World Series (6 page)

Say! There’s a play for you! If only we all were doing as well as Jerry. He’s dependable, that man. Yes, and he’s under-rated as a ballplayer because he isn’t flashy. I sure know that.

“All right. One down, Jake. One down, le’s go after this man, Jake old kid.”

Hullo, here’s their catcher. They’re ahead; there’s only one thing to do, dump it. He won’t hit. So I’ll shorten up a little. But I won’t break till he shifts his feet to bunt. Watch his feet, Dave says, watch his feet. There she is...doggone, he crossed us...he hit it....

“Yours, Swanny, Swanny...Swanny...all yours, Swanny....”

Duck soup. Well, two down. I’ll just give that old arm a coupla swings again. They’ll hafta hit now. If they give me a chance I’ll sure throw that man on second out, yessir I will. I think my throwing arm’s better than Swanny’s. It helps a chap to have been a pitcher, no use talking. Yessir, I’d like a chance to throw that man out.

Into Grandma’s big living room on the farm where Roy had been born and brought up, a voice came sharply. “...And that was an error, a bad error for right fielder Roy Tucker. He misjudged that hit...and there goes Lanahan across the plate with the fifth run, and Hammy takes second on Swanson’s throw in. That was an error; he misjudged that hit or maybe he lost it in the sun. Just stood there with both hands up and then sort of stumbled around while Swanson chased it. That makes five to one for Cleveland, two men out, the end of the sixth....”

She leaned over and snapped off the radio, adjusting her spectacles. Then she looked up at Rafe, the hired man, who was standing beside her. “It’s an outrage, playing Roy like that so soon after his accident. You’d think folks would know better. What do you suppose the doctors were thinking about? He should have spent a week in bed. I wish I had him home here right now, I declare I do. Doesn’t matter how much money he’s making if he ruins his health trying to play baseball. My goodness sakes alive, there’s the water boiling.”

Grandma was having tea, straight black tea, to comfort herself. When Grandma drank her tea straight in the afternoon it was as if Razzle had been taking beer for dinner without permission. Things had gone as far as she could stand.

He came in from the field and went to the bench. Dave said nothing about his mistake; probably that would come later. The dizzy spell had passed, but to make sure he washed his face and hands in ammonia and ice water. Then he dried them with a towel, rubbed rosin on his fingers, wiped them clean again, and dabbed his eyes with a little cold water. “By gosh, I’m gonna hit this time,” he kept repeating to himself.

C’mon somebody, just pick me up this once. C’mon, Hank. Let’s see, we’re three, no, four runs behind. Hard to get in the ninth, though we’ve done it before. Another foul. Shoot! Say, that pitcher’s all right; looks like we underestimated him the other day. Guess he’s all they said about him last week. But this game isn’t over yet. Nosir, not until the last man’s out.

Get on there, Jake, just get on, that’s all. The boys below me have picked me up lots this year; maybe they’ll get going, too. Watch it, Jake, he’s been feeding you low balls. Just lay onto one, kid.

Wow...oh, say! Is that baby lucky, that Miller. That ball sure was tagged. Then he sticks up his glove, and whang! There it is.

Jake passed him on his way to the dugout. “Tough luck, old kid.”

“Yeah, well, you can only hit ’em. You can’t steer ’em after they’re hit,” rejoined the pitcher philosophically.

“Here, boy, gimme that club. I’m gonna rap one. Red is saving me a rap.” The Kid stepped out into the circle. The sun had come out half way through the game, but the circle and the diamond were now in shadow. In the field the Indians were whipping the ball around the bases with the dash and confidence that only can come to a winning team far in the lead.

On one knee he leaned over his bat. Just get on, Red, I’ll bring you in; so help me I’ll bring you in, boy. We’ll start something, you and I, Red; we’ll start things like we did that day in St. Louis. And the time we beat the Cubs in the tenth with two down and three runs to get. Look at those fans. They aren’t leaving. They know we’re a dangerous bunch until the last man’s out, the fans do. We can get a run, three-four runs. We need five, but we’ll settle for four. Give us a single, Red, just a single.

The stands rose. At the plate the batter leaned hard into the ball, struck it cleanly, and started for first. A deep one, far back, back; but the fielder was moving swiftly with the crack of the bat and was under it as it fell. One more routine catch. And another game gone. The Kid hit the ground hard with his bat, slung it away, and started toward the player’s entrance.

Across the ballpark the Indians scuttled hastily for the clubhouse as the fans poured down upon them. No one poured down on the Dodgers, nobody mobbed them or pestered them for autographs. They were a beaten team. A few curiosity seekers trudged along, but mostly they were left to themselves. Silently save for their pants and grunts they trooped inside. Even Charlie Draper, holding the big leather ball bag, carried it at a disconsolate angle.

Shucks, thought the Kid. Why didn’t he save me a rap? I shouldn’t be kicking though; I didn’t do much to help today myself. Muffed a bad chance in the field and went four times without a hit. Four horse collars. Maybe I swung too hard. It couldn’t be that shadow there, I been hitting in shadow all season. Yes, sir, that bird Miller is all the old scout said he was. Now I wish I’d paid more attention to him that morning. You gotta hand it to Miller though; he’s plenty pitcher, that baby.

Within the locker room was Razzle, all dressed, astride a corner bench. His usual after-game cigar was in his mouth, but it was not at his usual jaunty angle. Everyone felt the defeat badly. They trooped in, slumped down on the stools before their lockers, speechless. A few called for Cokes. The majority shook their heads and sat silently. In the dressing room of the manager, Dave and the coaches were taking off their clothes. Before Dave had got far he was surrounded by reporters. He sat on a chair, pulling off his socks, his pants.

“Good Lord, what you birds want? You should be over there talking to Baker.”

“We were. Got anything to say, Dave?”

“What is there to say? Those babies hit everything we threw up to the plate. Hammy swung on a pitch that was six inches inside and knocked it into right for that single that scored their first run.”

“How ’bout Stansworth? Any chance of his playing? Are you satisfied with West?”

“I gotta be satisfied with him, haven’t I? Who’ve I got to take his place? Lost my relief catcher last month, and then Babe Stansworth splits his thumb wide open last week. You can’t expect a man to catch when he has a split down the side of his bare thumb, can you?” The usually mild Dave glared at the questioner. He was tired and discouraged and in all the crowd he was the one who couldn’t show discouragement.

“Care to name your starter tomorrow?”

“What’s that? Nope, I dunno who’ll pitch tomorrow’s game. Your guess is as good as mine.” He turned his back and threw wet clothes to the bench. In a minute he left them and went to the showers. The reporters came into the big room and mingled among the players, now recovering and starting to talk.

“Whatsa matter, Razzle? Tired out from three innings?”

“Nope. Not now.” The big fellow uncoiled his long legs. “I just didn’t have my stuff today. My curve ball hung there and I couldn’t get my fast one by ’em. They hit everything I threw up.”

“Say...was Miller using a lot of trick stuff, Swanny?” asked Casey, a pencil and a pad in his hand.

“Trick stuff! With that four run lead. Why, he could ha’ thrown anything.”

“You sure can’t win if you don’t hit and score runs,” said someone across the room.

“Shoot,” came back the answer. “We never once got a break. Those Indians had all the breaks. Tomorrow they’ll need ’em and they won’t get ’em. Wait and see.”

“Jes’ so Miller don’t pitch tomorrow, that’s all I ask,” retorted Case.

“Yeah. He sure pitched a darn fine game. But what in blazes, we’ve only made eight hits the last two games. We’re better’n that. We’re due for a change.”

“Say, I don’t mind going hitless myself so long as we can win.”

“Well, we won the hard way all season. We came from behind to grab off the pennant; we’ll pull out the Series, wait and see.”

“Anyhow, you’ll split eighty-two thousand. That’s the take they gave out this afternoon for the first four games,” said Casey. “And eighty-two thousand isn’t hay.”

A chorus of rebuffs rose all over the room.

“I wanna win.”

“So do I.”

“Me, too.”

“That’s right. We gotta win this-here Series. We haven’t played our game yet, least except that first one.”

“Yessir, we’re better than anything we showed so far.”

Roy said nothing. He pulled off his wet clothes, tired, unhappy. Bong-bong-bong-bong went the bell in his head. So tense had he been he’d hardly noticed it out there in the field. He noticed it now, all right. Climbing out of his sticky undershirt he went across into the soothing warmth of the showers. The hot spray beat on his aching legs and back. Ah...that was something like. No shouts, yells, or laughter came across the partitions. The others too were beaten and exhausted. Funny, he thought to himself, how much more tired a man is when he’s played in a losing game.

Slowly he put on his clothes. After finishing he went over to Chiselbeak and handed him the key to his locker in the valuables trunk. Recovering his watch and money he went toward the door. There was a notice on the bulletin board:

THE TEAM WILL REPORT AT SUITE 977 IN THE HOTEL CLEVELAND TONIGHT AT SIX THIRTY. THIS MEANS THE WHOLE SQUAD.

A bawling-out. Dave was going to tell them off for their playing. Well, they certainly had it coming.

T
HE BIG BUS
with the words
BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB
over the driver in front drew up at the hotel. A small crowd immediately collected on the sidewalk, making an open path through which the players had to pass into the lobby. It was a home-town crowd and therefore apathetic because they were waiting for their heroes, the Indians. The Kid heard one or two remark in disappointed tones, “It’s only the Dodgers.” A few picked out Razzle, conspicuously elegant in his green suit, and big Babe Stansworth with his thumb bound up in plaster and tape.

The lobby was jammed as usual. He went to the newsstand, bought several papers, and took the elevator to his room, listening to the comments in the crowded car. “Yeah, they’re all washed up now.” “The National League never was a first class league, not since...” “Why, Leonard had horseshoes to win the pennant with that bunch of boys.” He stopped at his floor, glad to escape. Harry Street with whom he roomed on the road was already there counting his laundry.

“Nuts! They didn’t send back my blue shirt.” He picked up the telephone. “Hey there, sweetmeat, gimme room service.”

Tired, discouraged, the Kid sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes. When a team lost it sure made a man feel tired. You were tired all right when you won, but not the same way. No, not the same way. He picked up the Series program which happened to be on the night stand beside the bed. Leaning back, he arranged the pillow and thumbed over the pages. How old was that bird Miller, anyhow? He came to his own photograph, and for the first time read the lines underneath the picture.

Roy (Kid) Tucker

Outfielder. A manager’s dream. Great competitor, great fellow. Started back in 1939 as a pitcher with the Dodgers, hurt his arm, and like Johnny Cooney of the Braves made himself into an outfielder. Was a substitute last season until Tommy Scudder was traded to the Phillies for Elmer McCaffrey. Bats left. Throws right. Unmarried. Lives in Tomkinsville, Connecticut. Nickname: Bad News.

He threw the program on the floor. He hadn’t been bad news for anyone save poor old Dave. Things looked tough for Dave unless they could pick up another game. Even so, MacManus would not likely bring him back the next season. MacManus had no use for losers. He strung along with winners. If only they could get another game. That was the reason for their meeting tonight; a good stiff fight talk and a change in the batting order. Maybe Dave would have to yank him from the line-up. He glanced at one of the newspapers full of pictures of the Cleveland players scoring runs, making catches in the field, running wild on the bases. Underneath he read the captions. Then he turned to Grantland Rice’s column.

“Good pitching will always beat good hitting, and the Indians have the pitchers.” Shoot, we haven’t been hitting. We haven’t hit like we can hit.

Another writer compared the two managers. Interested, the Kid looked over his remarks about Dave Leonard. “Leonard’s secret of success in running the Dodgers this season has been in not over-managering. He has a club composed mainly of former players with whom he buddied as a player. He understands that too much bossing would be resented. So he ups with a system that gives his men latitude without too much rein. This has developed initiative to a greater degree than any other major league club.”

“Here! Get a load of this.” Harry, sitting on the side of his bed, unfolded a newspaper. “Casey says, he says...here...about Lanahan. Lanahan plays ground balls now like a member of the married men’s team in an office field day. Ha, ha.” Casey could invariably be depended upon for a chuckle. He was always funny. About the other team, anyway. The telephone rang.

“I hope they located my blue shirt. I like that blue shirt.” Harry picked up the receiver. His newspaper fell to the bed and the Kid, leaning over, picked it up. He looked at Casey’s column.

“It’s the old pitch-punch show. As always, good pitching has the call. But the fact is the Dodgers are paralyzed. For the first time they’re up against something new; American League fast-ball pitching. Moreover, they’re dead on their feet. While the Indians coasted in to the pennant through September, the Dodgers had to fight right down to the last day of the season to outscuffle the Giants. The Dodger pitching staff is worn and weary. The Gowanus Gang is washed up.”