Kid Comes Back (15 page)

And in each player’s mind was the same thought: Fat Stuff! Gee, Spike is really scraping the barrel. But why’s he throw in the old-timer right here? Why not hand ’em Jerry or Mike or even Raz? Fat Stuff! Well, he must know what he’s doing, but it seems like an awful chance.

When the old-timer went out to warm up, the Giant bench was both amused and delighted. “The Brooks must be down to bedrock to hand us the old man at a time such as this.”

“Hey, look, Mac, he can just about get the ball to his warm-up catcher and no more.”

“We should grab off about three hits apiece from that daffy-dill he’s pushing over.”

“Why, it’s pitiful. He’s just an old, crippled duck.”

The first Giant hitter in the opening inning reached one of Fat Stuff’s slow balls and singled smartly to left. Some wag upon the New York bench immediately remarked, “Well, there goes his no-hitter.” They all roared with laughter. This was to be a pushover, the clincher for their hold on third place.

However, Spike knew what he was doing. Instead of entrusting that critical game and the task of subduing the onrushing Giants before their home crowd to a brilliant youngster who might blow up under pressure, he had called again on his veteran relief pitcher. The old man had little speed and not much of a curve, yet he had perfect control; he could put the ball where he wanted. He kept floating little dinkey-dinks up to the plate, balls that were almost a shot-put. But they invariably came in a tough spot for the batter. Low and inside; up around the shoulder—pitches that were all difficult to hit solidly. Time after time the Giants would get men on base, and the next man would pop up or go down swinging, throwing his bat toward the dugout in disgust. Inning succeeded inning, and the old hurler held them in check.

The Dodger hitters were not doing much better, and they were lucky to put over two earned runs in the fifth. At the last half of the ninth, they led 2–0. A round of applause swept the stands as Fat Stuff strolled out to the mound, for the fans all recognized his masterly pitching in the clutches. Far out in the bullpen, two Dodger hurlers resumed work. They had spent the afternoon rising and sitting down.

Tonelli, the first hitter, struck the initial pitch between short and third, but Spike saved things by dashing into the hole and throwing out the speedy Giant by a whisker. One down. Lester Young then hurled himself into the air and speared a terrific liner that was tagged. The fans started to leave the ball park, the tension that had hovered over the field all afternoon died off, the noise from the bleachers subsided. Out in the bullpen the throwing of the three Brooklyn relief pitchers became casual and desultory. They half turned, watching for the final out.

As always in baseball, trouble was there when least anticipated. The final out refused to come. One man worked a pass, the old pitcher finally losing him after a dozen balls were fouled off. The next batter beat out an infield grasscutter, and on the hit-and-run the following man rifled a pistol shot back through the mound. Racing in, Roy scooped up the ball and shot it home on the fly to Jocko. The Giant runner took no chances with one of the best throwing arms in baseball, and scuttled back to third after rounding the bag at full speed.

Now those relief pitchers out there were busy, throwing in earnest, quickly getting the ball back from the catchers, burning it in, fast, faster, faster. The fans who had been leaving settled into their seats again; others stood in the rear of the grandstand; they yelled, shrieked, shouted. A round of rhythmic clapping swept over the ball park. Clap-clap, clap-clap they went in unison, trying hard to rattle the old man in the box. Through it all he was ice-water. Then Spike and Jocko with his tools on and Charlie Draper gathered about him.

A clean single would tie the game. A slashing double would win it, for the winning run was on first. The little knot around the mound finally dissolved. Spike ran back to his position in deep short to play for a runner at any base. He was sticking with Fat Stuff.

A sort of murmur ran over the stands. “You sure gotta hand it to him.”

“He’s a cool customer to stick with the old geezer in a spot like this.”

The September shadows deepened over the park, bisecting the diamond. The whole place was up yelling. On the mound the veteran picked up the rosin bag, dusted off his hands, tossed it away, looked about the bases loaded with runners, hitched at his pants and took the sign. He nodded, wound up, threw.

The batter took the pitch. Low; a ball. The crowd roared. He fouled off the next one, going for a downer. The third one he put the wood to—the clout of the afternoon.

“Yowser!” shrieked a player on the Giant bench. “It’s a homer. I can tell by the sound of it.”

The ball was hit cleanly and with strong wrists. It took off, and Roy in deep center knew by the sound of the bat there was power behind the blow. He took off too, the second it was struck, racing back full gallop, watching it over one shoulder. This meant the ballgame; perhaps the pennant if it fell safely, for the runners were rounding the bags. He dug in with everything he had. Far, far out toward the clubhouse in the rear he saw it falling, leaped in the air, and stuck out a desperate glove to one-hand it as it came down.

The Dodgers were in third place.

E
VERYONE ON THE CLUB
felt the strain. Nerves were tight; tempers short; the big men and the husky ones and the thin, wiry athletes were all played out under the strain. They stretched but they did not crack.

Yet the effort to come through each afternoon became harder and harder. In the morning when they rose, the day ahead seemed a mountain that had to be climbed with shoes weighing a hundred pounds apiece. Even Roy, who had played less than half the season, felt it. He lay on the rubbing table before the last game of the Giant series, his face buried in his arms, while the Doc, a small heat lamp in one hand, loosened up his aching leg.

“I feel like I usta in spring training in Florida, Doc. Can’t seem to get that spring-training ache out of my muscles.”

The Doc waved the lamp professionally over Roy’s hip and thigh, rubbing in liniment with the other hand. “That isn’t surprising, Roy.” Putting the lamp upon a small table at his left, he went to work on the leg with his two powerful hands. “Nope, that isn’t surprising. You need a rest—same as everyone else on this club.”

“A rest! Are you kidding? Why, I’ve hardly played half the season. Don’t give me that; don’t make me laugh, Doc.”

“Just the same, it’s what you need. Point is, you’re using muscles now you haven’t been using for a long time. That’s the big difference; it’s the trouble with Bobby Russell and every returning serviceman in the business.”

Rest right at that moment was out of the question for anyone. They were in that last final charge to the wire when every ounce and every out counts, when the club that gets nine men pulling together each afternoon for nine innings would take the pennant and enter the Series. Having won three straight from the Giants, with Jerry pouring it on in the opener at Ebbets Field, and Raz winning the next one, they needed only one more victory to be in second place. That was up to all of them—and especially to Bones Hathaway.

MacManus had objected to calling him back and then to using him, and it was only after much argument that Spike finally got the big chap cleared and ready for the final contest of the series. A huge crowd came out to welcome the star hurler back with the club. It was pitcher’s weather that day—not too cold, and a wind from the northwest. That meant low visibility, the breeze blowing with the hurlers and against the home-run hitters. Even the Giants watched the newcomer warm up with interest. Truth to tell, Bonesey, surrounded by sportswriters and cameramen, didn’t look so hot. Just another moundsman the desperate Dodgers were throwing in to stop that slide to the second division at any cost.

Several Giants came across and spoke to him, half-kidding, half-serious. “Glad to see you, Bonesey.”

“How’s Montreal, Bones? Like it up there?” Once upon a time he had been their meat, once he had been their cousin, and the bench jockeys could be counted upon to make his temperature rise by sly references to his escapades of former years. So they weren’t exactly sorry to see him again.

Old Fat Stuff, however, watching with shrewd glances from the top step of the dugout, his back against one of the pillars of the roof, missed little. “One thing that kid got at Montreal is a slider,” he remarked quietly to Charlie, who stood in the dugout below.

To the unobservant, it wasn’t the same Bonesey who had left them early in the season; he was calmer and more deliberate. But the moment he took the mound, the fans recognized the little tricks on the mound you could never forget—the digging in of the left foot; that sweeping warm-up, with the kick as the ball slid from his hand; the twist to his left knee as he fogged them past the Giants’ bats at the plate.

Bones had always been speedy. That day his fast ball was smoke; his curve was so sharp you could shave with it. And he had learned things during his exile in the minors; he hadn’t spent his time being sorry for himself in Montreal. His control was perfect. He struck out at least one man an inning and walked few. He had class. You couldn’t explain it if you tried, but it stuck out all over him as inning followed inning and he kept setting the Giants back on their heels. In vain the New York bench jockeys jeered and sneered through cupped hands when he walked out to the box. In vain their sluggers strode up, fire in their eyes, teeth clenched, and a determined expression on every face. Bonesey was having none of it.

In the old press box, long since abandoned for that aerie perch on the roof, sat Jack MacManus, with a friend from Detroit who happened to be in town. A scowl was on his forehead as Bones took the box and the crowd roared, but it didn’t stay there long as goose eggs mounted up on the scoreboard in right. Gradually his expression changed to a smile, then to a complacent look, then to a grin.

“He’s always had a fast ball and a pretty fair curve. Now he has control, he’s ahead of the hitters all the time. And he’s throwing in a swell change of pace... see... see that! Just a great pitcher, that’s all! I always said so. Mighty glad I insisted Spike bring him back. Well, I told this kid last spring when I sent him away, I said: ‘Sonny, it’s up to you. Entirely up to you. I have faith in you or I’d give you your release this morning; but whether we pick up your option again or not depends on you.’ Those were my words, Tom, my very words.” He indicated to his friend that he himself had really sent the wire recalling Bonesey from exile.

All through the game, however, the Dodgers themselves were hit-hungry. It was as though at the fag end of the season they were too tired even to stand up and slug the ball. They couldn’t seem to buy a base hit; little pop-ups, rollers to the infield, and an occasional fly ball with one or two scattered bingles were their only contributions to victory at the plate. They were unable to put more than one man at a time on the bags, let alone threaten their adversaries. The Giant pitcher, a southpaw with a sweeping curve, had them helpless all through.

Then in the New York seventh, a sudden hilarious and joyful cry rose over the field. The figure 6 went up beside the Pirate score; the Cubs were being manhandled in Pittsburgh. This, then, was the clincher for second place. They had to take it now—or else. By this time the wind had died away, the flag in center field hung down from the pole, as Swanny, lead-off man for the Brooks, stepped to the plate. He dropped a blooper in right and reached first unmolested. The crowded stands began to stamp and cheer. It was the long-looked-for break at last.

Behind third, Charlie Draper clapped his hands. Swanny, on the bag, watched to see whether the take was on or off, and Lester, approaching the plate, glared from under the rim of his cap to get the signal. Charlie’s leathery tones swept across the diamond, penetrating the crowd roar. He tugged at the visor of his hat, he kicked the dirt angrily with his spikes, he yelled across through cupped hands. The hit-and-run was on. And Swanny was away at the first move of the pitcher’s arm.

Unfortunately, the Giants guessed that Swanny would go on the first ball. Accordingly, the pitch was high outside, almost too far away to hit. Lester waved vainly in an attempt to upset the catcher, who took the throw in his stride and pegged it on a line to second. Swanny, straining in desperation, slid into the bag, but the baseman had the tag on him and he was out. He rose, disconsolately dusting the dirt from his pants, shaking his head as he walked past Charlie to the bench. One down, and another rally nipped before it had begun.

Lester Young was sore, plenty sore at himself. For too long he had been a sucker at the plate. Red of face, cursing, he stepped aside, wiping his hands carefully on his shirt front, scooping up some dirt and rubbing it on the handle of his war-club. Then, waving his wand, he came back into the box. The big pitcher tried to blow a fast ball by him. It was a mistake. Lester was ready and waiting for just such a pitch.

He caught it squarely, sending it on a line into the hole between center and left. Expert fielding and a snappy relay held him up; but when they returned the ball to the infield he was standing on the pay-off post.

Something had happened. It was contagious. The electric atmosphere over the park, the stimulus of their comeback, perhaps those six runs on the scoreboard, and second place beckoning once again with open arms, that and the big crowd pulling for the run that might win the game, all of these together set the club afire at last. The bench became a hot-spot. No one could sit still. They stood on the plank, leaning against the roof, roaring at Lester, at Roy stepping into the batter’s box. A burst of pent-up energy, of their last nervous resources, was released like a fever through the whole line-up. One man after another felt it, one man after another showed it as he strode up to the platter.

“Whang!” went Roy Tucker’s bat on the first pitch.

“Bang!” went Paul Roth’s war-club on the second pitch.

“Wham!” went Frank Shiell’s big stick on the third.