The Southpaw

by Mark Harris

  I was very wobbly in the eighth and would of been in trouble but Lucky went clear to the wall in center and brung down a drive off the bat of Nat Lee. Red told Dutch he believed I was tired, and Dutch asked me and I said I was, and he lifted me in the ninth for a hitter—Coker—and Coker drawed a walk. McKenna kept looking over towards his own dugout, and I caught him looking, and so did Dutch and so did Red, and Red shouted out to George to wait him out in Spanish. McKenna was puffing hard and stalling for breath, playing with the resin, taking off his cap and studying it like he never seen such a thing before and generally behaving like a kid will do when he is tired and don’t want to show it. But that ain’t the way to hide it. The only people he hid it from was his own club. Anyways George followed orders and drawed the walk.

  Rob had nothing left to throw but a wish and a prayer that Lucky Judkins stepped into and clubbed on a line into right that Smith never moved for but waved it “goodby” whilst it sailed to the stands beyond. It whammed into the scoreboard and dropped down in the lower deck, and that was all for McKenna and Cleveland and dreams of the Series in October, for I do believe it was Lucky’s blow that busted the back of Cleveland.

  Horse Byrd finished up, and I got credit for the win. I had yet to lose a game.

  There was a wire from Vincent and Pasquale that night. Dutch passed it around, and it said that their father died and everything would be squared away in a day or 2 and they would meet us in Chicago, and thanks for the flowers, and congratulations to Henry and Lucky and all the rest for the nice snappy win over Cleveland. It was signed “Tnecniv dna Elauqsap” and we all got a laugh out of that. I guess they could feel it way back there in Frisco, like we felt it in Cleveland, that we seen the circuit round, all but Chicago, and there was nothing to fear but fear itself, like the fellow said.

  In Cleveland the visiting clubhouse is smack up against their own. There is only a wall between, and on the first day, whilst Dutch was giving us the lecture, you could hear the Cleveland boys a-whooping and a-hollering. On the second day you could hear them again, not quite so loud. On the second day we whipped them again, Swanee and Sid blasting doubles after 2 out in the ninth for the run that decided. That was Knuckles Johnson’s ball game, a very nifty 5-hit job.

  On the third day there was nary a peep from behind the wall. It was silent and still, and all we could hear was Joe Lincoln giving them hell, a low hum to his voice, and we could not hear the words, of course, yet we knowed the general pitch, and they was meek and mild that afternoon like a kid that got whaled and sent up to bed and along about the middle of the night come down looking for his supper. In the sixth, trailing by 2, they rallied and tied it up, but that was the last of the fight that was in them. In the seventh our big guns opened up, and we peppered the walls, and the few faithful fans that stood to see the inning out needed both hands to count it up, for it come to 7 runs on 6 hits, 2 walks, 2 wild throws and 7 or 8 mistakes in judgement. The game run 4 hours, and the score wound up 14–4 and would of been worse but we got tired running the bases.

  Winning pitcher: Hams Carroll.

  We split 2 in Chicago. We left Chicago at 7 of a Sunday night. We played about 20-handed poker quarter limit throw in your money and run them and don’t worry your cards from 9 o’clock that evening until daylight. We had took 9 out of 11 in the west. We landed in New York 2½ games ahead of Boston.

  STANDINGS OF THE CLUBS

  May 12

  Won Lost Pct. Games Behind

  New York 17 6 .739 —

  Boston 14 8 .636 2½

  Brooklyn 13 8 .619 3

  Cleveland 13 8 .619 3

  St. Louis 10 12 .455 6½

  Washington 10 15 .400 8

  Pittsburgh 9 17 .346 9½

  Chicago 7 19 .269 11½

  Chapter 26

  I NOTICE that both the last chapter and the 1 before wound up with statistics. I had this book all full of them, batting averages and fielding averages and the standings of the clubs day by day. But Holly said too much was too much.

  Red Traphagen come through for a couple days last week, and he said the same. He read over what I wrote, and he says it is good but too much statistics.

  Well, I used to be fairly hot on statistics myself. But I do not believe statistics tells the whole story. I could give you a run-down right now on every ball game the Mammoths played between the time we got home from the west the first time, played the home stand, played the east, played the west again and come home again, right up through July 4th. I could tell you my won and lost record (13–3) and how many I fanned and how many I walked and my E. R. A. (2.74). I could go through these clips that Pop saved up and tell you who hit what and where and when and how. I could give you a day by day report on Swanee Wilkses hitting streak that had the league agog. I could tell you everything, and you could read all the statistics and still not know the true story. Red says the same.

  It is like the stars. I could tell you that Sirius is 8.6 light years, for Aaron Webster happened to mention it only last night. Yet what in the name of thunder do you know about Sirius that you never knowed before? I said so to Aaron, and he said I was right. A light year is how far can light go in a year, about 6,000,000,000,000 miles. I said to Aaron if that is a light year I would hate to see a heavy 1. He laughed until he dropped. “You are right,” said he, “for it is not the statistics that tells the story. It is what went on in your heart.” That was put rather neat.

  Many of the things that went on never got in the records. A good many more never took place on the ball field a-tall, but elsewhere. Folks say to me down in Perkinsville, “What was your biggest thrill? Was it the All-Star Game, or was it that Brooklyn game?” Perkinsville ain’t down on me a-tall, though I thought at first that they might be. They might sometimes look at me a little bit like they don’t quite trust me all the way, but for the most part people seem to forgive and forget.

  Well, that Brooklyn game was quite a thrill at that. I was hooked up with Bill Scudder in a night game on May 14. I was plenty fast that night and working without my full rest besides, Dutch having pitched me 1 day out of turn, figuring that I was a better bet then anybody else in a night game, being fast and all. The night is not so good for the batter no matter what anybody says. Electricity ain’t sunshine. Anyhow, I was plenty fast, and we was getting to Scudder without too much trouble, but then he would tighten up in the pinches, and it wasn’t until the first of the sixth that we pushed over some runs. Swanee and Sid singled, and Sunny Jim drove them home with a double. The Caruccis been on the bench since they got back from Frisco, Swanee and Sunny Jim hitting like mad and there wasn’t no sense in doing otherwise then leave them in the line-up. Consider that 2 such ballplayers as Vincent and Pasquale was sitting on the bench and you get some idea how hot the Mammoths was.

  In the last of the sixth, with 2 down, Scudder come up. He is a fair hitter for a pitcher. We usually pitch to him fast, about letter high and close, and I thunk back over what he done the first time up, and I remembered that he popped to Ugly. Then it dawned on me that if this was the last of the sixth and Bill Scudder up there only for the second time they must not be hitting much. I checked with the board, and it was the last of the sixth all right. Well, thought I, then we must of pulled a couple double plays. But I could not remember any. Then I said to myself, “Why, you idiot, you just ain’t give up no hits so far.” We throwed fast under the armpits, and Scudder fouled down the third base line, and George took it on the run, close to the boxes.

  I come in to the bench and the kid brung me my jacket. There was a hush over the crowd, and on the bench as well. “Why so quiet?” said I. “Ain’t a guy got a right to pitch no-hit ball?” Nobody said a thing. There is a superstition amongst ballplayers and fans alike that if a no-hit game is in the works nobody must mention it.

  We was ahead 3–0 in the ninth, and still no hits for Brooklyn. In the last of the ninth Gibby Reeves was sent up to hit for Pearce. The loud speaker blared it out, and the crowd booe
d Arms a-plenty, Arms being the Brooklyn manager, for the crowd wished to see the no-hitter completed. I could understand Armses viewpoint. He is paid to win ball games and not be sentimental. Dutch sent Canada down to first and Vincent and Pasquale into the outfield, hoping to tighten the defenses. The park was quiet.

  I got Reeves on strikes.

  Arms sent Marriner up to hit for Wynn, the Brooklyn catcher, and the booing took up again, “Boo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo,” long and loud and drawed out like a train whistle in the night. When it let up a little I throwed down fast, nothing too good, and it nicked the outside corner, and Marriner slammed it back at me like a rocket, 1 of them drives that you stick your hand up without ever thinking about it. If you had time to think about it you would fall flat and get out of the way. It whammed in my glove and popped out, high in the air, and Ugly come in from short and dove after it and took it about 1 foot off the ground.

  That was 2 gone and 1 to get. Arms sent Paul Sanders up to hit for Scudder, and the booing was terrific now. There has been no-hit games ruined with 2 out in the ninth, and some of the language that come floating down in Armses direction was of the best brand of Brooklyn vocabulary. Some of the things said included the fact that he would eat certain things as well as do certain things to his own mother, and there was several promises made that if he was caught on the streets of Brooklyn he would die. These fans are always very brave from a distance. I wished they would shut up and leave me concentrate.

  Red signed for the screw, and I throwed it, and Sanders whistled 1 down the line in right. I held my breath. It hooked foul about halfway between first base and the fence.

  Red called for the screw again, and I shook it off. I figured Sanders would expect it. Red give me the go-ahead, and I fogged 1 through, a powerful fast pitch, and Sanders left it pass. It was a strike.

  We wasted 1, and then we throwed the screw again, and he drove it on a line towards right. I seen Canada leave his feet, but he had no chance whatever to grab it, and Pasquale come tearing in, and he dove but never quite got his glove on it, and the whole park groaned. Schoolboy Wenk popped out a minute later, and the ball game was over, 1 hit for Brooklyn, and a clean 1 that couldn’t of been scored otherwise if I had scored it myself.

  True, that was a great night in my life and I will always remember it, but it was also the night that Bub Castetter was let loose, and Squarehead was shipped back to Q. C., and in the clubhouse, whilst I showered and dressed, I caught a glimpse of Bub now and then, taking off his uniform that he wore 10 years or so with the number 31 on the back and dropping it where he stood and leaving it there. The writers milled about as thick as thieves, and they shouted in to the shower, “What did you throw Sanders on that pitch?” and “Do you feel very bad?” and “When did you first notice you had a no-hitter going?” and all such as that, and all the time I was thinking of Squarehead and Bub.

  Me and Bub was never chummy. Yet I was sad for him, for nobody took up his waiver and he was too proud to go back and play AA at Queen City. There was no club now that was willing to fork over the piddling 10,000 waiver for a ballplayer that not many years before would of brought 50 or 75,000 on the market if the Mammoths cared to sell him. They never would, of course. The last I seen of Bub he was on his way out the clubhouse betwixt Sam and Swanee. I suppose they went and had a drink together.

  We sung in the shower. Squarehead come in, and we sung “Old Lang Zine.” “Never mind,” said Squarehead, “sing me a happy song, for Mike Mulrooney will learn me to pull hit, and I will be up again next year, and Sid Goldman can then go and coach at Evander Childs High School in the Bronx, for there will not be no need of him around the Mammoths.” Sid always said he wished to go and be a coach at the high school where he went.

  “That is right,” said Perry. “I believe this is the year that Mike will set you straight,” and me and Coker and Canada said the same. Yet I knowed in my heart that it was a lie. I suppose even Squarehead knowed it was a lie, for he is 25 and played 3 years under Mike, and if he could not learn yet he would never learn. He gets up at the plate and forgets all he ever learned. He just hits away, never scientific, all meat and muscle. Dutch give him all the chance he dared, and the record reads 10 times at bat, 1 hit, 1 home run, 1 run drove in, for a .100 average. Dutch played him 1 inning afield, and the record reads 1 putout, 1 assist and 1 error, and the error cost a run, and the run canceled out the 1 run Squarehead batted in. So Squarehead left the Mammoths no better and no worse then he found them, even Steven. He is a first-rate friend but a second-rate ballplayer.

  We had supper that night at Dempseys over on Broadway and then we seen Squarehead off on the train, me and Canada and Coker and Perry and Lindon, and it was sad, and he wished us luck and we said the same, and I was sorry for all the things I ever said and done, all the gags we pulled on Squarehead. He said he never minded, but he must of. Squarehead is 1 of them people that you knock them down and they get up and ask you did you hurt your hand. I am sorry if I run down Squarehead as a ballplayer anywheres in this book, but the main thing you must remember is what I said a few lines above, that Squarehead is a first-rate friend. That is the most important thing about Squarehead Flynn. Sometimes I think friendship is more important then even being an immortal.

  It was about this time that the discussion begun over whether Perry Simpson was a faster runner then Heinz, the Boston left fielder. I don’t know how it begun. It is another 1 of them things that took place off the ball field. Things that start in hotels and amongst the writers I got no way of tracing them down.

  There was a piece in the “Mirror” saying that Joe Jaros said that he believed Perry was faster then Heinz. Joe said he never said no such thing. He said that what he said was that he believed Perry run bases better then Heinz, which is a different thing, not so much a matter of speed as brains. A writer in Boston told Heinz what the writer in New York said Joe Jaros said, and it was then wrote up in the Boston papers that Heinz said he could beat Perry any old time. Heinz told me later that he never said no such thing. 1 day Krazy Kress said to me did I think Perry or Heinz was the fastest. I said I did not know. I said I believed they was both fine ballplayers, Heinz a harder hitter but Perry maybe a better all-around ballplayer. Krazy wrote that I said Perry could beat Heinz in any department any day of the week. I told Krazy a day or 2 afterwards that if he was just going to write what he pleased why in hell come to me in the first place. He just laughed. “You know,” he said, “I been thinking it over, and I believe anybody would be crazy to bet 100 on a white man to run faster then a n—r anyways.” I said who bet 100. “Oh,” said he, “some of the boys up in Boston.”

  “Well,” said I, “I will match that 100.” Then he wrote it up, saying that I said I would put up 100 on a race between Perry and Heinz.

  Before a week was out there was 1,000 in the pot. Boston matched my 100, and then the boys come around, saying they would cover me, and they done it so enthusiastic we had 400 collected. Boston matched it and went 150 better. By the time it stopped there was 1,000 on the line with everybody in that was coming in, meaning all the Mammoths plus 100 from Patricia Moors. Folks started sending it in through the mail. The club sent it back. If there was no return address they give it to the cripple soldiers to buy chewing gum and such.

  Perry was against it from the start. He went around and told the boys to draw out and stick to baseball. But it had went too far to draw out now, and 1 of the writers was holding the money, and the time was set for between the games of the doubleheader in Boston on Memorial Day in baseball suits but running shoes. We bought Perry a pair and he busted them in a little bit every day in drill. The writers fought over whether it should be against the clock around the bases or man against man in a straightaway. Then they argued if it should be on grass or dirt. It was decided that it would be part on each, man against man in a straightaway, and whoever umpired that day would be the judges. It got so that there was so much talk about the running race that nobody noticed the baseball mu
ch.

  We moved into Boston for a night game on the Wednesday before the holiday, the holiday being scheduled for Friday. We went in 5½ games to the good, Boston second, Brooklyn third, Cleveland fourth and beginning to fade. The lead was cut to 4½ Wednesday night, Piss Sterling dropping a close 1.

  About 100 folks come up from Perkinsville that night and give me a Day. They give me a wrist watch and a traveling bag and a suit of clothes and a lifetime pass to the Embassy Theater in Perkinsville and Government Bonds worth 300 plus 100 more in credit coupons on the Perkinsville stores plus 4 new tires for my Moors. They also brought along that corny picture of Borelli’s where it says “Mammoths” on the shirt. It looked like I had rouge and lipstick on, for Christ sake. I was hoping Holly and Pop and Aaron might come, but they did not.

  After the ball game the Perkinsville crowd come to the hotel to a party give by Patricia Moors. She says whatever they spent on the trip and gifts they drunk back 2 times over. I said I believed she could afford it, and she said she could. She had a lot of friends up from New York, all a bunch of regular snobs, plus about 60 of the same from Boston itself, and they drunk Perkinsville under the table. I will say 1 thing for Perkinsville, it ain’t full of a lot of snobs. I said to Patricia I believed there was as many rummies in high society as there was in Perkinsville. “More,” she said. She said they fornicated less, however. She said she read in a book where the higher you go in society the less you fornicate, but when you fornicate you take off more clothes then the lower classes. She asked me if this was true in my opinion. I said I had no opinion. I do not believe she would of went into the matter with me at the time if she had not of been so looped. She said I was the first man she ever met that did not have no opinion on fornication.