World Series (5 page)

Everyone was talking. “Naw, that was my fault. I never covered the bag; I was asleep...they got all the luck, them babies...luck my eye, that’s quick thinking...well, I call it luck...he said this was a fast-ball league; I ain’t seen many fast balls up there...naw, he’s chucking curves...we’ll get them back, gang, and more, too. What say, boys, le’s get some runs ourselves...”

But Dave knew and the team knew, though no one mentioned it, that there was all the difference between a one and a two run lead. Those two runs made the Indians cocky. It gave them heart and fight and confidence. On the other hand, being two runs behind put pressure on the Dodger hitters. They were up there swinging, trying too hard, too anxious to get a hit. Take it easy, boys, take it easy. Only a chap didn’t take it easy. He tightened up.

Inning after inning went by with man after man slinging down his bat and coming into the dugout muttering. Still Carey Thomas refused to weaken. His skill had the Dodgers always going after a bad ball.

“He’s a little gink, too. Not big like Miller, with shoulders. Where the blazes does he get all that power?”

“Yeah, he’s little, but he’s sure got a hook in there. He can break it three feet when he wants to. Now then...here’s our chance, boys. This guy’s a seven inning pitcher, he is. Le’s get to him.”

Was Thomas slipping? The first man up in the eighth got a base on balls. Hank West stepped to the plate while the dugout rang. “Put the wood on it, Hank...here we go, fellas...there’s the one you want, Hank old kid...
YEAH...
” And the runners were off. Ed Davis on first rounded second, slid into third, while Hank West took second with a desperate slide. Second and third; no one down. The whole team was on the step, yelling through their hands. This was the old fight. They were coming from behind, they were going to slug their way as they had so many times all season. Yes, this was the moment. Now they were off. The coaches on the bases held up their hands. No one out. Ah...

Now it was the turn of the Cleveland crowd to roar. A pop-up to the catcher. Shucks! Well, only one down. Then the stands went wild. Tired, weary, Carey Thomas, giving everything he had, struck out the next batter. Suddenly the Kid heard those words from Dave at his side. He could hardly believe it.

“Roy! Go up there and see what you can do.” Already Paul Roth had started for the plate. Roy jumped. He went over for his favorite bat and shuffled out of the dugout. A ripple of sound came down from the packed stands; it became louder and louder. He touched his cap. Then silence. Would he be plate-shy, he wondered, as he heard his name called? The Cleveland catcher spoke to him.

“Hullo, Tucker. How ya feel? Okay?”

“Sure.” He rapped his bat against the plate.

“Tucker, No. 34, batting for Roth, No. 31.”

The little man in the box looked tired. He yanked mechanically at his cap and hitched at his trousers. As he turned and went back to the rubber, the Kid could see a big sweat patch around the crotch. That guy’s nearly all in. I can hit him. I must hit....

“Strike one....” Right down the middle. And the bat never left his shoulder. Gee whiz he’d expected a curve.

“Strike two!” Hang it! A roar from the stands. That was a dandy, too. On the bases Hank West and Ed Davis shouted at him. The coaches yelled words he couldn’t hear, and from the dugout behind came a machine gun fire of encouragement. “You can do it, Roy old boy, only takes one...that don’t mean a thing...now, Roy, lean into it...powder that pill, Roy...just give us a single, that’s all we need, Roy, give us a single, will ya?...”

But he was jittery. He felt jittery. He knew he was jittery and tried to settle down, to control himself, to concentrate upon the ball. A curve? No, the next one would be a fast ball. Yep, this would be a fast ball. He stood waiting. The ball came...he swung hard, swung himself clean off his heels. The ball plunked into the catcher’s mitt.

Dave was sitting in his suite in the Hotel Cleveland that night after dinner. Round the table were Draper, Cassidy, and Mike Sweeney the scout; his brain trust. One of his jobs as manager each night was to go over the batting order of the opposing team, check on their hitting averages, and make such changes in his pitching orders as were indicated. Thus, on seeing that Hammy was hitting .375, he made a note to tell the pitchers the next morning to try something else on the big first baseman. In the middle of their conference the telephone rang.

“Yep. Talking. Who’s calling? Philadelphia. Put her on. Hullo...hullo, Helen. How are you, dear? Sure we’re disappointed...that was a tough one to lose. Well, the boys are in a slump. The hawks have got ’em...I say the hawks have got ’em, they can’t do nothing right. What’s that? No one knows why, it’s like that. You can’t explain slumps. Oh, sure, they’ll shake out of it...next Christmas, maybe...” There was anxiety in his tone, and the bitterness of a man who had things bottled up and needed to let them go. To the team he could never betray lack of confidence. To her he talked as he felt.

“Well, we’ll all be out there trying again tomorrow. What say? No, ma’am, we aren’t licked yet, not by a long shot. Uhuh. Uhuh. Why, there’s enough managers round the lobby looking for jobs to fill that there stadium...uhuh...you bet...yep...all right...all right, dear...I’ll call you tomorrow...all right...g’by....”

He rang off and turned back to the brain trust round the table. “Wants to know what makes slumps. Why the hawks get ’em. I wish you’d tell me. Now, boys, sure as God made little apples he’ll pitch Miller tomorrow. With three, no, four days’ rest, that big boy will be ready to go. I figure like we should...”

T
HE LOCKER ROOM
was quiet and empty save for Chiselbeak stepping round, his arms full of clothes, and the Doc leaning against the rubbing table in his alcove. In an hour he would be the busiest man in Cleveland with sore ankles to tape, bruises to patch up, and inflamed muscles to soothe; but now, dressed in white trousers and a white undershirt, he stood with folded arms listening to a portable radio on his table. There was a sound of spikes on the concrete outside. Not the cheery clack-clack, clackety-clack as they took the field. No, a slower, mournful sound. Clack...clack...clack-clack...clack...

The door opened and Razzle entered. His cap was at a despairing angle on the back of his head, his glove jammed into his hip pocket, his shirt soaking wet, his face covered with moisture. Doc turned his back and suddenly became busy with the liniments on his table. Chiselbeak bustled from locker to locker, hanging up clothes. Neither said a word as the big pitcher moved across the room and slumped down before his locker. What was there to say?

At last Razzle sighed. A heavy sigh, the sigh of disappointment and fatigue combined. He looked around, addressing Chiselbeak across the room who was the only person addressable.

“Tha’s baseball for you. You get all ready...you feel fine...you have your stuff...and then what? They tee off on you. Gimme a Coke, Chisel.

“Thanks. Gosh, I’m tired! Funny how tired a man is when they hit you. Three innings and I feel like I pitched thirty-three. Yeah, they hit me. They sure did. Doc, I’m telling you...” The Doc now stood in the doorway of his alcove. “Doc, I’m telling you I had everything I ever had. I was fast and I was putting that ball right in there where I wanted. Still they kept a-hitting everything I had. You can ask Hank West if I didn’t have plenty on the ball. Just ask Hank when he comes in.”

“Cheer up, Razzle. You’ll get another whack at them.”

“Uhuh. You bet. Say, you know how much I wanted to win, don’t you, Doc? But the real reason, believe me, the real reason I wanted to win was for Dave Leonard. He’s one swell fella, and he’s gotta be back with us next year. I’m afraid he won’t be unless we take this Series. That gink MacManus plays with winners only. I heard he was talking with Scotter of K.C. last night. Shoot! I feel pretty bad, letting Dave down. Wouldn’t be any fun playing under some other manager. He’s a white man, he is.”

“You didn’t let him down.”

“I did so. Well, there’s no telling in baseball. The other day in Brooklyn we knock Miller out and I give three hits. So far we ain’t got but two hits off him and they knocked me out. Tha’s baseball.” He pulled off his sweaty undershirt. “Gimme another Coke, Chiselbeak. Now take that hit Painter made. It was half off the handle of his bat. Absolutely. And I never threw a better pitch in my life than the one Gardiner got to.” From outside came a roar, sudden, sharp. “Hope that means we’re getting a few base knocks ourselves. Just because they run me out of there doesn’t say we have to lose, even if Miller is pitching.”

It was a dark gray afternoon on the field, ideal for a fast-ball pitcher. Dave looked over at the movement in their dugout. Why, that bird was throwing to Swanny and our best hitters as if he owned ’em. And Casey or someone said Miller wouldn’t be any good the rest of the Series after beaning Tucker! Shucks! With three runs across and Brooklyn’s best pitcher in the showers, the Cleveland stands were jubilant and the players loose and chattering. Easy to be loose and snappy when you’re two games to one ahead and have a commanding lead in the fourth. When a pitcher gets a three run lead he can be more deliberate, he doesn’t have to be so fine with the batters, he isn’t so likely to get into a hole. Dave glanced anxiously at right field. Hold up both hands, Roy, if you feel one of those dizzy spells coming. Don’t forget. Hang it, that’s the difference between being ahead of the batters or behind them. When a pitcher’s ahead of them like this baby, the hitters always choke their swing. Always.

Maybe so, he thought as he sat there on the bench, maybe so, but what can you do? Can’t go up there and hit for ’em. But why not? He couldn’t hit any worse than some of those boys. Then he saw how ridiculous the idea was. In the Series at forty. Life begins at forty. The Series begins at forty. He foresaw the cracks that Casey and the sportswriters would make. But he needed to do something to loosen the team. If only Babe Stansworth’s thumb healed, they’d have at least one dependable hitter. Babe never choked, never. However, his thumb was not healed and wouldn’t be in time to play, either. Yet something must be done. Soon.

There was a close decision on first and a Cleveland runner was called safe. Instantly Jake Kennedy threw his glove down in the box and started for old Stubblebeard, the umpire on the bag. He was followed across the diamond by Jerry Strong and Harry Street. Ed Davis ran over from second. Dave knew the symptoms. The pitcher was nervous, beginning to realize he didn’t have much on the ball. Breaks were going against him and he was losing confidence. His nerves were giving way. The others also were jittery. Got to pull those boys together somehow. Maybe they’d loosen up if they could only have a real good scrap.

With the score card in his hand he shifted Swanny in center. The next batter lined a sizzler right at him. Well, that was something. Anxiously he glanced at the Kid in right. His first game; would he last all right? Hold up your hands, Roy, if you get one of those dizzy spells. Yep, but would the Kid remember in the excitement of play? There! Three out! Now boys...

Once again the dugout was alive. “Where’s my bat? No, not that. Gimme Betsy. All right, what say, fellas? How ’bout us getting some runs...this is our inning, this is. Okay, boys, watch for the fast ones and the curves won’t fool you...Dunno what’s the matter with me. He’s the same pitcher I hit all over the park in Brooklyn and I can’t see him today...why, he was out a foot. A foot, I tell you. Wasn’t he...wasn’t he, Dave?”

“I dunno, Jake,” answered Dave, his eyes and his concentration on the plate. “I was ninety feet away; you were twenty. Now, boys, what say we go...”

The glib voice of the announcer came into the cool living room. Before the radio sat the three of them listening to their future unfold itself play by play. Even the two girls, wide-eyed, knew what hung in the balance. They were a ballplayer’s daughters, and they felt and understood the troubled look on their mother’s face. Maybe Daddy’d have a job next year. Maybe he’d be manager of the Dodgers again. But maybe not.

“...Here we go, folks...into the last of the sixth...still four to one in favor of the Indians. And the way Gene Miller is going now, looks as if he’d handcuff the Dodgers.”

“Mummy, maybe they’d better put Daddy in there. Can Daddy put himself in to play, Mummy?”

“Sssh.” Well, it wasn’t so silly at that! Dave would surely do no worse than most of them.

“...And so coming into the last half of the sixth, Gene Miller himself is up...hear that reception...hear that hand the crowd is giving the big chap. He tips his cap as he steps to the plate...this is his first winning game. He pitched the opener in Brooklyn, you remember, and was knocked from the box after he’d beaned Roy Tucker....”

Out in deep right the Kid had watched Razzle, Razzle the mighty, Razzle the triumphant, who had won twenty-two games for them during the season, who had beaten Miller in Brooklyn, trudge across to the showers. His shoulders were slumped. His usual cocky demeanor had gone.

Razzle, that’s tough, that’s tough, old boy. Razzle hasn’t got his stuff today. Some of his folks in the stands there, too, and his girl. Well, that’s baseball. Listen to those fans give him the razoo. Listen to ’em. As Fat Stuff says, a fan’s a fan. He pays his dough to yell and criticize.

“All right there, Jake old boy, let’s get this man, old kid.” He whirled his arm three or four times to loosen it up, to help with his throw if needed. Gotta be on your toes in this man’s game. Razzle out. ’N I’m not doing so good, myself, either. Hope Dave doesn’t yank me...there it goes....

The ball was hit deep to Karl Case in left, a long hit. Foul! Nosir. Struck the foul line. Gosh! Are they gonna have all the breaks? Man on second and nobody down. That sure is a tough one. Well, we can come from behind. We can hustle, take chances on the bases, come from behind and win. We’ve done it all season.

“Tha’s chucking, Jake, that’s the old stuff. Pour in that old sinker on him, Jake-boy. He’ll swing on this one.”

A smart grounder to Jerry Strong behind third. The baseman with the ball in his hands feinted to second, sent the runner diving back for the bag, and then with a beautiful low throw nipped the batter at first by inches.