Rookie of the Year (11 page)

Four games for the Dodgers, one against the fifth place Cubs, and then the vital three against the Cards. So a victory that afternoon would put them in a tie against the leaders, leaving everything depending on those last final contests.

The sportswriters stood around Spike before practice that steaming September afternoon as he sat on the spare rubbing table, thumping his glove with his fist, long legs dangling, trying to answer the questions from the group among whom were many strange faces. Lots of people had suddenly discovered the Dodgers were news.

“The Series? Oh, yes, the Series.” He answered vaguely. “Well, I’m not worrying about the Series. All I’m thinking about is one game at a time. We’re going out for this one; to hell with the Series.”

They wanted more, they became inquisitive, they peppered him with queries. “Well... for one thing, I treat my players the way I want to be treated. The way Grouchy Devine always handled us in Nashville. I never call a man down before the others. I don’t believe in tearing a clubhouse to pieces after a defeat. There are no second guesses and no post-mortems. I try to encourage initiative. Once the game starts, I leave the fellas pretty much on their own. Give boys a chance to play their game, and they’ll carry the load for you. One thing I do insist; I make an effort to impress on them that today’s game is the important one.... How’s that? What say, Stanley? They call us what? They call us lucky?”

He laughed, a pleasant, agreeable laugh, yet there was tension underneath. “Maybe so. What’s wrong about being lucky? They can’t put you in jail for that.” Everyone joined in the general laughter.

“You got ’em fighting hard, Spike,” rejoined the sportswriter.

“Stanley, when the going is good it isn’t tough to fight hard. Anyone can manage a winning club. But when you’re down in the second division, then it’s no fun to keep struggling. That’s what my boys have done. They hustled and they fought when things were blackest. They took up the slack of a poor start, they felt we ought to be somewhere up there at the end of the season, and we are. We take baseball seriously because it’s the most serious thing we do.”

He looked challengingly from one man to another; from the strange faces to the familiar ones; from the old timers who traveled with the club and were friends, to the columnists in search of a story for the next day who were strangers. Somewhere in the rear a voice murmured something about “the old college try.” It was hardly a complimentary tone, and Spike instantly accepted the challenge.

“Yep, that’s correct. This team has the college spirit; that’s the way we came up. There isn’t a single man on my club who considers himself a star. That’s why we play well together, why we’ve been able to come from so far back to fight for the lead.”

Then came the old question. “The pennant? Well, we try not to play the scoreboard; we try never to worry about the other man. I’ll say this, though; as for the pennant, well, I think we gotta chance.”

Laughter. Afterward the query he had been dreading because it was the one for which he had no answer.

“What about yourself, Spike? At the dish you haven’t been connecting lately. How do you account for your slump?”

“I don’t really know. Maybe I’ve been striding too soon; that’s the cause of about 90% of all batting slumps in my opinion.”

“Has being manager made any difference? Too much responsibility running the team?”

“Nope, that really doesn’t bother me out there. It’s just one of those things, I guess. You all know what ballplayers say: God takes you up to the plate, but he leaves you on your own when you get there.” He slipped down from the table, disengaging himself from the circle. This was too personal. Hang it, whenever Grouchy held a press conference and someone asked a question he didn’t want to answer, he always had one stock reply. “Suppose you let me worry about that.” If Grouchy had been caught on the ark with Noah he would have said, “Looks like rain.” Nothing more.

That afternoon they were not yet facing Grouchy, but playing the Cubs to win that extra game and so even things up for the final series. Spike started Rats Doyle and kept Razzle and Bones throwing in the bullpen, ready to jump in at the least sign of danger. He wanted to save his two star pitchers for Grouchy and the Cards, and his strategy worked. Rats was superb. He began confidently, went from good to better, and after passing the third batter to face him in the first inning, not a man got on base until the sixth when he lost another Cub hitter. Both were defeated trying to steal by Jocko Klein’s iron arm.

The crowd yelled louder and louder with every out. The pitcher sat chewing vigorously on the bench between innings, trying hard to pretend it was just another game, not a crucial contest. Beside him the players leaned on every ball that was hit.

Following that long series of hard-fought, extra-inning games, this was a relief after the first Dodgers came to bat. The Cub hurler was throwing a grapefruit with seams, and the Brooks teed off on him. In the third they put over five runs. Then with the score mounting in the sixth to seven runs, and to nine the next inning, Spike began yanking some of his tired veterans. Whitehouse took over right from Swanny, and Roth came in at first for Red Allen, and in the eighth Raz, who had been in the bullpen, received the signal to come in and take his shower. Pausing for a minute to watch his teammates go to work on the third Cub pitcher, he stood on the step of the dugout, drinking a cup of water.

“I wonder they wouldn’t take out that pitcher; he hasn’t not done nothing yet,” he remarked.

“Say! That’s something even for old Raz. A triple negative.”

“Aw.” The big pitcher turned toward the bench behind. “Think I don’t know the King’s English, hey!”

“Razzle knows the King’s English all right; trouble is, he doesn’t care if he is.”

Laughter ran up and down the long seat. They came into the ninth with the score still nine to nothing, three putouts from victory, from a chance to tangle on even terms with the Cards for the first time.

Rats Doyle never pitched as carefully as to those three men. One after the other, each man walked to the plate in tension. The first fouled to Roth behind the bag. The next man hit a mighty clout to deep center. Roy Tucker was going back, Roy the ever-dependable. He ran, turned, and stood there. He thumped his glove with his bare fist as he waited nervously for the ball to descend, that reassuring gesture which meant he had it. Down it came, he swallowed it, and the roar could have been heard in Boston.

Now one more out. The last batter was forever at the plate. He waited, he fouled off pitch after pitch, he ran the count up; one and one, one and two, two and two, three and two. He fouled off another, he slashed a hard drive down the left field line which was outside the base by an inch. Then he hit the ball in the air.

Thirty thousand mouths opened, thirty thousand throats bellowed, thirty thousand fanatics jumped up and down as the ball hovered in the air, high, back of the plate. And the dark-haired catcher threw away his mask and darted for it.

“Now, Jocko, now, Jocko... all yours, Jocko-boy... grab that ball, kid... grab that one and they’ll give you Brooklyn Bridge....”

He watched it in mid-air. He came back slowly, following the path of the ball as it descended. His mitt was close to his body, chest high, the open part up. His stocky legs were braced now. The ball came down, plunked into the glove. And stayed there.

He turned, held it for a second in the air so everyone in the feverish crowd could see, then stuffing it into his pocket he wheeled and rushed for the dugout.

Now then, bring on those Cards.

T
HE CLOCK ON
the wall above the bar showed almost eleven o’clock as Bill Hanson lit a cigarette, swallowed the last of his drink, and strolled out into the lobby toward the elevator. He got off at the twelfth floor where the club always lived; but instead of going to his own room he turned the other way, moved down the corridor and knocked hard on one door.

“Come in.” Hanson turned the handle and entered. Bones Hathaway in his shirtsleeves was all alone. He sat in the easy chair under the lamp, relaxed, reading the sports pages.

“Hey, there, Bonesy. Where’s Fat Stuff?”

“He had to go home tonight. Seems like his missis is taken worse. You know she’s been sick. Don’t that beat all, the night before we...”

Hanson paid no attention.

“Fat Stuff! Fat Stuff! Why, he’s so old he creaks. It ain’t Fat Stuff that’s worrying me. It’s Clyde Baldwin.”

The lanky boy in the armchair sat up. He and Baldwin had come up the hard way beside each other and a tie existed between them. If Clyde was in trouble, he, too, was affected. “Clyde? What’s up?”

“He ain’t in his room, that’s what’s up.”

“How d’you know?”

“I just been there to give him his tickets. Here’s yours.” He held out an envelope. The young pitcher took the envelope and tossed it on the bureau.

“Say! That’s bad.”

“I’ll say. After what Spike told ’em about turning in early tonight. If he finds it out, that kid’ll be through. On this club, anyhow.”

“Now where d’you suppose... whad’ you think... he didn’t say anything to me....”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll tell you what I think. Remember that dame, that girl from his home town?”

“You mean Jane Andrews?”

“That’s the one. The babe he was in the Coronado grill in St. Loo with that night.”

“Yeah, that’s her. They come from the same town somewhere in Tennessee.”

“Uhuh. Well, seems she opens at the Kit Kat Klub tonight. Y’know, Bonesy, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he sneaked off to see her show.”

“Why, he wouldn’t be such a fool... he wouldn’t.”

“But he liked her, didn’t he?”

“I’ll say! He’s nuts about her. Wait a minute.” He stood up, yanked the newspaper from the floor. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, you’re right. Bill, you’re dead right. She opens tonight.”

“Say, if Spike Russell ever finds this out, that boy’s goose is cooked. He won’t play baseball on this club again, that’s a cinch.”

“You said it. I wonder if we could... that is someone could... what time is it?”

“Eleven-fifteen. I certainly wish it wasn’t the night before this game. I’d grab a taxi and get that kid back in his room before anyone knew he was missing. But I got four hours of work ahead of me before I can hit the hay.”

Bones was grabbing his coat from the bed. “Leave this to me.”

“What you gonna do? Be careful, Bonesy, you’re kinda taking a chance yourself, beating it like this.”

“Nuts to that! I’m not going to see Clyde Baldwin ruin his season and throw a World Series cut out the window for that dame, not without a try, anyhow. He’s too darn good a pal.”

He shoved his purse in his pocket. He was out the door. “No, sir, I’m not letting that girl ruin Clyde’s whole season; no, sir, I’m not.” And he was off. Hanson trailed after him.

“Now be careful, Bonesy, be careful. If anyone sees you coming in late... remember now....” But Bones was down the hall ringing for the elevator.

Just at this moment Spike Russell in the other corridor came into his room, shut the door, and taking off his coat emptied the contents of his pockets on the bureau. His purse. A lot of miscellaneous junk. Some cards, one marked “Jack Schwartz, 50 Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn.” Jack, besides being an undertaker, was also the Number One rooter of the Dodgers, sometimes even accompanying the club on their western trips. There was an envelope with tickets for a game several days before which he had forgotten to leave at the box office. And a small, creased paper. He opened it. In his own handwriting was a list of pitchers for the month of September, with the number of days’ rest each would have. It was torn and dingy, having been in and out of his pocket dozens of times in the past month. All past history, now.

He next emptied the pockets of his trousers, took out his keys, his change, a handkerchief, and stood there looking almost fondly at that list before him, absorbed in it, in what it represented, thinking of those struggles, of games won, pulled out in the last innings, yanked from defeat when hope was gone, when most teams would have given up.

The door slammed. His brother came in and stood there looking at him.

“What’s cooking?”

“Whad’ you mean?”

“You were talking just now as I came in.”

Talking! I must ha’ been talking to myself. I must be going nuts. I’m talking out loud to myself and don’t even know it. Holy smoke, this being a manager is getting me down.

His brother came over to where he stood beside the bureau and put his arm on his shoulder. “Take it easy, old timer. We’ll pull this out for you.”

“Thanks, Bobbie. You betcha. Thanks.”

There was a knock on the door. Bob went over and opened it to disclose Bill Hanson. The burly secretary came in genially smiling. If he felt the pressure the club was under as they came into those final games, he didn’t show it. With a smile he flipped two envelopes from his pocket.

“Here y’ are, Spike. And here’s yours, Bob. You wanted three, didn’t you?”

“Three. That’s right.”

“Believe me, I had trouble laying my hands on ’em. Everyone in this club is on my neck, and we could fill the Yankee Stadium six times over for these games.” He walked across and picked up the telephone. “Twelve sixty-one. That’s right. Harry, this Hanson... is Clyde there? Clyde; Hanson. Yeah. I got your tickets. O.K., see me in the morning at breakfast, will you? O.K.” He rang off. Then he picked the phone up once more. “Twelve sixty-nine.” There was no reply. “Oh, sure, must be someone there. You aren’t ringing the right number.”

Spike, hanging his coat in the closet, looked up. “Twelve sixty-nine... who’s that, Bill?”

“Hathaway. Seems funny. His room doesn’t answer.”

“Doesn’t answer at all? Where is he? Where’s Fat Stuff?”