“I tell you a taxi’s quicker.”
“Nope, Rex, the subway...”
“Yeah, if you nab an express. But then you hafta change at Grand Central for a local. Here, hey there, taxi! C’mon, Sandy, come with me.”
“Look here, you guys!” Fat Stuff stepped to the curb as they hopped into the taxi without a word to the players beside the door. “What’s up?”
Martin stuck his face out the window while the taxi moved down the street.
“Gabby... Gabby,” he shouted back. “In an auto accident on the Parkway. Won’t last out the night.”
15
THE KID WAS OVERJOYED to see him back with the club. So were all the other players.
The rest of baseball took little notice of Dave Leonard’s appointment as manager of the Dodgers in place of Gabby. Because the Dodgers were going down, down. Brooklyn in first or second meant something. Brooklyn in sixth place was normal. Dave had a thankless task and a hopeless one. As Jim Casey put it in his column:
“Everyone likes Dave Leonard of the Dodgers, a grand guy, and everyone wishes him luck with the Flatbush Flounders. But a man would have to be a combination of John McGraw, Connie Mack, and all the great managers of the game to start the Daffy Dodgers upward. Let’s wish him the best, turn our heads the other way quickly, and hope his sentence won’t be long.”
Murphy of the Giants was less polite when he heard the news. “Last spring I said Philadelphia was the only team the Dodgers could beat. Now it looks like I was optimistic.”
For once MacManus did not retort. Gabby had been a friend of many years; he had known the peppy little shortstop in other cities and brought him as manager to Brooklyn. Naturally the sudden death of the leader rocked him badly. He would merely say,
“I’ve got confidence in Dave Leonard, which is why I’ve called him back, and he’s going to have the full support of the management here, just as Gabby always had.”
However regretted Gabby was, the umpires unanimously sighed with relief. Gabby invariably made their life miserable. On the team, too, there was a let-down in tension. The pitchers were looser in the box, the batters didn’t tighten up, the team spirit was better. To the Kid, Gabby’s accident was a shock, and he was amazed by the way things went along without him. In baseball no one was necessary.
Because the team won, the team lost, the team played and played well enough, without Gabby. Its suddenness, too, was typical of baseball. A rookie made a name for himself overnight, a man was on top, and then in a matter of hours he was out of the picture. There was something terrifying about the pace of the game, the way men moved in, up, and out. Had Dave Leonard returned a few weeks before, Roy would have been the happiest man in the League. Now with his career finishing and his departure imminent, the sight of the genial, quiet-voiced catcher back in their midst only made things worse.
Dave’s first move was to shake up the batting order. He yanked Swanson, who was in a slump, and put in Gaines, a substitute. He pulled Eddie Davis and threw in a second string infielder named Whitehouse. He shook the batting order up completely, placing Gaines in the clean-up position and moving Strong to lead-off man. Two days after Gabby’s death the Kid entered the lobby of the hotel to see a face he knew and couldn’t place at first, a solemn face from which two big brown eyes looked out. Then the Kid recognized the face as well as the brown sports coat and the loud-checked trousers of its owner. Harry Street!
“Boy! Am I glad to see you.... Back with the team?”
“Why, Roy! Say... it’s swell to see you again. How are you feeling? I didn’t know you’d be here. You sure look good. The old whip okay?”
The Kid’s face fell. “Harry, come upstairs. We can talk up there.” In his room he explained what had happened, how doctors in three cities had been examining and X raying his arm, how he had taken all sorts of treatment without relief. He would never pitch again.
“Gosh. That right?” The solemm face became even more serious. “Whatcha gonna do then? They can’t let you out, can they... until fall?”
“No. They can’t afford to keep me, either. I’m no doggone use like this to anyone.”
But yet Dave kept him on the roster. A month before he was the star pitcher of the League, unable to enter a hotel dining room without half a dozen autograph fiends pestering him; now he was forgotten, Tucker, No. 56, a rookie. The fans had quick memories. Harry Street at shortstop was already making them forget Gabby Spencer, and the general opinion was that he filled the hole even better than could be expected. There seemed no place for the Kid, yet Dave still kept him on.
It was strange watching games every afternoon from the bench instead of the field. Day after day he sat in the dugout while his teammates struggled before his eyes. Once he actually got a paste at the ball. Rats Doyle had been hit hard in a close game and withdrawn, and when his turn to bat came in the last of the ninth against the Cubs, the Kid was sent in. His single won the game.
The next afternoon when he finished batting practice Dave stepped from behind the screen.
“Roy, Charlie Draper and I been watching you just now. I think I could show you how to improve your hitting. You got a good free swing there, but you’ll never be a first-class hitter with that grip. Now take ahold of that bat. Yes, your regular way.... See what I mean?” And he pushed the Kid’s hands several inches up the handle. “Now grip it like that. Choke it. A little more... there... that’s about right.... Choke your bat. Now here, let me throw you a few. Oh, sure, I know what you’ll say....”
“Don’t feel natural.”
“Of course not... at first. But you’ll get used to it and once you do you’ll be a much better hitter. Now one more thing. You’re hitting under the ball. Your stride’s too long. Shorten up that stride as you hit the ball. Like this... see. Here’s the way you stride... get me? Okay, go in there and see how it feels at the plate.”
Well, Dave ought to know. Dave had seen hitters come and go, Dave could tell. But it felt awkward, and the shortened stride bothered him at first. After a while, however, he found it easier, and he began to like it a little. He took another turn at bat after Dave had thrown some more, correcting his stance all the time, and it went better.
But meanwhile as days went past, MacManus said nothing about the new contract. Things had changed since the fateful tumble in the shower, nor indeed did the Kid expect a new contract, for he realized he was now a liability and would be sent home any day. However, Dave took him along on their next western trip in September when the Dodgers were fighting for a berth in the first division. Four times the Kid was used as pinch hitter, once drawing a base on balls, striking out once, and hitting safely twice. The longer he used that new grip and the different stance the more he liked it, and every morning he used to go to the ball park for an hour’s practice with one of the pitchers who would throw to him.
It helped to find he still had some slight value. The team came back to the Polo Grounds for a critical series with the Giants who needed every game in their fight for the pennant. As much as the Dodgers wanted every game to make the first division. Sportswriters said that Mac was giving Dave a chance to see what he could do. If the club made the first division he would be given a contract for the next season; if not, he would be released.
The Giants took the opener against Fat Stuff Foster, two to one, while the second was won by Jake Kennedy in a pitching duel, one to nothing. The third was a hitting game. Rats Doyle was knocked out early, so was Chuck Sweeney, the Giant star, and the score rose to seven to five as they went into the ninth. Harry Street, who had been leading the club in batting since his return, pasted the ball to left center for two bases. Jerry followed with a scratch single, and Staines, the New York relief pitcher, was yanked.
Men on first and third, no one out. Dave motionless on the bench, leading the team by the movements of his scorecard up and down or sideways, saying nothing, his cap over his eyes, a contrast to the active, noisy Gabby who rode miles along the bench every game an
d was never silent. Case, the next batter, stood at the plate. The ball was low and wide, and on a double steal play Harry on third made a dart for home. The Giant shortstop came in back of the pitcher, intercepted the throw and tossed it to the plate, but Harry had whirled back and was sliding into third, while Jerry was safe at second. A hit meant two runs. But Case popped to second and there were two out. Up to the plate lumbered big Babe Stansworth, the catcher. He was a good hitter. The Giants knew it too, and he drew a base on balls for Razzle Nugent, the pitcher, was the next man up.
Dave leaned over and called down the bench, “Roy, go in there and bring those boys home.” The Kid’s heart jumped. His hopes were justified; maybe Dave was keeping him for use as a pinch hitter. Stepping from the dugout, he picked up two bats and walked confidently to the plate.
“Tucker... No. 56... batting for Nugent... No. 37... for Brooklyn....” A ripple of applause ran through the stands. Memories were short, but apparently they hadn’t all forgotten the pitcher who lost his arm in midseason. From the box he could hear a murmur in the crowd as he tossed away one bat and stepped forward. Here was his chance. His big chance at last.
The runners hopped about the basepaths with open arms. Already the diamond was in shadow, and the cool chill of a fall evening was in the air. From the coaching lines came the familiar voices of Charlie Draper and old Cassidy. Here was his chance. He braced himself for the pitch, swung...
And missed.
It was a curve and he was well over the ball. His old fault. The stands yelled approval. To be beaten was one thing, to be beaten by the sixth-place Dodgers in a critical moment was something else.
“Take a cut at it, Roy....” Draper’s voice came through the clear evening air. From the other side he heard Cassidy’s familiar “Knock his turkey neck offen him, Kid. C’mon now, le’s go, le’s go....” He tried hard to remember what he had been told, to shorten his stride. The ball came and he gave it everything he had, but he was late.
It fouled off back to the screen. “Strike two...” shouted Stubblebeard, the umpire, with what sounded like triumph in his voice.
Two and none. The Kid became cautious and watched the next one wide of the corner.
“Make him come in there, Roy. Give it a belt now.” There it was, a good... a clean... he leaned forward and swung with all his might, only to hear the sound he had so often longed to hear from the box, the sound of the ball plunking into the catcher’s mitt. Tossing the ball in the air and tucking his mask under his arm, the man behind the plate turned and raced for the showers. Three strikes. The game was over.
Dressing in the atmosphere of that locker room was not pleasant. He got away as soon as he could, took the subway back to Brooklyn and went to a little restaurant where he would find none of the team. Not that he wanted anything to eat; it was just something to do, to take his mind off himself, off his dismal failure. His chance, his one big chance, and he’d muffed it. In a week he’d be home now, trying to get a job on the night shift at MacKenzie’s drugstore.
Then he heard his name. At the next table two men were talking.
“How’d the Dodgers come out?”
“Oh... they lost as usual. That big stiff Tucker struck out with three on in the ninth. Whoever told that ham he could hit? Leonard must be nuts if he thinks that kind of ball will...”
The Kid pulled a dollar from his pocket, slipped it under his plate and walked quickly out the door. He had heard enough. Down the street was a coffee shop where he might be left in peace. But halfway through his meat and potatoes, someone behind him started the same refrain. He heard a newspaper rustle. Then a voice.
“See where the Dodgers took it on the chin again today?”
“Yeah, those stumblebums. They might have won if someone hadn’t told Tucker he could hit. Why, he was a pitcher, not a hitter.”
“Tie that one! Striking out with three on base. Gabby Spencer would have pulled his underwear off right out there on the field.”
“Uhuh. I always said that boy was a false alarm. My dope is he never had anything the matter with his arm. Just yellow, that’s all. Wonder why Leonard holds on to him.”
That was enough. Eating was impossible. He paid his bill and rose. The waitress was distressed. Wasn’t the meat good? Did he want to change it for something else? No, thanks, nope.
The woman at the desk near the entrance looked at him queerly when he went out, and he hoped she didn’t recognize him. At the drugstore they didn’t. He stopped to buy some toothpowder, and heard the words:
“Why, that big palooka, whoever told him he could hit?”
“Yeah,” rejoined the clerk as he wrapped up the toothpowder. “He couldn’t hit a grapefruit, he couldn’t. Useter be able to pitch, why, sure, but now he’s just another one of the hired hands. Well... the Dodgers were always like that.”
Beaten and discouraged, he sneaked back to the hotel, got through the lobby before any of the gang saw him, went up in the elevator and locked himself in his room. Already the September dusk was falling; soon night came on and the room blackened. He thought over the spring and summer, Clearwater, the wonderful game against the Yanks, the trip north, those early fights to lead the League with Gabby in there, nose to nose against the umpires, that great no-hit game against Cincinnati at night, and then—then, the push in the showers. Well, now it was over and finished; now he wanted one thing: home. He wanted to get home. He was sick and tired of baseball. He never wanted to see a ball park again as long as he lived. He was through, finished, done, he must get away as fast as he could. He’d ask Dave to release him the next morning. That would make things easier all round, and then he could take the first train for Hartford and home. He rose, turned on the lights, and started to pack.
It was a familiar knock, but it had something peremptory in it too.
“Come in.”
Someone rattled the door. It was locked. The Kid opened it to find Dave. The manager entered, gave a quick look round the disordered room, the suitcases on the chairs, the piles of dirty clothes in the corner, and then glanced at the Kid who was removing one of the bags so his visitor could sit down.
“Have a seat, Dave. I’m glad you came. Wanted to say something to you.”
The older man, his inevitable toothpick in his mouth, sat down, shaking his head. There was reproof in the gesture, but there was understanding in it, too.
“Now where you going?”
“Home.”
“Home?” He didn’t protest, he accepted the situation. “Are you really? Quitting, hey?” The toothpick did a dance across his mouth.
“No, I’m just a washout. I must get away.”
There was a silence in the room. Somewhere underneath the hotel the subway roared. The old ballplayer thought a minute before speaking. “Roy, I just come from Eddie Davis. He’s down there in 916 crying his eyes out, ’cause he thinks he’s through, like you. Point about that boy is, he came along too quick. Then he was given too much advice, everyone gave him advice, the coaches’n Gabby’n everyone else had to tell him how to play his position. He started missing hits he used to put in his pocket, then he tightened up, fell away in his hitting, and had to be yanked. There’s been too much advice handed out on this ballclub. Now I told him, same as I told you, if he wants to make good it’s up to him. And you.”
The toothpick agitated itself up and down. “Listen to me. I can play bridge with a man and usually tell whether he’ll be a ballplayer. If he has one thing. Remember what I told you that night back in Florida when you were sitting in the dark in your room sorry for yourself, remember? One thing, remember, courage. Has a guy got it?”
“But Dave, I’m all washed up. I’m no good in the box; what use am I anyhow?”
“Suppose I quit like this last month when they gave me an unconditional release? You may say I had luck, getting back so soon. Sure, luck always comes to the tryers. Maybe you’ll say you had tough luck. So you did. Now you find yourself on the spot. So’m I. A big-league manage
r is on the spot all the time. He’s got to have plenty of what it takes. He’s got to run a show of twenty-five prima donnas as different as you and Razzle Nugent. He must go out on the field, do the unexpected, and be willing to take punishment when the breaks go against his club. When the fans jeer and call him funny names." The Kid, sitting on the edge of the bed, shifted nervously, and Dave was quick to notice his movement. His toothpick rose rapidly up and down.
“Ha! So they got under your skin, hey? Why, boy, a manager has to take that every day in the week. When the situation calls for a bunt and he orders a hit-and-run and fails, he must be ready to take it on all sides. Gotta have courage. There’s men on this team have nothing else but, like Jake, for instance. Has no life on his fast ball, a wrinkle for a curve, and nothing but slow and down and a bucketful of moxie. That’s why he’s still in there pitching winning ball at thirty-seven.” He paused and removed the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to place it in the other corner.
“They got under your skin today, the fans out there, didn’t they? You can’t take it, hey? Trouble with you is, you’re used to being Mr. Big. Had some luck, you did; lotta luck considering you had just a pretty fair country assortment. But you aren’t used to the tough side. You were gonna whang that pineapple out of the park in the ninth, and what happened? You struck out. Then you go to pieces. Just like Eddie Davis. Can’t take it....” The toothpick started its quivering dance around his mouth, but the Kid stopped it short. He rose.
His face was flushed. He was angry. “Yeah... who says so?”
“Why, everyone. Boys on the club. The fans. Even you do. See, you admit it yourself.” He pointed round the room at the suitcases, at the piles of clothes, at the half-opened drawers. “Cut and run this way; why, you can’t take it. ’Course it was okay when things were going well, when you were a flash and a star and in every headline and the boys were giving you interviews and write-ups, all this Kid-from-Tomkinsville stuff, it was fine back in June pitching shut-out ball. We were all fresh in June, yes, and good, too. Not now. You can’t take it. There’s a saying down my way, Roy; maybe you heard it. I come from a great fishing country, and this is how they put it down there.” He paused and so did the toothpick. The Kid, angry and annoyed, glanced up as he hesitated.
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