'' said Spears. ``That's some! Push 'em over, Rube.''

  The second inning somewhat quickened the pace. Even the Rube worked a little faster. Ellis lined to Cairns in right; Treadwell fouled two balls and had a called strike, and was out; McKnight hit a low fly over short, then Bud Wiler sent one between Spears and Mullaney. Spears went for it while the Rube with giant strides ran to cover first base. Between them they got Bud, but it was only because he was heavy and slow on his feet.

  In our half of that inning Mullaney, Gregg and Cairns went out in one, two, three order.

  With Pannell up, I saw that the Rube held in on his speed, or else he was tiring. Pannell hit the second slow ball for two bases. Vane sacrificed, and then the redoubtable Schultz came up.

  He appeared to be in no hurry to bat. Then I saw that the foxy Buffalo players were working to tire the Rube. They had the situation figured.

  But they were no wiser than old Spears.

  ``Make 'em hit, Rube. Push 'em straight over.

  Never mind the corners. We don't care for a few runs. We'll hit this game out.''

  Shultz flied to Mac, who made a beautiful throw to the plate too late to catch Pannell. Carl deliberately bunted to the right of the Rube and it cost the big pitcher strenuous effort to catch his man.

  ``We got the Rube waggin'!'' yelled a Buffalo player.

  Manning tripled down the left foul line--a hit the bleachers called a screamer. When Ellis came up, it looked like a tie score, and when the Rube pitched it was plain that he was tired. The Bisons yelled their assurance of this and the audience settled into quiet. Ellis batted a scorcher that looked good for a hit. But the fast Ashwell was moving with the ball, and he plunged lengthwise to get it square in his glove. The hit had been so sharp that he had time to get up and make the throw to beat the runner. The bleachers thundered at the play.

  ``You're up, Rube,'' called Spears. ``Lam one out of the lot!''

  The Rube was an uncertain batter. There was never any telling what he might do, for he had spells of good and bad hitting. But when he did get his bat on the ball it meant a chase for some fielder. He went up swinging his huge club, and he hit a fly that would have been an easy home run for a fast man. But the best Rube could do was to reach third base. This was certainly good enough, as the bleachers loudly proclaimed, and another tally for us seemed sure.

  McCall bunted toward third, another of his teasers. The Rube would surely have scored had he started with the ball, but he did not try and missed a chance. Wiler, of course, held the ball, and Mac got to first without special effort. He went down on the first pitch. Then Ash lined to Carl. The Rube waited till the ball was caught and started for home. The crowd screamed, the Rube ran for all he was worth and Carl's throw to the plate shot in low and true. Ellis blocked the Rube and tagged him out.

  It looked to the bleachers as if Ellis had been unnecessarily rough, and they hissed and stormed disapproval. As for me, I knew the Bisons were losing no chance to wear out my pitcher. Stringer fouled out with Mac on third, and it made him so angry that he threw his bat toward the bench, making some of the boys skip lively.

  The next three innings, as far as scoring was concerned, were all for Buffalo. But the Worcester infield played magnificent ball, holding their opponents to one run each inning.

  That made the score 4 to 2 in favor of Buffalo.

  In the last half of the sixth, with Ash on first base and two men out, old Spears hit another of his lofty flies, and this one went over the fence and tied the score. How the bleachers roared!

  It was full two minutes before they quieted down.

  To make it all the more exciting, Bogart hit safely, ran like a deer to third on Mullaney's grounder, which Wiler knocked down, and scored on a passed ball. Gregg ended the inning by striking out.

  ``Get at the Rube!'' boomed Ellis, the Bison captain. ``We'll have him up in the air soon. Get in the game now, you stickers!''

  Before I knew what had happened, the Bisons had again tied the score. They were indomitable.

  They grew stronger all the time. A stroke of good luck now would clinch the game for them.

  The Rube was beginning to labor in the box; Ashwell was limping; Spears looked as if he would drop any moment; McCall could scarcely walk.

  But if the ball came his way he could still run.

  Nevertheless, I never saw any finer fielding than these cripped players executed that inning.

  ``Ash--Mac--can you hold out?'' I asked, when they limped in. I received glances of scorn for my question. Spears, however, was not sanguine.

  ``I'll stick pretty much if somethin' doesn't happen,'' he said; ``but I'm all in. I'll need a runner if I get to first this time.''

  Spears lumbered down to first base on an infield hit and the heavy Manning gave him the hip.

  Old Spears went down, and I for one knew he was out in more ways than that signified by Carter's sharp: ``Out!''

  The old war-horse gathered himself up slowly and painfully, and
with his arms folded and his jaw protruding, he limped toward the umpire.

  ``Did you call me out?'' he asked, in a voice plainly audible to any one on the field.

  ``Yes,'' snapped Carter.

  ``What for? I beat the ball, an' Mannin' played dirty with me--gave me the hip.''

  ``I called you out.''

  ``But I wasn't out!''

  ``Shut up now! Get off the diamond!'' ordered Carter, peremptorily.

  ``What? Me? Say, I'm captain of this team.

  Can't I question a decision?''

  ``Not mine. Spears, you're delaying the game.''

  ``I tell you it was a rotten decision,'' yelled Spears. The bleachers agreed with him.

  Carter grew red in the face. He and Spears had before then met in field squabbles, and he showed it.

  ``Fifty dollars!''

  ``More! You cheap-skate you piker! More!''

  ``It's a hundred!''

  ``Put me out of the game!'' roared Spears.

  ``You bet! Hurry now--skedaddle!''

  ``Rob-b-ber!'' bawled Spears.

  Then he labored slowly toward the bench, all red, and yet with perspiration, his demeanor one of outraged dignity. The great crowd, as one man, stood up and yelled hoarsely at Carter, and hissed and railed at him. When Spears got to the bench he sat down beside me as if in pain, but he was smiling.

  ``Con, I was all in, an' knowin' I couldn't play any longer, thought I'd try to scare Carter. Say, he was white in the face. If we play into a close decision now, he'll give it to us.''

  Bogart and Mullaney batted out in short order, and once more the aggressive Bisons hurried in for their turn. Spears sent Cairns to first base and Jones to right. The Rube lobbed up his slow ball. In that tight pinch he showed his splendid nerve. Two Buffalo players, over-anxious, popped up flies. The Rube kept on pitching the slow curve until it was hit safely. Then heaving his shoulders with all his might he got all the motion possible into his swing and let drive.

  He had almost all of his old speed, but it hurt me to see him work with such desperate effort.

  He struck Wiler out.

  He came stooping into the bench, apparently deaf to the stunning round of applause. Every player on the team had a word for the Rube.