Kid from Tomkinsville (6 page)

He was in a happy mood. The Dodgers had won two straight games from the Indians and this one was going well. At the end of the fourth the score was nothing to nothing and the Indians had not made a hit. It was Razzle Nugent’s first game, and he was showing all his old stuff. As the teams changed sides, the umpire turned to the stands.

“Pitching for Brooklyn... Roy Tucker, No. 56, in place of Nugent, No. 37. At short, Harry Street, No. 24, in place of Spencer, No. 4.”

A tall man with glasses slipped into one of the empty seats. “Hullo there, Jack.” It was Red MacDonald, manager of the Cincinnati team who had an off day. “Thought I’d drop over and see how you boys were doing? Who’s that going in at short?”

“Hullo, Red. How are you? That? That’s young Street. I picked him up in Muskegon last summer. Went up there to look over Mason, the outfielder with the Cubs, and saw this boy. Mind you, he’s playing his first game in the big time, so he probably won’t do much. Just watch him run though, that kid can run, lemme tell you. Say, when I watched him running for hits right in back of second I forgot all about Mason; yessir, I offered his manager two thousand for him right on the spot. Speed counts in this game.”

“And that tall kid pitching now?”

“Tucker. He’s another rookie. I got him in Waterbury, Connecticut, the same way. He was pitching one day against the Cuban Giants when I went up there to look at Simpson, their shortstop. This kid held ’em to one hit, and I signed him then and there and rushed him up to Elmira for the rest of the season. He doesn’t know what it’s all about yet.”

MacDonald spat into the ground. “Well, there he starts to blow....”

The first batter for the Indians received a base on balls. The Kid stood in the box with his legs apart as the first batter trotted down to first, and old Dave, his catcher, came out to him. Their heads went together a minute and the arm of the older man rested on his shoulder.

“Kinda wild, isn’t he?” said MacDonald to the man next to him.

“We really don’t know. This is the first game he’s pitched and we wanted to see what he could do before we shipped him off to the farm. Fact is, he wanted to get in too. Last night he came round to Spencer’s room and begged for a chance to pitch a few innings. I expect he’s nervous out there for the first time. There she goes... there’s a hit... oh... what a stop....”

Davis, the Cleveland fielder, hit a beautiful line drive sharply over second, and the man on first was halfway down to the base when the shortstop ran over, leaped through the air, and with a backhanded stab caught the ball two inches from the dirt. He tumbled to the ground, rolled over, picked himself up with the ball in his hand, and threw to first for a doubleplay. The ball park roared. Catching the Indians in a doubleplay pleased the crowd.

A minute later the side was out and Street came in, tipping his cap. The Kid squeezed his arm as they slipped into the dugout. “Boy, you sure saved my bacon that time.”

“Yeah... now le’s go get some runs,” said the confident youth, waving his bat. And old Leonard, taking off his pads, looked up at the Kid. “All right, boy, you put the ball where I told you. What? Sure you had luck; maybe you’ll have some more. Keep cool and throw it where I say, that’s all.”

In left field MacManus leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette, his arms outstretched. He was pleased with himself and the world in general. “Yessir, that kid runs like a leaping gazelle, I’m telling you. Hullo there, Jim... how you like him?” This to Casey, the sportswriter, who came over and took the empty chair. “How’s that for a stop, hey?”

“Looks as if maybe he might have something. I talked to him last night; say, he’s full of pepper. Know what he says? Says, ‘I can hit any right-handed pitcher in this-here League.’ ‘Oh, yeah?’ sez I; ‘well, maybe you’ll have a chance against Ruffing.’ ‘Okay,’ he sez; ‘I'll hit him.’ How’s that?”

“Well, he will, too. And he can bat from either side, remember.”

“Can he? He ought to be a ballplayer one of these days. Who’s that kid in the box now, Jack?”

“Roy Tucker. Lad from Tomkinsville; I was telling you about him.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. Has he been out all along? I haven’t noticed he has much. And if that hotfoot out there in short hadn’t picked up that liner he would have been scored on in the last inning. Now the rookie I like is young Jack Maguire with the Giants....”

MacManus hurled his cigarette away. His face lost its contented look and he scowled as he turned on the sportswriter. “The Giants, the Giants, the Giants. You sportswriters give me a pain in the neck. Shoot, if a man wears a Giant uniform you all think he’s hot stuff, and if he’s on the Dodgers it doesn’t matter how good he is. Look at Caballero, this Cuban first baseman Murphy’s trying out. I bet you five bucks he’ll be out of the lineup by June, but the way they’re playing him in the papers you’d think he was Greenberg and Gehrig and Hal Chase rolled into one. The Giants...” and he snorted as he crossed his legs and turned his back to the other man who winked at MacDonald and moved back to work in the press box while the teams changed sides.

“Okay, wait and see what Caballero does, that’s all.”

“I’ll wait. The Giants!” said MacManus to the man next to him. “Those fellas are all alike. How you making out this year, Red?”

MacDonald thought he had a better team. So did every manager. “Say, Jack, how about Nugent? Think he can come back or not? I only watched the last inning.”

MacManus became serious again. “Well, to tell the truth, Red, we don’t know. This is the first time he’s been in; you know he was a holdout the first ten days or so. Just now he’s tending to business, and he pitched good ball today; his old fast one was burning in there. He’s promised to cut out that wild stuff and play all season, and I think he will.”

“When he’s good that baby is sure good. But he gets mighty crazy when he starts to tear things up. How about this new man from Memphis, De Voe? And old Foster?”

“Can’t tell yet about De Voe. Foster has just as much stuff as ever. What’s the matter, looking for a pitcher?”

“I could use an extra one. How about this kid in the box there? What you gonna do with him?”

“Send him along to Nashville, I suppose. Interested?”

“Not especially. I might be willing to take him off your hands though if the price was right.”

“Like his motion? He’s got an easy swing there, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” replied the other man without enthusiasm. “He’s got a good swing. I like it.”

“So do I,” retorted the other with emphasis. Someone had been tipping Red off about the Kid, and if MacDonald wanted him enough to come up and watch him play, the boy was worth hanging on to. He turned back to the game. “Hullo, that’s two strike-outs this inning. Red, you’re pretty dumb. This kid will do all right when he gets some seasoning.”

As inning after inning went on and neither team scored or made a hit, MacManus was unable to stand the strain. He rose nervously, walked over to the clubhouse porch, leaning against one of the posts of the roof. Then he lit a cigarette, threw it away half smoked, went back to his chair where he was now alone. He shoved his hat back over his head and a few minutes later pulled it down over his eyes. Harry Chase of the
Times
, watching from the press box, saw him twisting and turning in his chair. “Look at Jack over there; he’s going nuts.” And he rose and walked out into left field.

“Say, Jack, this boy looks pretty good to me. Why hasn’t he been pitched before?”

“He was. They tried him out in a practice game once anyhow, and he didn’t seem to have much. Fact we were about to give him his release last week, but Dave Leonard persuaded us to hang on to him, and then last night the kid talked Gabby into letting him go out there for a few innings this afternoon. They really wanted to see what Nugent would do, so he decided to let him try a couple of innings. I guess Leonard is making him out there.”

“Maybe. He isn’t making those fast balls though. Have you seen his stuff from behind the plate? You should see him from back there. Got control, too. Where’d you get him?”

He pulled his hat down over his eyes and flipped another half-smoked cigarette into the grass. “Up in Waterbury, a tank-town in Connecticut. I went to see Simpson, their shortstop, and this boy was pitching an exhibition game against the Cuban Giants. Seems he was some local boy from near there who was getting a try-out. He held ’em to one hit, and I said to Spike Davis, the manager, I said, ‘Look here; I’ll give you just exactly two thousand smackers for that son of a gun right here and now.’ And he says, ‘Well, two thousand’s a lotta dough, but that boy has an awful big possibility,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, and so has two thousand in the bank....’ There she goes... there goes your ball game, Harry....”

The batter hit a terrific drive into center. Scudder, the left fielder, was nearest the ball and went after it, running back and back. He came up against the fence as the ball descended. From the stands it looked over, but the fielder turned, leaped up, and literally pulled it down from the upper boards. It was a courageous catch and the whole crowd in the stands rose to him.

“Yessir, he’s getting support all right.” He lit another cigarette. “Some catch, boy,” as Scudder trotted past. “Well, here we go, last of the ninth, no... that’s only two out, isn’t it? Who’s up? Rogers? Say, what do you think of that? He has a chance of shutting these bums out without a hit.” Once more he found it impossible to stand the strain, and pulling down his hat over his face, walked over to the clubhouse porch.

The batter with one strike and a ball stood waiting at the plate. He was looking for a fast one, but it was a curve and he swung well over the ball. His bat slipped from his hand, the ball rolling in the dirt toward third. Like a flash he was off while both the pitcher and the third baseman ran in for it; the pitcher, getting to it, stumbled momentarily, picked it up and threw it to first, a fraction of a second late to catch the runner. Hit number one for the Indians.

“Shoot,” said MacManus. “I hoped the Kid would hold ’em down. Do those big bums good. And a scratch hit like that, too. Hang it, that would have done the boy a lot of good; given him all kinds of confidence.” The catcher went down the line to the box and tossed the ball. There was silence on the diamond. Was this another ninth inning Indian rally? From the infield came the chatter of the team. “All right now, Roy, old kid, right in the slot.... Pretty lucky, that was, Roy. Give him both barrels, Roy.... Then the voice of the umpire.

“Strike
ONE
....”

“Thassa way to throw that old tomato, Tuck old boy.... That’s pitching, that is....” And a minute later the man on first started for second. Leonard’s throw was perfect and the side was out, the Dodgers coming up for the last half of the ninth. Leaning against a post on the clubhouse porch, MacManus, with his left hand in his pocket and a cigarette in his other hand, walked nervously from side to side, coming back to his post as Casey ran across from the press box.

“Now what? Whad’I tell you, Jim? That kid has the makings.” MacManus was pleased but he was especially pleased when he could prove a sportswriter, and above all, Casey, wrong. Easy enough to stand off and criticize. When you had the responsibility for the club, a responsibility to the stockholders too, well, it was different.

But Casey had heard it before. He was in a serious mood. With one hand he flipped open the scorebook he carried and shoved it at the other man. “Listen, Mac, you lucky bum, you know how many balls this kid has pitched in five innings? Twenty-six, that’s all.”

“Twenty-six called balls?”

“Twenty-six, only twenty-six, I counted ’em.” He turned and went back to the press box, while MacManus shouted, “Where’s MacDonald? Hey, Red, twenty-six balls he’s pitched, only twenty-six....”

Leonard was the first man up. He stood swinging his bat at the plate, while MacDonald, watching from left field, reminisced.

“Old Dave. Still a pretty good catcher, that old fella. I remember him back in the Series against the Tigers in ’34....”

“Yeah,” the other interrupted. “That was in ’34. A long while ago. He’s old now, too old. We want youngsters, and speed, see. Speed, that’s gonna be the keynote of this team. A hustling ballclub. Like that kid coming to bat now.”

Leonard had flied out, and Harry Street came to the plate. With a base on balls and two hits behind him, he caught the first ball pitched for a clean single to right center. MacManus poked his neighbor in the side.

“How’s ’at, Red, three for three, and his first big-league game. Say, if that kid was only with the Giants, can you imagine what they’d say?” He tossed his cigarette onto the grass with a gesture indicating his opinion of sportswriters, as he sat down again on one of the empty chairs. MacDonald came over and took another chair. Arms folded, silent but keen, the other man sat watching while MacManus twitched and crossed his legs. “Jack, I don’t care, I’d just as leave make an offer for that boy if you’d care to listen.”

“Which boy? Street? The lad on first?”

“Nope, that pitcher.”

“Nosir. Nosir.” He leaned over, tapped MacDonald on the arm and chest. “That kid has got something. Lemme tell you, Mac, the other night after we played the Tigers I found I’d left my reading glasses in the clubhouse. I was almost at the hotel, but I turned the car round and came back to get ’em. Doggone if it wasn’t after six. The place was deserted except for this kid and old Fat Stuff Foster, you know, the old-timer. Fat was in there dishing ’em up to this boy, place almost getting dark, mind you. So I went up to him and says, ‘Hey, you, what’s the idea?’ I says to this boy at the plate, ‘I thought you were supposed to be a pitcher. What’s the idea?’ Know what he answers? ‘Yessir, but I like to hit ’em too, and I’m weak on low balls. Besides I’m learning a new grip.’ Whaddya think of that, hey? A pitcher and he likes to hit the ball!”

The batter hit a fast grounder to shortstop and the boy at first was well on his way to second. It was plain only an exceptionally fast throw would catch him, and MacManus half rose in his chair. “They’ll have to be fast, they’ll have to be fast...” he shouted exuberantly. “They’ll have to be fast to catch that kid.... There... I told you... I told you...” as Street slid safely into second. “Whad’I say? He’s a leaping kangaroo, that’s what he is. Man on second, one out, winning run at the plate. Now, Kid, let’s see what you can do; let’s see you win your own game.”