Kid from Tomkinsville (21 page)

“... friends, right now while Foster is taking his warm-up pitches is a good time to ask you a question.
Would you turn your back on a thousand dollars?
Of course not. And ten other cash prizes of five dollars each. Remember the Starlight soap contest is open to everyone, to all fans who simply tear off the cover of a box of Starlight soap and send in the answer in one sentence.
WHY... I... LIKE STARLIGHT... SOAP
... Because...” A terrific peal of thunder startled Grandma. She jumped in her chair.

“That’s all, no fancy writing necessary, anyone can do it. Remember, fans, you all have a chance and don’t forget the name, spelt
S-T-A-R-L-I-G-H-T
soap. Don’t turn your back on a thousand dollars. Well, here we go back to this great ball game, four to three for the Dodgers in the last of the fourteenth, Muscles Mulligan at the bat, the tying run on third, and the winning run on second. Just hear the Giant fans give Foster the razoo."

Distinctly the noise came into the living room, fifty thousand pairs of hands together:

Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap.

“And here’s the pitch... he takes it... ball two. Foster can’t seem to find the plate.” A roar filled the room, a roar that was only louder than the continuous background of sound that had been coming all through the last minutes. “Strike one... right... down... Broadway... for a called strike....” Outside the lightning was brighter now and the thunder louder. Grandma looked anxiously round to see if all the windows were closed.

“Mulligan batting from a slight crouch... there it goes... a high twisting foul behind the plate.... Leonard is after it... back... back... almost into the Giant dugout... the New York players are scattering in front of the bench... he has it...
HE HAS IT
... a wonderful catch... he turns and snaps to Foster at the plate to prevent McKinnon on third reaching home on the play. That was a wonderful catch, what the boys call a ‘dilly.’ Yessir, that old-timer is still in there. Two out, and the winning run on second, four to three for the Dodgers in the last of the fourteenth... and here comes Manager Murphy of the Giants... just hear those Dodger fans back of third there giving him the bird.”

The cadence entered Grandma’s somber living room.

“IS BROOKLYN... STILL... IN THE LEAGUE?... IS BROOKLYN... STILL... IN THE LEAGUE?... IS BROOKLYN... STILL...”

“Foster looks round... Brooklyn infield playing deep... the outfield slightly to the left... and deep.... Foster trying to protect his one-run lead... here’s the pitch....

“Strike one! A beauty, right through the middle, and Murphy didn’t offer at it.” The roar rose higher. “Guess Murphy didn’t think he had the nerve... here it comes... a ball. One and one. Across the letters, too high. One and one, two out, men on third and second, the last of the fourteenth....

“Oh, it’s a hit. It’s a hit!” He was yelling, screaming almost, but the tumult was so great he could hardly be heard nevertheless, and Grandma leaned over toward the radio. “It’s a hit,
IT’S A HIT, IT’S A HIT,
a long drive, was that tagged... and there goes that old ball game. A deep drive to right center... wait a minute... Tucker going over fast... Tucker back... back... back against the fence... he speared it... no... he crashed into the fence....”

There was a frightful explosion outside and the lights went out, cutting the speaker short.

Rain descended. It poured down against the windows, beat on the roof which Roy had covered with the first money he had earned from baseball. In the Connecticut hills round Tomkinsville the storm struck furiously, and Grandma sat silently in the dark. While in the murky dusk of the Polo Grounds a boy writhed in agony on the green turf of deep right center.

Dusk descended upon a mass of players, on a huge crowd pouring onto the field, on a couple of men carrying an inert form through the mob on a stretcher, and meanwhile up in the press box, where the lights were on, Jim Casey for the fifth time that afternoon pulled a piece of copy paper from his typewriter and tossed it, a crumpled ball, to the floor. Once again he started a new lead.

“I’ve followed every game, had thrills, watched last minute finishes in every sport, but the contest at the Polo Grounds between the Dodgers and the Giants yesterday left me with sixty thousand other fans limp, beaten, and exhausted. The Daffy Dodgers are certainly unpredictable. You can never tell what they’ll do, but you can be sure it won’t be the thing you imagined. Paced by a has-been relief pitcher, Foster, with Dave Leonard, who is old enough to be in the Baseball Museum at Cooperstown, behind the bat, this crazy ballclub scrapped, fought, disregarded every rule of the game by running wild on the basepaths, making impossible stops and catches in the field, and finally nosed out the Giants to enter the Series next week by a score of four to three in fourteen innings. Led by their brilliant youngster, ‘Bad News Tucker,’ they went ahead in the fourth, were caught and passed in the eighth, tied the game on a foolhardy bit of baserunning in the ninth, and finally won it by Tucker’s leap into the right field fence to spike Murphy’s homer in the last of the fourteenth.

“Right now they don’t know the extent of Tucker’s injuries and whether or not he’ll be able to play for the Dodgers in the World Series next week. Just the same, I wouldn’t bet five cents against this cockeyed ballclub when they meet the Yanks...”

There was a clap of thunder. Rain descended upon the Polo Grounds.

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copyright © 1940, renewed 1968 by Lucy R. Tunis

cover design by Milan Bozic

978-1-4532-2119-8

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

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