Rookie of the Year (7 page)

That’s how I know. Yep, I will... uhuh.... O.K., Jack, I will... yep... g’by.”

He rang off. He pushed the chair back and stood up. He wiped his forehead. Then he walked across the room, returned, sat down at the desk again, and finally took up the telephone.

“Hey there, sweetheart, this is Bill Hanson in 2516. I want the
Post-Gazette.
That’s right. And look, see if you can get me Bill Smith, the sports editor, and tell him Hanson, the secretary of the Dodgers, wants him, will ya, please?”

I
T WAS WARM
that afternoon in the sun at Forbes Field, terribly warm, and after batting and fielding practice the majority of the team trooped into the clubhouse to change wet shirts, rest a minute, and enjoy a coke sitting on the benches before their lockers. Near Spike a salesman was trying hard to sell the rookie, Baldwin, a fancy pair of sun glasses. One of the things that had most astonished Spike and Bob when they first came up into the majors was the number of people who hang around a team making money from the ballplayers. There were the merchants who made you a tailor-cut suit, the real silk hosiery people, the life insurance salesmen, the automobile salesmen, the man in each city who could get things for you cheaper than in any other town, no matter what it was you wanted. By this time the sun glass merchant was almost an old acquaintance.

“Now these green ones here, Mr. Baldwin, the ones you have in your right hand, they are specially ground. They’re for general all-round use. We call them the every-day pair. Then these polaroid glasses are for an afternoon of blinding glare, when the sun’s particularly strong. All the stars use ’em. And the yellow glasses are for a fielder, now, like picking a fly ball out of a blue sky. You know how ’tis, one miss and there you are, there goes your ballgame!

The same line, the same tune, same words he used on all the rookies. Then Razzle’s loud voice across the room broke into the salesman’s chatter. Raz was taking off his shirt and putting on a dry one, entertaining an admiring audience the while.

“... So Rats, he takes one bite, puts down the tools, and calls the waiter over. ‘I ordered breaded veal cutlet. Is this-here breaded veal cutlet?’ The waiter looked at the plate, then he looked at Rats. ‘Can’t you tell by the taste of it?’ he says. ‘No, I can’t,’ says Rats. ‘Well then, what difference does it make?’ ”

A burst of laughter greeted this. The team’s looser than when we were in St. Loo, thought Spike. Thank goodness, that tight feeling has gone. They’re really loose today; they’ll play ball this afternoon, I know.

Then Rats’ loud voice could be heard from his corner. “Yeah, an’ I remember when Raz and me was breaking in on the Waterloo team of the Three-Eye League. One day he ordered apple pie. ‘Yes, sir,’ says the waitress. ‘A la mode?’ Raz, he thought it over. Then he cracks: ‘Nope, never mind. Just put some ice cream on it!’ ”

Laughter again. The laughter sounded pleasant in the ears of the manager. Then the voice of the astonished rookie behind came to his ears. “Six bucks! Six bucks for a pair of sun glasses! Why, I usta get ’em at the Five and Ten!”

“Talk about eats!” Old Fat Stuffs voice was low, but when he spoke everyone on the club listened with respect. “Years ago, when I made my first trip as a rookie with the Giants, we came north doing our tour with the Yanks, and Babe Ruth was along, his last season. Boy, could he stow the food away! When he got through with a roast chicken, it looked like an old catcher’s mask.”

The boys started to go out. Razzle’s voice could be heard long after its owner had disappeared. “... I was playing then with Hartford in the Eastern... boy by the name o’ Wright... always had a wad of gum on the button of his cap, and if two strikes were called on him at the plate he’d take that wad off and chew it like hell. You’da died laughing the day we sprinkled it with red pepper... he jumped like somebody give him a double hotfoot.”

Bob, almost the only player in the room, walked across to the rubbing table, hidden by a curtain at the side, for a last minute rubdown by Doc Masters. Stealing second the previous day he had strained a muscle in his leg. He let down the trousers of his monkey suit, took off his sliding pads, and showed the sore spot to the Doc who felt it gently.

“Ya got about ten minutes, Doc, just a few minutes. If you’d give this the once-over, please.” The Doc leaned over and looked at it intently, his practiced fingers diagnosing the trouble immediately. Bob climbed up on the table and the Doc started gingerly to work. Soon the place was empty, save for Chiselbeak, the locker-room man, moving around and straightening things out after the players. He was talking to someone.

“Yeah, them lads is good. They’re both good. If they don’t make it with this bunch, they’ll make it somewhere else.”

“They’d make it here all right if they were handled properly.” From behind the curtain Bob recognized the voice of Hanson, the club secretary.

“They’ve been trained right. You’ll hear how important a big league manager is; what I always say, it’s a manager in the minors who’s important.”

Boy, you’re certainly correct, thought Bob, only half paying attention as he relaxed under the comfortable glow of the infra-red lamp on his sore muscles. Chisel, you’ve got something there; you really know your baseball. Then Hanson’s tone or his words suddenly made him pay attention closely.

“You said it, Chiselbeak. If they don’t get their fundamentals in baseball down there, they don’t ever get ’em up here. Why, anyone ought to be able to manage those two kids. This Baldwin can hit. He’s a free swinger, have you noticed? He holds his bat loose and away from his chest. And Hathaway’s a real pitcher. I see where a guy in the paper this morning calls him the rookie of the year.”

“I seen that. Wouldn’t surprise me none, an’ I been around plenty.”

“You and me both, Chisel. We been with this club a long while. Now you take me. I’ve been on the inside of major league ball for almost fifteen years. So what? So that hothead Jack MacManus goes haywire and makes this kid manager who’s only been three seasons or less in the majors.”

“Well, Bill, you know how Jack is....”

“Yeah, he goes off half-cocked more often than not. Well, you and me, Chisel, we’re old timers round here. Then this kid, this johnny-come-lately gets to be made manager. That’s how things are. ’Course I’m only talking to you, Chisel, y’unnerstand.”

“Oh, sure, I getcha, Bill.”

“Well, I’d better get out there. He’s gotta win this one today; he’s on the spot this afternoon. He’d better win this one.”

Hanson’s voice died away and his footsteps sounded outside the room. Chisel continued hanging up clothes, opening and shutting lockers.

Bob sat up. “Thanks, Doc. That feels much better. I’m glad I slipped in and let ya work on it, mighty glad.”

S
PIKE LAY THERE YAWNING,
his hands behind his head. The room was hot even at eight-thirty in the morning, betokening another steaming afternoon at Forbes Field. In the other bed Bob snorted and turned over. That boy, he can sleep all day and all night. Give him a chance and he’d just never wake up at all. It’s different when you’re running the team; when you’re the manager and responsible for things; when you’ve got everything on your neck. You wake up then fast enough. You wake up in the middle of the night and you can’t get back to sleep for thinking of this and that; or you wake up before daylight and lie there wondering who to pitch that day, or why you didn’t pull off the hit-and-run in an important moment the afternoon before. You go all over the things you must do, and think of all your problems. You got plenty of ’em, for you have twenty-four ballplayers and every single man is a problem and a new one. You get rid of one problem; you imagine you’re all set, and then bang! Up comes a different problem. A pitcher like this boy Hathaway who’s temperamental. Wouldn’t you think these kids would realize what a chance they have and tend to business!

Well, that’s how things are; one problem after another. When you get up there in second or third, when nerves become tighter as the season gets longer, the problems multiply. Still and all, we’ve done pretty well, if we lick these birds today, we’ll go home tied for second. That’s all right; that’s as good as could be expected; that’s better than all right when you consider we were in sixth place when I took hold in July. Why, we could even beat those Redbirds. I mean, we gotta chance.

His brother stirred. Spike realized he had been muttering out loud. He jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom to shave. I must be going nuts, he thought, talking to myself like that!

That afternoon, in their last game on the western trip, the team threw away a golden chance. The Cubs were leading the Cards, and the Dodgers, watching the scoreboard, started to press. They wanted to win too badly. They made errors. Rog Stinson had one of the bad days that come to even the most experienced hurlers; a day when nothing went right, when he hadn’t a thing on the ball. In the second the Pirates scored three runs, filled the bases, and knocked him from the box. Spike was obliged to call on Elmer McCaffrey, who was lucky to put out the fire. This upset the pitching schedule, because he had counted on using McCaffrey in the doubleheader against the Giants the next afternoon in New York.

McCaffrey was in one serious difficulty after another, but partly through his own skill, partly because of the fine defense of the Dodger infield he sneaked out of every hole. Yet the team looked bad. In the seventh the Pirates loaded the bases again and got two more runs. The Cubs had scored four runs off a Card pitcher and knocked him from the box, so neither team seemed likely to lose ground to the leaders that afternoon.

Now then, thought Spike as they came in to the dugout, it’s the ninth and we’re five runs behind. But I’m not giving up yet, no siree; I’m not giving up. By golly, I’ll never give up on this club; nothing is impossible with this gang. Nothing.

“Uncross those bats, boy, uncross those bats there.” The noise ran up and down the bench; Razzle’s bark and Bob’s shrill-voiced pepper and Swanny’s deep-throated roar and Roy Tucker’s chatter.

“C’mon, gang, le’s get us some runs. Five runs! We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”

Jocko Klein, the first batter, hit a slow, bounding roller to the left of the pitcher and tore for first.

“Hurry, Jock! Get the lead outa yer pants! Hustle, kid... looka him go....”

He was safe. The Pirates protested but he was safe. McCaffrey was at bat, and the veteran pitcher was a good hitter. He waited for a full count, and then a shout rose from the bench as the man in the box lost him. It was evident the Dodgers weren’t the only ones to feel the coming of September in their tired bones.

“Whitehouse, number 18, running for McCaffrey.” Swanny next forced Klein at third on a bunt that was too deep. Shucks! One out and men still at first and second. Now then, Red, old kid, you can do it. Pick us up; you’ve picked us up more than once in a pinch like this. We sure need a hit; get us a hit and keep us going.

The veteran first baseman waited for the full count and then leaned into one and drove it hard to right center. He was perched on second and two runs were over when the ball got back to the infield.

Here’s Tuck! Roy Tucker came to the plate, the crowd yelling. Spike watched him as he touched all four corners of the platter for luck. One out, a man on second, and the enemy bullpen swinging furiously into action. You could never tell when the Dodgers were beaten; this might be a ballgame after all.

Roy swung off his heels and missed. The next pitch was low, inside. The hands of the umpire went to the left.

“Ball one.”

Then another ball. Then the center fielder laid down a perfect bunt, in the ideal spot halfway between the plate and third. The pitcher raced over, so did the third baseman, who charged in, got to the ball first, and threw.

If they catch that boy they’ll hustle, thought Spike. If they nip him they’ll move fast; Roy’s a speed merchant... safe! He’s safe!

An angry crowd of Pittsburgh players surrounded the umpire at first. The man on the sack, furious, hurled the ball into the ground before his feet. Suddenly a piercing shout rose from the diamond and from the bleachers behind third. The first baseman jumped down, grabbed the ball, whirled and burned it to the plate. Big Red Allen, on second, had started with the bunt, rounded third without pausing, and roared home. His two hundred pounds straining to give everything he had, legs extended, arms up, he came charging into the plate in a smoke screen of dust as the ball reached the catcher above. The umpire, bending over, extended his hands. Another run across.

When the noise subsided, or as it was subsiding, Roy Tucker was sliding head first into second. The catcher, off balance, threw quickly and the ball got past the shortstop into left field. Roy picked himself up and came into third standing. Meanwhile at the plate Red Allen rose slowly from the dirt. Spike ran over and helped the big chap to his feet, walking back to the bench, his arm around him. “Red, by golly, before I came to this club I always thought you were the greatest first baseman in the game. Now, doggone, I’m sure of it!”

The veteran leaned over, shook the dirt from his uniform, and grinned. “We’ll get ’em for you yet, Spike.”

Gosh, what a team! They’re money players; looks like they’ve got to be spotted a couple of runs before they really bear down. What a team they are in a pinch!

“All right, gang, le’s go! Here comes another pitcher, boys; here comes a new man. What say we get this one? O.K., Clyde, one man down and a runner on third.” Nervously swinging two bats, Spike Russell stood in the circle watching his star rookie in the batter’s box. Holy smoke; he’s cooler’n I am. But we sure need this game. If we can only grab off two more runs and take second place tonight, we won’t ever look back; I know we won’t.

Baldwin hit cleanly into the hole between second and first. Tucker came across with the fourth run. What a crowd to play with! They’re just never beaten. Now it’s up to me.

The man in the box was keeping the ball low and outside, Spike’s one weakness, but at two and two he hit. A weak one, in the air. He ran hard to first but the yells from the stands told the story. He was out.