“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.”
“Tw
enty-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.”
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.
8
“SEE 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 befo
re 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...”
Kid from Tomkinsville Page 5