World Series (3 page)

Cracking the plate with his bat, the Kid pulled his cap down and took a good toehold. The ball came up, he swung...hit...and started for first, giving everything he had. But it was there before him. Slowly he walked back to the dugout.

“What’s he got, Roy?” asked old Cassidy on the first base coaching line.

“He’s got plenty, lemme tell you. Fast as they make ’em, that baby.”

From the dugout came the chatter of the gang. “Save me a rap, Swanny. You can hit it, Swanny. All right, Swanny, old boy, this is the one...”

Swanson drew a base on balls. Miller had only one fault—he was inclined to be wild. Every speed merchant was, at times. The whole dugout leaned forward, while the crowd above yelled as Karl Case beat out a slow roller to third. Now Harry Street walked up to the plate. The Kid felt sorry for him. He realized the pressure on anyone facing baseball’s best pitcher at that critical moment. Miller went to work on him as if it were the deciding run of the game. The big pitcher was determined to knock that rally in the head right there. A minute later, Harry struck out. Roy wasn’t surprised. Very likely he himself would have done the same thing.

Up to the fourth inning it was a ball game. No one had scored or seemed likely to do so. Razzle was pouring in his best stuff, and Miller was in command for Cleveland. Then in the Brooklyn fourth the pitcher drew a base on balls. Maybe this was the inning. Behind the dugout the Dodger fans went wild, and on the baselines the coaches began shouting through cupped hands. You had the feeling this was the time. This was the start, the beginning of the end. Razzle on first and the top of the batting order up.

Allen tried to bunt. Foul, strike one. Shucks, why don’t these birds take it from the old scout. Well, some folks just have to learn for themselves, that’s all. Oh, boy...there she goes...that’s a hit...go on, Raz you old ice cart...go on, you old elephant...go on, you...you...you truck horse...go on....

The first real hit of the game. A clean single between second and first, to the right of the fielder. But Raz was too slow to make third. Anyhow, men on first and second and no one out as Roy came to bat. Now the stands were up. He could hear them calling his name, crying for a hit. Walking to the plate an idea came to him.

Why not give Miller the old gag? Pretend to take the first pitch, act as if he was going to let it go by, and then if it was good, sock it.

He stepped up carelessly, and instead of assuming his usual alert stance, stood waggling his bat, tugging at his cap, hitching his belt, and watching Charlie Draper on third for the signals. Miller shook off his catcher. That meant a fast one.

Boy, here goes that old ball game.

He tried hard to conceal his thoughts, to stand negligently at the plate as the big chap in the box drew himself up. Waiting till the last possible second he saw the ball leave Miller’s hand and come on a line with his right shoulder.

Here it comes...I’ll...no...it’s too close to hit...I’ll just turn and take it on my shoulder blades...get my base...here it comes...here...

Then ten feet from the plate the ball suddenly shot upward. He tried to shift, to move, to duck back; but his feet were locked.

BONG
.

A bell rang in his head. It rang day and night for the next six weeks.

H
ARRY WAS STANDING
over him. And McCormick, the Indian catcher, his mask off. And old Stubblebeard the plate umpire. And Karl Case. Beaned! That was it. Beaned!

Someone was feeling the side of his head. No, not that side, not the left, the right side. Not the left, the right side. Nobody understood. Meanwhile, bong...bong...bong...bong...went that bell in his head.

He tried to get up. Someone pushed him back. Charlie Draper was supporting him. “Take it easy, Kid. Just take it easy now.” Then he saw Gene Miller, a queer frightened look on his face, peering down.

“Is he all right...is he all right?...”

Someone was hauling him onto a stretcher. A stretcher! Nuts to that! He wanted to take first, to run the bases, to get out there; and he tried to move. Three men on and nobody out. Three on and...“Hey, lemme get out there, will ya, you guys, lemme...”

Bong...bong...bong...gosh, he was dizzy.

“Take it easy, Roy, just take it easy.” Yeah, take it easy. Maybe that was better after all.

The clubhouse was cool and darkish. Or was it the ice pack over his head as he lay stretched out on the rubbing table? The club doctor came in and began feeling his left temple and asking questions. Did that hurt there? There? Did that hurt?

“Not that side, Doc. Not that side. I bat left-handed, see. Not that side.”

But the doctor continued feeling his left temple. No sense, these people. No sense at all.

Outside there was a sudden burst of noise. It kept on, louder, louder. Someone had scored. Must have been us. “Hey, Chiselbeak, what happened? Anyone score?” Where was that old dope? Never round when you wanted him.

A minute later the noise increased and before it died away there was a tremendous roar, a roar that grew and grew. A player came running in, his spikes clattering on the concrete.

“Gimme some tape, Chisel, quick. Ya, two bases on balls...an’ Strong cracks a double down the left field line...I think they’re yanking Miller now.”

Yanking Miller! About time, if you ask me. Imagine, a gink like that, beaning men in a Series game.

Chisel came over to the table as the doctor left. “How ya feel, boy?”

“Kinda dizzy-like. And that bell, Chisel, can’t you shut off that bell?”

“What bell?”

“That bell ringing. Don’t you hear it?”

“Ain’t no bell ringing. That’s yer head, Roy. Take it easy, now. Just take it easy.”

He pulled the ice pack off and started to replace it with a fresh one. As he did so a shadow in the door darkened the room for a second. A player was standing there; hot, sweaty, hair mussed up. He wore a Cleveland uniform. They both saw him but it was the Kid who spoke.

“You...you...you Gene Miller...you call yourself a pitcher...why, you oughta be ashamed of yourself...you mug...you...a pitcher...that’s been round as long as you have...and can’t keep the ball over the plate...imagine, beaning a guy in a Series game...say, if I was you, I’d take off that uniform...you great big thug, call yourself a pitcher...listen, you bum you...if I was you...” For several minutes he went on, unable to stop, pouring out abuse on the distressed man in the door.

Miller never replied. Without saying a word he stood there, his big brown eyes open, his mouth twitching. Finally he turned and went away.

All the while Chiselbeak was patting him on the shoulder. “Now, boy, jest you take it easy; take it easy, Roy old boy. They’ll be here with the ambulance in a minute.”

The ambulance came. All night in the hospital he was hitting home runs and making impossible catches in the field. The next morning he was weak, and no wonder. But he felt better, more normal. Shortly after breakfast, which consisted of orange juice, the nurse said a man wanted particularly to see him.

It was Gene again. He stood trembling in the doorway. “Roy, gee, I’m sorry. Honest to goodness I didn’t mean for to hit you, Roy. How are you this morning? Feel any better, do you? Say, I’m all busted up over this, honest I am, Roy. Please believe me, I hadn’t any idea when I threw that ball...”

“Why, Gene, what you doing here? Of course I’m better. I’m okay now. Gene, don’t you take on one little bit. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. It was my own fault anyway; my feet were locked and I couldn’t dodge back. Just one of those breaks, that’s all. Everybody has to take ’em, so don’t you worry about it, Gene. Don’t you worry the least bit, hear me?”

His face lightened up. “You feel better, don’t you, Kid? Sure ’nough?”

“Yeah, I feel better.” He did, too. In fact he was sitting up for the first time without any dizziness. Only that continual bong-bong-bong-bong in his head. How long would that last? All day, maybe. “Yes, sir, you bet I am. And Gene. One thing. Don’t pay attention to what I said in the clubhouse to you yesterday. I was wacky then. Understand? I was getting set to step into that one and you had a right to dust me off. I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Understand?”

The big chap came over to the bed. He had a frank, open face, warm brown eyes, and when he smiled there was the gap in his teeth in front that made him look boyish—the same gap Roy had noticed when he came to bat. “Why, certainly, that’s okay. I knew that, Roy, all the time. I knew you hardly realized what you were saying. Now get yourself well, hear me?” He leaned over. “Brought my radio along; thought you might like to get the play-by-play if you’re stuck in here a few days.”

The nurse poked her head in the door. “Your telephone, Mr. Tucker. Tomkinsville, Connecticut calling. Long distance wants you.”

“’Scuse me, Gene. That’s my grandma, that is. She thinks I’m dead most likely. Hullo. Hullo there, Grandma...well, how are you?...”

All morning they had him in the X-ray room. Or so it seemed. Walk? No, he couldn’t walk or at least they wouldn’t let him, and he hated to be carried along on a stretcher. But they insisted. For an hour they took pictures of his head, his neck, his shoulders. From the top, from every side, from all possible angles. Early in the afternoon a doctor in a long white coat came to examine him.

Patiently the Kid explained. Everyone seemed to make the same mistake. “Nosir, you see I bat left-handed, so the ball hit me here, on the right side, not the left.”

The man in the white coat paid no attention. He kept on examining his left temple. “I know, h’m. You’re a mighty lucky young man, Mr. Tucker. That was a close shave you had, a close shave. It happened to be a glancing blow. The ball didn’t catch you full on the temple; it hit the edge of your head as you turned and sheered off. Had it struck full on, your skull would probably have been fractured. You see when a man’s skull is fractured, it’s broken on the opposite side from where the ball strikes. Your left side is all right.”

That was it. That was why they all felt the other side. He was cheered. “Yeah, but that big knob there over my right ear. And the bell, doc. Seems like I hear a bell ringing all the time.”

Gingerly the doctor felt the bump on his right temple. “H’m. That knob’ll go down. Though in all probability you’ll carry some kind of bump to your death-bed. But the ringing in your head is quite normal. It’ll disappear, little by little. All I can say is, you’re an extremely lucky young man.”

That was fine. But when would he be up and out and back there in the line-up? Those boys needed him. That was what he wanted to know,
and
Dave Leonard who came in for a few minutes,
and
the newspapers who kept calling all day,
and
the radio men, too. Telegrams poured in. Would he endorse the new Ripper bats? And Chesterfield neckties? And Wopsy-Cola, the new drink? Would he care to appear on the Cromium Steel Plate Hour for five hundred dollars? Seemed as if a man got more attention from being hit in the head than from hitting home runs on the field.

Directly the doctor left. He switched on Gene’s radio. When he tuned in, it was nothing to nothing, start of the fourth, with Paul Drewes on the mound for Cleveland and Rats Doyle pitching for Brooklyn. One more victory would just about clinch things and Rats was the boy to do it. Two games to none would settle things.

“...And it’s deep, deep in left...yessir...it’s over...I think it’s over...yes,
IT’S OVER THE FENCE...
Over the fence in Bedford Avenue.” A roar came from the radio. But the roar chilled him. Who hit? Whose homer, you nitwit? What’s the score there? His heart sank as he listened to the next three words. They told everything he needed to know.

“Lanahan and McClusky...going in...and old Hammy lumbering round second. He’s turning third, and there’s the whole doggone Indian team at the plate waiting to shake his hand. Yessir, that boy sure can powder that ball when he gets his wood on it. Four, no five to nothing, beginning of the seventh. Wonder will Dave Leonard yank Rats now?”

From his bed the Kid could see Dave sitting on the bench, his chin cupped in his hand, thinking to himself: “Well, Rats’ll get the next man. He’ll get the next batter. Rats is my first line pitcher. He’ll get the next man. He’ll get Hammy all right.”

Then that homer.

“...Yessir, like I told you, Leonard is yanking Doyle. Le’s see who he’ll put in; somebody’s coming in from the bullpen...looks as if it might be Foster. Uhuh. Fat Stuff Foster, Leonard’s handy man, coming in from the bullpen.”

The Kid leaned across and switched the radio off. Shutting his eyes he could see Fat Stuff waddling across the field, his long arms swinging by his side, as he had hurried to help in a dozen games all season. Now it was too late. You don’t spot the Indians or any other first class club five runs and beat them in a couple of innings. Nope, you don’t hand them a lead like that and catch them in a few whacks at the plate. One game apiece. Well, it wasn’t a walkover. It was anyone’s Series.

Half an hour later he turned on the radio just as the announcer was ending his description. “So on to Cleveland tomorrow, where it looks bad for the Dodgers. Leonard has used his star pitcher the first day, he’s got a rookie catcher behind the plate, and he leaves Roy Tucker, one of his best hitters, in a hospital here in town. Last news we have is that Roy is coming on, but he’ll have to stay several days for observation, and won’t play again until the team gets back to Brooklyn on Thursday.”

So that was it. The nurses in this hospital wouldn’t tell you, the medicos wouldn’t tell you, a man had to find out how he was from some darn radio announcer. Several days! Well, that was something. Better than being on his back all through the Series. He began to feel fine, like getting out once more. For a while he was so excited he almost forgot that steady ringing in his head. Bong-bong-bong-bong-bong went the bell.

R
OY WOKE TO
the sound of rain pelting on a roof. He sat up quickly in bed, forgetting. A shock of pain went up the back of his neck. But it was raining. Raining hard. Maybe it would rain all day.