World Series (17 page)

Jerry Strong, the next man up, struck out with Swanny stranded on third. The inning was over but they had the fifty thousand dollar run. They’d given Razzle the run he asked for. Now they only had to protect that lead.

Easy and loose, Roy trotted out to the field, passing Gordon, hot, panting, angry.

“Boy, were you lucky on that one! Six inches closer and I’d had it.”

“Yeah, maybe, Bruce. Well, class’ll tell,” responded the Kid lightheartedly. Who said we were licked? As Casey put it, there’s no quit in the Dodgers.

Ahead of him the boys in the bleachers were on their feet, yelling. They yelled and yelled insistently, so he yanked at his cap. They yelled louder. Say, with a gang like that back of you every minute, with a manager like old Dave at the plate, no wonder they’d come from behind to win.

F
OR ALMOST THE
first time since the second game the pressure was on the Indians. This the Dodgers realized. One saw it in their attitude, in their confident manner, in the loud and breezy crackle around the infield, in Karl’s sharp tones from left center, in Swanny’s deep boom, encouraging, supporting. While all the time Raz towered on the mound, master of the situation.

Now the pressure was off the Dodgers. They had that vital, precious run. It was a question of which pitcher would crack first. Inning after inning passed. The shadows slowly lengthened to cover more and more of the diamond. All over the stands the fans rose to slip on overcoats. And every minute victory came closer and closer.

They came into the seventh with only nine more outs to get; only nine men between them and victory. It was beautiful to watch Raz and Dave despite their fatigue go to work on Gordon. To see them together in harmony gave the Kid added courage. We’ll get this man for you, Raz. Let him hit it. First the batter swung at a fast one. Then he watched a ball, and on the third swung again from his ears. The crowd jeered. He fouled an outside pitch. Raz had him. Raz was ahead of the batters. The man at the plate swung, swung viciously, missing a mean one close to his body. First man. Only eight to go.

The ball snapped briskly round the infield and was finally thrown to Harry. Every team has one man who feeds the ball to the pitcher. On the Dodgers it was Street.

That’s pitching, Raz old boy, old kid. That’s chucking, that is. Why, Bruce like to swing himself clean into his dugout on that-there pitch. Say, is Raz a pitcher! Six, nope, five strikeouts so far. He’s a clutch pitcher, old Raz is. Now for McCormick. Mac is just a bread-and-butter player at bat.

“Okay, Raz old boy, let him hit.”

Raz smoothed the dirt before the rubber, hitched his shirt, raised his arms and stood watching Dave with care. Getting the sign he nodded, looked round, and went to work. Mac swung with all his strength. The ball popped into Dave’s mitt and again the chatter rose from the diamond. Boy, if he’d hit that one he’d have plunked it over the fence. Anxiously the Kid backed up a few yards. He’s hitting hard. He sure is trying. But Raz is too good for him.

Look out! From deep right Roy saw Mac suddenly set his feet and dump a perfect bunt along the third base line. Jerry deep on the grass was caught unexpectedly on his heels. Charging in fast, he stabbed at the ball with one hand, missed it, and the hit went for a single. Immediately a burst of noise came from the Indian dugout. With reluctance the Kid admitted to himself the smartness of the play. They swing from their ears and set us up for a hard hit ball, then they bunt one. That’s smart baseball. That’s crossing us up, all right.

The Indians came to the step of their dugout, shouting. The bench was all in shadow; so was most of the infield as Roy stood wondering whether Baker would throw in a pinch hitter for big Miller. Then Miller, muffled up in a sweater, came to the plate. He remembered that Miller was not a bad hitter. He wasn’t any slouch at the bat.

Supremely confident of a Dodger victory, the crowd could afford to be generous and gave him a big hand. The Cleveland star had pitched a grand game, his third in the Series, holding them down to one clean hit in six innings. Raz went to work with care. The pressure was on the batter but that old right field fence beckoned and a single poor throw could mean disaster. He fed Miller a couple of teasing pitches. Gene was not tempted. He was no two o’clock hitter. Then Raz sneaked over a strike. 2 and 1.

The next ball Miller hit, hit hard. It went on a line toward third. Jerry with a lunge reached it, knocked it down, and deflected its movement. The ball rolled toward the stands while the diamond dissolved in movement. Jerry hustled over for it inside the foul line, Karl dashed in vainly from left, McCormick rounded second, Harry ran to cover third, and Miller lumbered past first. The stands rose, watching anxiously as Jerry pursued the bounding ball. Now Mac was nearing third, streaking for home, Miller almost at second. Too late to save the run.

“Third, Jerry, take yer time...hurry up....” The tieing run was across; the teams were even again.

Then without any cause, without any rhyme or reason, the Dodger defense faltered. The strain suddenly told. That infield which had played faultless ball for so many games all at once crumpled and cracked. An easy bounder of Lanny’s drew a bad throw from Harry who never made bad throws. It took Red off the bag long enough to plant runners on first and second. Now the fifty thousand dollars really hung on every single pitch. The noise of the dugouts lessened, the roar of the stands died away as the shadows lengthened across the field. Quiet hung about the diamond while Raz hitched his belt, stuffed in his shirt, and taking his glove from under his armpit stepped to the rubber.

McClusky smacked the first pitch. A line drive between first and second, the kind of a hit Ed ordinarily would have had in his pocket. He ran over, failed to touch it, and the ball went through Roy saw it coming, bouncing toward him along the ground, and picking up the dribbling sphere he turned and threw to second. Instantly he realized his error. He should have thrown home. They could have nabbed Gene Miller who was tearing for the plate. Or anyhow held him at third.

Miller took over the second run and a minute later when Gardiner flied deep to Karl, Lanny came across with the third. Rock ended the inning by popping to Harry and three runs had been scored. Three to one. There was little to say after an inning like that, and most of them were far too numb to talk. Imagine, throwing a game away on easy chances.

Holy suffering Codfish, thought Roy, if only I hadn’t booted that one, we’d only be one run behind. I threw it away on that bonehead play. Usually my throwing instincts are good, too; usually I make the right play. Well, the boys won’t hold it against me. All they ask is, a man should hustle. I’ll hustle now. See if I don’t.

But like the rest, in his heart he knew they were up against it. That’s baseball. One bad inning and bang goes fifty thousand dollars. Six innings of first class pitching, then a couple of simple mistakes and the game is lost. One moment you have a world’s championship in your hands. Then next you’re two runs behind.

“Who’s up? Karl? Okay, Case old boy, give us a hit. Start things moving, will ya?”

But that three-run inning had given confidence to the Indians and strengthened their worn and haggard pitcher. They were relaxed and loose behind Miller, and he was loose, too, for when a pitcher is hitting well you can be sure he hasn’t any nerves. Gardiner knocked down a drive to nip Karl by inches at first. Harry popped to McCormick. Jerry tried hard with no luck, and Lanahan tagged his liner.

Start of the eighth. The diamond and most of the outfield was deep in shadow, giving every Dodger a feeling of desperation as he walked to his position. Like a menace of approaching doom those lengthening shadows foretold disaster...unless they got two runs. Two runs anyway; we’ll settle for two runs but we really need three. Two runs for Dave, fellas, we gotta grab us off two runs for Leonard. Behind the plate the old catcher went wearily into his crouch. Ed nailed Hammy at first. Then Dave waved the Kid toward right for Painter, always a dangerous man. The batter smacked a wicked liner at Roy. In fact he stood to take it without even moving his feet. Dave knew the hitters all right, Dave sure knew the batters. Raz then struck out Gordon. Say, he hasn’t given up, he’s really bearing down as much as ever, old Razzle is. What a money player. Hot, sweating, anxious, they trooped into the dugout for the end of the eighth.

Ed Davis, the first man up, flied out to center field.

Dave had unbuckled his shin guards and taken his bat from the boy.

“Okay, Dave, here’s where we pick you up.”

“Le’s get ’em back, Dave, and more, too.”

The Kid took a drink of water and squeezed in beside Raz, who was pulling on a sweater.

“How you feel, Raz?”

Razzle rubbed his right leg. “The old pusher’s kinda tired. If only we can pick up a couple of runs.” His eyes were on Dave walking to the plate. Roy followed his gaze, noticing how sore and stiff the catcher was. He even limped slightly as he went into the batter’s box. And we let him down, me, and Harry, and Ed, and Strong. We let him down. Now it’s up to us to come through for him. We gotta come through for Dave.

A double! A clean one, sailing over third and falling safe inside the left foul line. Now we’re off. Boy, is that old man a ballplayer! Is he there in the clutch! Raz is up. Raz, however, was sitting quietly on the bench. He’s pulling Razzle. Yep, he’s pulling him. The Babe is gonna bat.

A voice over the loudspeaker tried hard to outshout the crowd but lost the decision as big Stansworth, his taped thumb in evidence, came to the plate. The Babe was a favorite of the bleachers. His clumsy and familiar figure shuffling to bat drew heartening cheers round the dusk-covered field.

One down. Leonard on second, Stansworth at bat. By gosh! He won’t...yes, he’s passing him. That’s not percentage ball. Guess Baker’s playing a hunch here. It looked like it as the Cleveland catcher stepped to the side of the plate and received four wide ones in his mitt.

Stansworth trotted down to first, where he was immediately relieved by Roth as a runner. First and second, one down. A roar started in the bleachers. It began with the gang in right, spread to the stands in left, caught hold of the mob behind third, back of the plate, and rose, a loud, continuous shout. They shrieked, they pleaded for a hit as Red whacked his bat on the plate. Along the bench no one could sit still. The gang stood, clapping their hands, yelling at the batter. As he fouled one off they jumped out, watching the ball’s curve into the stands. 1 and 1. An important pitch.

Now there, Red. Red’s a good man in a tight place. We’re sure in a pinch. Coupla runs behind, and there they are on the bags, Dave and Paul Roth.

On one knee in the circle Roy watched with reluctant admiration as a fast one sizzled past Red’s ear. No use talking, that baby is a pitcher. He can pitch. Now Red, powder that ball. A foul. Another foul high in the stands. And another. Atta boy, Red. That’s the old stuff; wear him down; make him throw his heart out. Red’s unselfish; he’s a team player all right.

The next pitch was fast, low and outside. The catcher half stopped it, but somehow it got away and spun along the ground. Like a shot he pounced on it, but Dave, ever alert, was quicker still. With a desperate slide he came down the basepath head first, the last fifteen feet on his belly, catching the edge of the bag as Painter with the ball in his glove groped down for something to tag.

The stands rose yelling. There’s a break. Leonard on third, Roth on second, only one out. Who said the Dodgers were quitters?

Almost the whole field was deep in shade as the big man in the box looked round at his outfield, nodded to his catcher, and stepped on the rubber. He smoothed the dirt with one foot, hitched up his pants, and glanced over his shoulder at second base. Then he threw. A ball. 3 and 2. Now Miller
was
on the spot.

He’s got to put it over. Smack it, Red! Give us that hit for Dave. Give us one for Leonard, will ya?

IT’S A HIT. A HIT.
The ball, struck well and cleanly, was high and deep. But the wind carried it back; that same wind which was to work against the Indian power hitters was ironically saving the day for them. Rock was there waiting under it as it fell. Dave dashed for home, straining. The fielder, however, made no attempt to catch him. Instead he threw into third to prevent Roth advancing beyond second.

The bat boy came up to take Red’s bat. He had a towel in his hands. “Hey, there, boy, gimme that towel,” said the Kid, wiping his hands. In the dugout they were all on the step, frantically yelling.

Now then. It’s up to me. Here’s a poke for old Dave. I’m not scared now. I’ll sure punch that ball. If he’s gonna bean me he’s gonna bean me. I’ll crack it, sure enough. Two out, but I’ll hit one for Dave. This is for Leonard.

He stepped to the plate. One glance showed Miller’s fatigue, his tired face under the cap, his mouth open in an exhausted pant. The first ball was low. Roy got a piece of the second and fouled it off. Then that low one again, the sneaker pitch.

Didn’t fool me, did ya, mister? Gimme a good one, boy, I sure want to hit it. Nope, wide. Not that time.

McCormick returned the ball with a quick wrist motion. Miller spun round and snapped it to Lanahan. The old fox beat Roth to the bag at second and the Dodgers were out. Still one run behind.

Shucks! Roy hurled his bat on the plate with all his force. There’s a rookie for you. The kid wasn’t watching. That would never have happened to Karl or Swanny or me. Shoot! And we’re still one run behind.

N
OW WHO’LL PITCH?
Now who’ll Leonard throw in? Not Fat Stuff—he’s washed up. Not McCaffrey—he pitched yesterday. Rats is a cousin for these birds.

Walking wearily to right, the Kid watched the activity in their bullpen. Two men were burning in quick last pitches. Then a tall figure came walking through the shadow across the field.

Not Rog Stinson. Yep, Roger Stinson. The freshman pitcher, the quiet kid who never said a word to anyone, the colt who had only seen a few months’ play; who was trying to put the Columbus Red Birds in the first division only the summer before. The whole crowd was stunned. They listened in silence to the loudspeaker.