Rookie of the Year (12 page)

“Fat Stuff’s wife is sick. He went home to spend the night with her. Nope, there’s no one there. I had a couple of seats for Hathaway.”

“Give ’em to me. I’ll see he gets ’em.” Spike spoke with grimness. Both the other men in the room knew that Hathaway was in for a calling-down.

“O.K. You take ’em off my hands, will you, please? I’ll be obliged.” There was a cheery note in his voice as he handed the envelope to the young manager. “He’s dropped down for a coke, mos’ probably. Looks like this heat’s gonna hang on all winter, don’t it? Well, so long. Turn in, you guys, and get your rest now.” He shut the door and was gone.

Spike looked at Bob and Bob looked at Spike, both thinking the same thing. It isn’t possible! It just isn’t possible that kid is on the loose again, after all that’s happened. Surely he wouldn’t go wild the night before this game. If he has, thought Spike, he’ll get the worst going-over he ever got in his life.

The young manager went over to the telephone and tried to get the boy’s room. It still gave no answer. Ten minutes later he stalked down the hall, knocked hard on the door; no answer again. He returned, fumed, looked at his watch. Eleven-forty. At midnight he called once more without result and then asked for the desk.

“Leave a note for Hathaway in twelve sixty-nine, please. Ask him to report in Spike Russell’s room at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.

He reached over, turned out the light, and lay down. But not to sleep.

A
N OUNCE OF
curiosity plus a pound of brass coupled with the sensitivity of a rhino and the pertinacity of a tiger; that’s what makes a reporter. A few of the things, anyhow. How do they work, these mysterious fellows? How is it they invariably manage to smell out trouble on a ballclub; how do they always know when something important is about to break, someone to be traded by the club or sent back to the farm? In a word, how do they do their job?

IN A DOZEN WAYS
and none of them the same. Every reporter is an individual with methods of his own that work for him alone. One man is simply lucky. He’s the sort who always seems to be on the spot when things happen, when someone calls someone else an ugly name in the dressing room, when a notorious character strays off the reservation at night, when a star loses heavily at poker in a closed compartment on a limited train. The reporter’s colleague, who seldom has luck, is intimate with one of the veterans on the team who knows everything about everybody. A third reporter is a shrewd guesser, with a feminine sense of perception; he keeps his ears flapping, hears bits of conversation, asks questions. Questions like this: Say, what’s wrong with Joe? What has Tommy gone and done now? Is it true that Bill is in dutch with the Skipper?

It was sheer luck that Jim Casey of the
News
happened to meet Bill Hanson in the lobby the next morning, and seeing the big secretary at the cigar stand, his usual bunch of newspapers folded under his arm, went over. But Bill was not his genial self, and instantly Casey was warned. He could detect small things like changes in mood; that was why Casey was a good reporter. He began to query Bill vaguely. Trouble? Oh, no, nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s fine. Just a rumor, that’s all; nothing definite, y’ understand, just a rumor; only... well... somebody said someone was seen at the Kit Kat Klub last night. If so, it’s too bad for him, that’s all. Spike Russell isn’t the guy to stand any fooling.

This was all Casey needed. He waited not a second, but went into the telephone booth and called Spike’s room, glancing at his watch. The time was eight-thirty-eight. The young manager was there and awake, too, judging by his tone which was unusually crisp and sharp. Was any member of the team at the Kit Kat Klub last night and, if so, who was it?

Spike hesitated a minute. What’s that? He asked Casey to repeat the question. Then again there was a silence. He replied noncommittally and rang off.

This was sufficient for Casey. And Stan King of the
Telegram
, who happened to be passing just as he emerged from the telephone booth with the look on his face Stanley knew so well, knew that meant something was popping. So he, too, went for Spike. In ten minutes it was all over the hotel.

At nine-thirty Bob, unconscious of the spread of the disaster, came out of the grill and went upstairs. As he came down the hall toward his room, he heard the telephone jangling inside.

He opened the door. The phone had been ringing for some time, and when he reached it the voice on the other end was angry.

“Spike! What in the hell ails you, anyhow?”

“This ain’t Spike, Mr. MacManus, it’s Bob.”

“Oh! Bob! Where’s that crazy brother of yours?”

The voice was determined. What on earth has Spike done now? “Why, I dunno, Mr. MacManus. I guess he’s downstairs, or maybe he might be in Charlie Draper’s room.”

“Have him call me. Right away. What’s biting him, firing his best pitcher...”

“Firing? Firing who?”

“Bones Hathaway. He suspended him for the rest of the season.”

Bob was stunned. Spike’s a hothead; Spike’s gone and done it again. Yet he couldn’t somehow believe it. “But I... but he... but Bonesy....” When Bob had left the room to go down to breakfast, Spike was merely going to give him the once-over, to let him have a call-down. Now he returned to find Bonesy fired. “How do you know? Why, that ain’t possible; we need Bonesy out there this afternoon....”

“How do I know? I know because Hanson just phoned me. It only happened an hour ago and....”

Suddenly words echoed in Bob’s head. They were words he had heard long ago, words he had heard with dislike and uneasiness, words half-forgotten in the heat and excitement of the campaign, which somehow had stuck with him. He heard them once again, distinctly. They were the words of the big secretary. Not in his usual genial and agreeable tone; but whining words that were unpleasant to hear as he talked to old Chiselbeak, the locker-room man, in the cavernous clubhouse on Forbes Field.

“... You and me... we been round this club quite some time, Chisel. Now, me, I’ve been fifteen years in the big leagues... then this johnny-come-lately... this...”

MacManus was ringing off. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I’ll tell him,” said Bob, half-dazed as he put the phone back.

“... This johnny-come-lately, this...” The words echoed and re-echoed and bounced crazily in his head. He couldn’t make sense out of it, yet he had the feeling that there was something wrong somewhere. Somehow some of the pieces didn’t fit. There’s a whole lot of things screwy and I’m gonna make it my business to find out what’s what.

Bones Hathaway in twelve sixty-nine was in the act of jamming down the lid of his second suitcase. He was in his traveling clothes, the costume he always wore when they were on the road, a pair of fawn-colored slacks, a silk sports shirt open at the neck, and a sports coat. He was tanned, brown, sinewy, healthy-looking. There was a worried look on his face, however, and his greeting was abrupt.

“Bonesy! What in the hell’s cooking here?”

The pitcher straightened up. He was tall and his shoulders were broad above the long body. “I’m through. Catching the noon plane home.”

“But what... what’s happened? For Pete’s sake, what’s up?”

“Spike! He fired me. I’m washed up.”

“Hey, looka here! Tell me now, what’s this all about? Spike’s a reasonable guy; he was plenty mad at you last night ’cause he was tired; but he’d got over it this morning. When I went down to breakfast he was waiting just to give you a lacing, that’s all.”

“Uhuh. I was out until twelve-fifteen, see!”

“I know, I know, sure I know that.”

“An’ someone called Spike while we was talking this morning, and told him I was at the Kit Kat last night.”

“But you weren’t, were you?”

“Yeah. I was.”

“You were? Oh, that’s bad; that makes things different; that’s a different story, that is.”

“Only I wasn’t up there chasing a dame. I was chasing Clyde Baldwin.”

“Baldwin?”

“Sure. It seems he went up to see that skirt of his. She was opening last night. I tried to nab him and bring him back. I was scared he’d get caught out. But the crowd was so darned big I couldn’t find him. An’ it was twelve-fifteen when I got back. Then this morning some guy phones Spike and tells him...”

“But look... but listen... why didn’t you tell Spike?...”

“I started to. I didn’t want to give Clyde away. I told him I had a special reason for going up. He wouldn’t listen. He didn’t care....”

“But... but... yeah, but, Bonesy....”

“So.” He shut the second suitcase. “I’m through. Good luck, kid. You’re a swell little guy, and you’ve got the best pair of hands I ever had behind me at second base. I’ll be seeing you. And I’ll be pulling for you, alla time.”

“Here! Wait a minute! Hold on a sec. How d’you know Baldwin was up there? D’ja see him this morning?”

“Nope. But I know he was. Hanson told me so last night. He caught him — or at least he wasn’t in his room about eleven when Bill went to give him his tickets.”

Hanson. Hanson again. Hanson who griped to Chisel in Pittsburgh, Hanson who spoke to Hathaway the night before, Hanson who telephoned MacManus, Hanson who... this began to... began to shape up... to look all of a piece.

The telephone rang. “Yeah. O.K. O.K., I’m all packed. I’ll be right down.” He put back the receiver. “It’s the bus for my plane at La Guardia. Leaves in ten minutes. G’by, boy. We had us one swell time together, didn’t we, kid?”

“Now listen, Bonesy, wait a minute. Wait a sec, will ya, please? I’m mixed up on this; but yet and all, it don’t somehow piece together. Wait a while; don’t be in such a rush, Bonesy... wait a minute, please, will ya?”

But the big chap grabbed his two suitcases and threw open the door. The star pitcher of the Dodgers was leaving for home on the morning of the most important game of the season.

A
LARGE GREEN CAR
swung boldly in ahead of Spike’s taxi, and the driver turned into the parking space opposite the field. Four attendants rushed together to open the door. It was Razzle’s pale green Chrysler Imperial, with the maestro himself at the wheel. Others besides Spike Russell recognized the great man, and an army of kids dashed across the street, risking death under the manager’s taxi, to demand the pitcher’s autograph. Razzle finally squeezed his two hundred pounds from under the wheel, backed away from the car, and carelessly handed one of the attendants a half dollar tip. He strode over to the entrance, a massive island surrounded by an agitated ocean of beseeching youngsters.

Spike followed. In spite of the anguish in his heart, he couldn’t help smiling at Raz’s confident manner. The team might be in the critical contest of the year, everyone could be tense and tight; but Razzle was as loose as ever. To him it was just another day’s work. While they dressed silently, the flow of chatter continued without pause from his locker.

“... Time we was together on the Seals... one day I says to him, I says... ‘Bill,’ I says, ‘Bill, this is your chance today. This is where you get that offer from the big time. No foolin’, there’s a couple of scouts here today; they wanna see you right after the game. Said they’d be waiting back of third base.’ Well, sir, Bill plays his old head off, collars four hits outa five times at bat, and really turns it on in the field. When it was over, he couldn’t wait to dress; he rushes over back of third base and, sure enough, there they were, too. A coupla 12-year-old Boy Scouts, asking for his autograph. Say, was he burned up!”

Razzle roared at his own joke. But the rest of the team dressed in silence. They sat serious and solemn-faced, oiling their gloves, getting ready for the conflict ahead with heavy hearts. A few leaned over, discussing the situation in half-tones, shrugging their shoulders when asked questions by the reporters, of whom there were plenty on hand. The sportswriters were out in full force that morning, moving from one man to the next, anxious to tackle Spike Russell as soon as he finished dressing. Not that they liked the job. This was a tough one to handle, the story of how one player had thoughtlessly jeopardized the chances of the Dodgers for the pennant.

The telephone rang. Old Chiselbeak answered. “Yeah... yeah... he is... yeah. He’s in there with Draper and Fat Stuff now. O.K., I’ll tell him.” He went across the room, knocked at the door, and opened it. “Hey there, Spike. MacManus wants you. He wants to see you right away in his office.”

Well, he thought, here goes. I intended to go up and tell him the whole thing myself as soon as I got rid of the reporters. But you can’t keep things quiet long on a ballclub. Here goes, then. And this is one more time when being a manager is no fun.

The second he entered the luxurious room of the president, he realized trouble was ahead. Like everyone connected with a major league club, Jack MacManus loved baseball. But first of all he was a businessman; he was not in there solely for the love of the game but to make money. Sport was one thing, and he was sincerely interested in sport; yet money was something else. And anything that interfered with a profit was apt to arouse his ire. Seated behind the big desk, clear and free of papers, he was puffing a large cigar, angrily blowing clouds of smoke into the air.

“Spike! I didn’t wanna discuss this over the telephone. What seems to be the trouble with young Hathaway?”

“Jack... I... that is, we... that is... I’ve been having considerable trouble all summer with this boy Hathaway. He’s kinda been a problem. ’Course he’s a good pitcher, none better; and he’s become hotter’n a firecracker as he got some good coaching from Charlie Draper and old Fat Stuff. They’ve really developed that lad between ’em. But all the time he was a pain in the neck for me. First of all, Jack, he injured his finger, you recall, and was laid off for several weeks. That was bad. Then he got to running round and, Jack, the fact is the boy got to drinking. He raised cain one night in St. Loo, so I caught him and fined him fifty bucks. I warned him at the time, in fact I warned the whole club. I told ’em all as plainly as I could I wouldn’t stand for any....”

“Why, sure, I remember all that. I was for you, Spike; you gotta maintain discipline. I understand, but right now with the Cards here....”