Kid from Tomkinsville (7 page)

From deep left field they watched the tall, gangling boy shuffle up to the plate. He knocked the dirt from his spikes nervously, gripped his bat well up the handle, and stood legs apart on the edge of the box. “Makes you think kinda of Ted Williams, doesn’t he?” said someone on the porch. From the dugout came the rattle and chatter of the Dodgers, and on the coaching lines calls and shouts reached the ears of the boy at the plate. “Attaboy, Tuck, take a cut at it... you can hit it. Roy old kid, old boy... make him come in there. Make him come in. Thassa boy... knock his turkey neck offen him, Roy...” He heard their voices and faced the ball. At last he was getting somewhere. He was one of them, one of the gang, not an outsider any more, but part of the machine, someone for whom they’d leap into the air and risk their necks by barging at full speed into the outfield fences. He was one of them and their actions said so; so too did the tone of their voices from the dugout behind him. The late afternoon sun beat on his burning neck as he watched the pitcher wind up and saw his leg rise. The ball was outside... and low... he leaned against it and felt the beautiful sensation of wood against ball.

The crowd rose with a yell. It was a hit, a long hit. Already Street was rounding third, his head down into his neck, while out in left field MacManus was dancing up and down. “Hey, Casey, how about it? No, sir, I’m not selling that kid, not a chance.” Street neared home, he was crossing the plate, while the Kid got to second... but no further. He was surrounded. There were small boys who suddenly appeared from nowhere, there were fans pouring out of the low bleachers in right. There were the Indians running in to their dugout who paused to shake his hand. Half a dozen hands reached for his, from every side they were patting him on the back. In the press box back of third base the rat-tat-tat of the typewriters and the tap-tap of the telegraph bugs began furiously. In disgust Casey tore up a lead he had written before the game and put a fresh piece of paper into his machine. “Now whaddya think of that, Tom? Shut out by a rookie... one hit, too.”

“BY JIM CASEY

“Today’s news. The Dodgers have uncovered a pitcher at last. A nineteen-year-old rookie, Roy Tucker from Tomkinsville, Connecticut, pitching his first big-league game, went for six innings against the Indians here at Clearwater Park this afternoon, allowing one base on balls and one hit, of the scratch variety, struck out seven men, and pitched only twenty-six called balls. No, you don’t have to believe it, this is a free country, but four thousand fans watched the Kid hold the Indians helpless as he tossed his fast ball at the command of veteran catcher Dave Leonard....”

Half an hour later the squad, or most of them, climbed into the bus to take them back to the hotel. The Kid was tired but wonderfully happy as he sat back and waited for the last inevitable slow dressers to clamber aboard. There was laughter and shouting and horseplay up and down the bus, everyone calling to him, yelling back at him and using his first name. The day before he was another one of those rookies; now he was Roy, and that’s pitching, Roy, and, boy, you sure turned that old heat on them babies, Roy. Overnight he was theirs, he had arrived, he had become part of that secret fraternity, a baseball club. The bus started off slowly. Doc Masters, the trainer, asleep in a seat with the afternoon sun pouring in, snored gently. Someone reached over carefully and extracted the cigar case from the breast pocket of his coat. Half a dozen players helped themselves and then it was replaced with care.

“Hey, Doc, have a cigar. Have a cigar, Doc?” He woke as the bus swerved round the corner and into the main street of town. Sleepily he reached into his pocket to find his case empty, while they laughed and shouted at him, a happy bunch of boys. He grinned and shook his head. Kidding was all part of the game.

From his seat in the rear the rookie who had arrived listened to the talk and laughter. “Condition... Why, you couldn’t get in condition if you was to run from here to Los Angeles.... Hey, Fat Stuff, wanna shoot some pool tonight?... Oh, Dave, what about those two bucks you bet me you’d get a hit today?... They wasn’t nobody hitting; nobody except the pitchers.... I says to him, spring training is the toughest part of it....”

Spring training the toughest part of it! He really believed it then, but later in the summer he would often wonder whether it was really so tough after all. The bus swung up in front of the Fort Harrison. At the door, as they descended, stood the trainer.

“All right now, you guys, everyone dressed for practice tomorrow at ten-thirty. Ten-thirty, remember.” The Kid stepped out, surprised to find himself lame. Stiff and lame all over. Lame, but happy and content.

“S
EE LIKE THIS.”
Old Dave, the catcher, squatted down in front of the Kid’s locker. “See, my right leg keeps the sign hidden from the first base coach, and the mitt, like this, screens it from the third base coach. All right. Now the only ones that can see it are you, the pitcher, and the shortstop... and of course a runner on second if there is one. Now when there’s a runner on second, I use a switch signal. Unnerstand....”

The Kid, seated on the bench before his locker with nothing on except his inner socks, nodded solemnly. He was dazed by the rapidity of it all. Two weeks before he had been in Clearwater, just another rookie about to be sent to the minors for a try-out; now he was seated in the dressing room at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, ready for his first test in the big league. Even in a pre-season game no National League team had been able to trim the New York Yankees for some time, but the Dodgers, a last-place club the year before, had beaten them four out of six times in the exhibition games on the way north, and had taken two out of three in Brooklyn. So far the Kid hadn’t been called on, but he was afraid he might be asked to go in for a few innings that afternoon. When Dave came across the room he was certain of it, and started pulling on his stockings to conceal his nerves. He rolled his trousers the way Dave had shown him in Florida so as to form a pad and give his knee bone the maximum protection in sliding to base.

“Now naturally I can’t be sure the runner on second will nab that sign. He may, may not. If he does, he’ll relay it to the coach and the batter, and you’ll just be out of luck. I must be careful. I’m not taking any chances, see. So I give you the switch sign by touching my mask. Like this... get me?”

The Kid swallowed hard. Yep, they were counting on throwing him in. Against the Yanks, too!

“Uhuh... He pulled on his supporters. Then he put on a pair of heavy shorts, for he disliked the sliding pads some players wore, felt they restricted his movements. Dave continued.

“Now when I give you the switch signal, it means that one-finger-along-the-knee sign for a fast ball is really a curve, and the other way round. Get it? I hate like the dickens to change signs often, but you just have to change now and then. When a man leaves our club and goes to another club, for instance. I recall last year we had to change all our signals about five times in six weeks for various reasons. Now do you get that? Some boys don’t seem to be able to remember signs at all, but you...”

“Oh, I getcha all right. But how about shaking you off?” he said, pulling on a white undershirt and sitting down on the bench to draw up his trousers.

“Well... use your judgment. Sometimes I like for pitchers to shake me off. Doesn’t mean I’ll always change the sign, mind you. Not at all; but I like to know my pitcher’s doing some thinking out there for himself. If you feel in some particular case you can do better with a curve than the fast one I’ve called for, say so. Okay?”

The Kid nodded. He pulled on his shirt and leaned over to lace up his shoes, listening carefully all the while with his heart thumping as the older man continued. Yep, they were sure going to use him....

“... see, I just try to work with the pitcher, and take as much strain off him as possible. Remember I don’t want you bothering about me; I want you to fix your attention on that-there guy at the plate. Two great things in a pitcher are control and confidence. Take old Fat Stuff over there; he hasn’t got a very fast ball, but he has a change of pace and confidence. Also he’s got a great big heart.” Squatting on the floor he looked suddenly up as the Kid put a generous supply of chewing gum in his mouth. That glance went home.

“Getcha...” he nodded, chewing vigorously.

“Good. ’S I said just now, sometimes I like for a pitcher, especially a young pitcher, to shake me off. Y’see these hitters going against a kid like you, they’re thinking about me all the time. They realize I know everything about them and their weaknesses; they know I know more than you do. Naturally, been round longer.... Oh, you’ll pick it up, boy. Point is, when you shake me off the batter thinks I’m gonna switch. Only then I don’t... see... I go back to the same sign and the hitter, not knowing this, is looking for something else. Chances are ten to one he’ll only get a piece of the ball and not be able to hit it very good.”

The Kid nodded and sat down, dressed and ready. Despite his nervousness he began to see the inside of baseball, began to realize its fascination and why it got men like old Fat Stuff who loved the game so much he wanted to stay on as an umpire after he was finished. The older man interrupted his thought by sitting beside him on the bench, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

“Now these boys we’re playing today. They’re good batters, sure, but most every good batter has some weakness if you can only find it.” The Kid’s fright returned. If they were taking up the individual hitters it could only mean one thing. Gabby was pitching him for part of the game. “Take DiMag,” continued the catcher. “Now when I was with the White Sox his first year we had a pitcher named Dietrich could get him out every time by pitching low. Fact. We got him every time for three games in a row, and then one day...”

“What’d he do then?”

The catcher laughed. “I hate to tell you. He got to a low ball and hit it into the back of the Yankee bullpen, longest hit I ever saw. When he comes up, well, keep ’em high and inside to him. And pray. He isn’t hitting so good now anyhow. It’s too early for him. Now then, this man Dickey. There’s a dangerous batter. Keep it away and outside, and be sure you do. Rolfe? Well... a change of pace sometimes fools him badly. Let’s try Gordon on a slow outside ball. If he connects during the game, why, we’ll try something else. Baseball’s a game of guessing; get me, you’re in there trying hard to throw to their weakness, and the batter is in the box trying to outsmart you. And I’m helping, don’t forget.... One thing more. If you get ahead, keep bearing down. This boy Nugent lets up, passes a couple of men as soon as he gets ahead, becomes careless and loses a game he oughta won. The boys don’t like it. Keep bearing down all the time.”

The Kid was nervous. There were little beads of sweat on his forehead as the catcher rolled those great names over casually: DiMag, Rolfe, Dickey; but despite his fear at the idea of facing the best team in baseball in his debut in the big leagues, that warm, friendly face and those smiling brown eyes reassured him. If he did go in, Dave would be there behind the plate, coaching, helping, pulling him along. There was a twinkle in those eyes which radiated confidence. It helped.

Then suddenly a door banged. Gabby entered, red-faced and perspiring from batting practice.

“Now then... you men...” he rasped. The room instantly became alert. By this time the Kid had learned some things about a big-league ballclub, and one was that not every man on the squad loved everybody else. Certainly Gabby was a slave-driver. But when he talked they listened.

“Last game now, you fellas. We beat those babies four times and Mac is awful anxious to sweep the Series today. I want you all in there scrapping, and I want plenty of holler... and bite, too. Remember you can’t get a hit with your bats on your shoulders, and you can’t get runs being nice boys out there on the bases. Jake, I want you and Rats and that kid, where is he, young Tucker... oh, there you are... I want you fellas to warm up....”

The Kid felt as if everyone in the room was looking at him. Almost everyone was, too. Yep, he was going in. He flushed as faces turned his way, and hardly heard the last bitter-sharp words of their leader ending his charge.

“... C’mon now, gang, some pepper out there.... Le’s go....”

Snatching their gloves from benches and lockers, the squad turned toward the door. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack their spikes sounded on the concrete runway leading from the dressing room to the field.

T
HE CROWD STAGGERED HIM.
It was a warm Saturday afternoon in mid-April, and a soft spring sunshine flooded the diamond. Ordinarily he would have been anxious to pitch, but the mob jammed the lower stands, peered over from the second story, and even filled the bleachers in left center, was terrifying. He had never seen such a crowd before, and as he warmed up between Jake and Rats Doyle, he felt suddenly weak. The aisles even were full, and still more people were coming in every minute, and he could see them filling the boxes as he hurled his fast ball into that waiting mitt.

“Gosh, Rats, how many does this park hold? You know?”

Chewing energetically, the man beside him wound up, threw the ball, and grunted between his teeth. “Oh, this way it’s close to capacity, I guess.”

“How many is that?”

“Thirty thousand. Thirty-two maybe. With the deadheads. And if they fill those second story stands up there.”

They were filling. Thirty thousand watching a game! The fans were in good humor, too. They were shouting and calling out to Swanson, the center fielder, who had won the day before with a double in the ninth, they were yelling to Gabby Gus as he pranced round short, to Red Allen, the first baseman. But they seemed to be asking for something, for there was a note of insistence in the sound of their voices. A murmur ran round the stands, died away, and broke out again.

“Say... Rats... I’m sure glad I’m not starting today. Front of that gang...”

“What’s the difference, boy? Crowds don’t mean a thing. You’ll get used to ’em soon enough. That’s the trouble; then you’ll get so you need ’em same as I do.” He wound up and threw the ball. “Some guys hate it when the gang’s out there, but me, I don’t like to play to empty stands. This-here-now-crowd all steamed-up-like, makes me feel I wanna go.”