Keystone Kids

by John R. Tunis

  The manager only half listened. He wasn’t really interested in sports writers or in the two Russell boys, either. He was interested in Ginger Crane’s troubles, especially his losing ballclub. “He may do, he may do. Tell you, John, I’ll shake up this club and every man on it until I find a winning combination.”

  “D’ja notice him this afternoon in the fifth? Is that kid fast!” continued Cassidy. “You should have heard him rave over in Cinci that night when he came out on the field and saw real lights for the first time. Took one look around. ‘Wow!’ he says. ‘What lights!’ ”

  “Yeah,” replied the manager absent-mindedly. “There just aren’t any good lights in the minors. And the lower you get, the worse they are, too. Heck, where’s that electrician?”

  “The kid was telling me he was playing in the Sally League or somewhere down South where they had a light pole behind the plate, one on the right field foul line, and one on the left field line. Center field was black. One night the center fielder brought a flashlight out on the field, and the umpire threw him out of the game for kidding.”

  “Yeah... I don’t doubt... I wouldn’t wonder in the least.” The manager was walking nervously up and down the room. “Where’s that dad-ratted electrician...”

  “Personally, I hardly blame the boy, myself. I’ve seen some of these bush league plants, and I want to tell you I’ve got more light in my bathroom to shave by than they have to play ball with.”

  “Where’s that electrician?” stormed Ginger.

  The team’s failure to catch up on the leaders was telling; he was nervous and only able to show his nerves alone in his suite with someone like the coach around. “Shoot! How long’s it take for them...”

  There was a timid knock at the door. The manager with his quick reaction was there in two steps and flung it open. Outside stood a panting boy in a faded pair of trousers, a tired-looking polo shirt, and old shoes well worn at the toes. In short, a typical hotel employee. “You an electrician?” He glared at the hatless boy.

  “Why... yessir. That is, I worked as an electrician...”

  “O.K. C’mon in. Don’t stand there yawping. C’mon in and fix my light. I’m sick and tired of asking you people to do things and never having them done. Now get busy and no backtalk.”

  The boy entered cautiously. He looked at the light socket. Then he changed bulbs with no result, and next produced an ancient penknife from his pocket and unscrewed the lamp socket. His movements were quick and capable; his manner had lost its timidity; he was an expert now and the two high-priced ballplayers watching were useless dunderers of no help in this particular crisis. He forgot them. Untwisting a wire, he cut away some sheathing, cut the rubber tubing from it, tinkered a minute at the wire with a blade from his penknife, rewound it again. With a screwdriver attached to the knife he replaced the socket and screwed it in, placed a bulb in it, pulled the chain. The light went on.

  “There you are, sir.”

  “O.K. Thanks. It’s about time.”

  “Yessir. Now, sir, please can I...” He was standing by the door, holding the handle for support.

  “No! Get out! Get out, d’you hear me?” No longer was Ginger the useless dunderer in matters electrical; he was the twenty-five-thousand-dollar manager of the Dodgers with a faltering ballclub on his shoulders. “Get out! That’s all, just get out.” He went over and slammed the door.

  The coach looked up from his paper across the room. “Seems as if I’d seen that boy somewhere before.”

  “Yeah. He was sort of familiar, wasn’t he?”

  Then another knock came on the door, not a timid respectful one, either. A man stood outside in overalls, with screwdrivers and other tools in little patch pockets of the trousers.

  “You gotta light here needs fixing?”

  For once the manager was speechless. “Why, no. He fixed it for us.”

  “Who fixed it?” The hour was late, the night was hot, and he had just received a call-down from the manager, so he was in no pleasant mood. To a hotel electrician the boss of the Dodgers was not a twenty-five-thousand-dollar big shot, but simply the cranky gent in 1016 who was causing all the trouble.

  “The electrician. He only just came up here.”

  “What is this, anyway? I’m the electrician.”

  “I’m telling you the electrician was just here and fixed our light.”

  “Say, mister, I’m not for no jokes tonight. I got work to do. Show me your light needs fixing, will ya?”

  “Whatsa matter with you? I told you the electrician just came, didn’t I?” Cassidy looked up from his chair. He had a feeling that with two edgy tempers in one room, somebody was due for trouble, and he hoped not to be in on it. Then the telephone rang.

  “Yeah!” Ginger’s voice was sharp and raspy. “Who? Who? Oh, you... it was who... it was you... you did... you fresh young busher, why didn’t you... I did so give you a chance to open your trap... why, we both thought, we both figured you were the hotel electrician... I see... I see. Well, you rockhead, you certainly know your stuff. I only hope you’ll be as good out there on the field as you were... yeah... he just came up... you wanted what? To ask a question? O.K., shoot!”

  There was silence for a moment or two and then the manager’s irritation vanished. His mood changed, his face softened, his mouth wrinkled up, and he began to grin. He nodded his head. Then he put his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, threw back his head and laughed.

  At last he got control of himself. “Yeah. That’s right. That’s it. You guessed it. Some of the boys, well now, they think it’s funny to pull those things on you fellows up from the minors. O.K. O.K., and thanks for fixing the light. What’s that? Yes, I will. Yep, I’ll use you as soon as I find the right spot. O.K., boy, so long!”

  “Well!” The coach and the electrician, still standing by the door with an angry look on his face, stared at him. “Say! I’ve heard of some queer ones before, but this rockhead takes the bun. You know who our electrician was, Johnny?”

  “Sure. It was young Russell, Spike Russell’s brother, the kid.”

  “For Pete’s sake, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I only realized it myself while you were talking there.” The manager addressed the electrician. “Mac, I’m sorry about all this. That kid I was talking to just now is a rookie on the team and only been with us a few days. When he knocked, I figured he was the electrician I’d been hollering for. Seems the boy works winters in his home town as an electrician, so he knew just what to do.” He turned to the coach. “Johnny, here’s one for the book. This kid came up to ask what he should do. His room’s on the 18th floor, and someone tells him that in these big city hotels they charge ten cents every time you take the express elevator above the twelfth floor. So for the last three days the kids have been getting off at the twelfth and walking six flights to save a dime!”

  5

  FROM THE BLEACHERS in deep center, from the stands back of the plate, from both sides came the sounds of baseball, the familiar sounds and noises to which Spike and Bob were accustomed, those same metallic voices to be heard in every park in every city of the league.

  “Cain’t tell the players without a score-card... peanuts... fresh roasted peanuts... get ’em ice cold... ice cold tonic... you cain’t tell the players...”

  The noises were more than familiar; they were consoling and reassuring to the two youngsters taking fielding practice before the game, Bob at second while Ed Davis was having a sore muscle in his leg limbered up by the trainer.

  In the front seat of a box sat Jack MacManus, the owner of the club, and leaning against the rail talking to him was Cassidy, the coach.

  “You know, that boy reminds me of Bill Jackson; yes, he does. He’s got the same hands and the same stream-lined legs; notice, they aren’t the knotty kind, they’re built for speed. I hit to him in fielding practice yesterday, and he was out there yelling at me, ‘What’s the matter? Why don’t you give me a tough one?’ He’s a sweethe
art, all right.”

  Together the men watched the two youngsters cavorting on the grass under the hot sun. The diamond was hard and fast, and one could see they both enjoyed themselves. Now they were together they were pepper and salt, grabbing balls from every position, flipping them across to each other in a familiar manner, burning them to first or third. All the while Bob kept up that flow of chatter and comment which never ceased when he was in action; which was so much a part of his play he seldom realized he was talking. They forgot the enormous two-decked stands, forgot even that they were under constant inspection by every eye on the club. They were not a couple of rookies trying to break into big-league baseball. They were two frisky kids having themselves a good time in the steaming sun. Then the cocky youngster behind second shouted at the man at the plate who was hitting to them. He made a quick motion with his bat, and cracked a sizzling liner over the pitcher’s box. It hit the dirt in front of second.

  The two boys were off together. Both were near the ball, on top of it almost, so fast that either could have stabbed for it. But Bob suddenly realized his brother was the one to make the play, and as he neared the bag sheered away to clear the path for the throw. Spike picked up the ball a few feet from the base, and in one continuous motion touched the bag and hurled the ball to first in time to nab the fastest runner in baseball. Only an expert could have felt their understanding, their coordination as they made that decision in the fraction of a second when the ball roared toward them. The two men in the box behind the dugout missed nothing. They looked at each other. Base hits, they knew, were a matter of feet. Doubleplays were a matter of inches.

  Half an hour later, with Ed Davis playing at second, Spike felt anything but coordinated. The veteran was knowledgeable and steady, he seldom made errors. Also, Spike noticed, he seldom tried for impossible balls, especially those to his right, the hard side. Moreover, he was slow starting. To Spike, used to his brother’s timing and his brother’s agile movements, the old-timer often seemed anchored to the ground. It makes a difference in a keystone combination to be with a man you know.

  The play came, as those plays invariably do, at a critical moment in a tight game. It was one of those plays when the correct throw means the difference between a run or a put-out, the difference between victory or defeat. A man was on first when the batter hit a stinging grounder to the right of second base. As pivot man, Spike started running for second base when the ball met the bat, watching the veteran go after it. But he was slow, slow. He tried desperately, stabbed it and managed to hold it. Davis, however, threw a hard ball, and Spike was used to Bob’s soft ball. In his excitement and eagerness, in his anxiety over the veteran’s delay, he forgot this. With an instinctive desire to be in motion for the throw to first, he caught the ball and over-ran the bag, thus failing to make the force-out at second. The runner slid under him safely and later scored with the only run of the game.

  By the day the team returned to New York Spike felt surer of himself; he was more used to Davis and his timing. By then, however, the team was in a hitting slump. Moreover, they were making mistakes you wouldn’t believe. Spike and Bob, trained under a disciplinarian, were amazed by the bobbles of some of these big leaguers, made either through tightness, fatigue, or carelessness. Once a hit that wasn’t run out, in the next game a throw a fraction of a second late or a fraction of a foot wide, in the next a sloppy play which later resulted in the winning run; these things astounded the Russell boys. So they weren’t surprised when the team got back from the West to find they were four games out of first instead of two.

  On the whole, Spike felt satisfied with his own game. He was not playing his best because he wasn’t playing with his brother; but well enough, and he was hitting almost .300, not bad for his first look at big-league pitching. But the rest of the team, save old reliable Roy Tucker who was always to be depended upon, were not hitting.

  Clack-clack, clackety-clack they trooped into the dressing room after losing a tight game behind the four-hit pitching of Razzle Nugent. Disappointed, they sat around glumly. As usual Raz was on his bench before his locker with the clubhouse boy untieing his shoes.

  “O.K. O.K., take ’em off. You want I should go into the showers with my shoes on? I don’t wonder you think so, though. They’s guys dumb enough on this-here-now club to do it.” He glared round the room.

  “Tough luck, Razzle.” Cassidy, the coach, went past, dragging the leather bat bag after him.

  “Yeah! Well, the hawks have got us, I guess. No use....” He threw off his clothes and lumbered into the showers, muttering. When the hawks get you, everything goes wrong. You look for a fastball and get a curve; you look for a hook and you’re fooled by a hopping sinker. You mess up easy balls in the field. When the hawks have got you, there isn’t much to say.

  Most of the players were hurrying into their street clothes, and when Raz finally came out there were only a handful left about the lockers. Razzle turned to Spike who dressed near him. “D’ja see Case on that fly in the eighth? He ran like a mob dispersing.”

  Spike hardly knew what to say. On teams he had played with before no one criticized a teammate openly. On those teams there had been no Razzle Nugent, either.

  “I must be a saint or I’d ’a’ choked him to death.” He lit a cigarette. “I’m gonna write my wife tonight.”

  “D’you write your wife every day, Razzle?” It was all Spike could think of to say, for he saw no special connection between Karl Case missing a blooper in left and Razzle’s wife. Razzle saw the connection.

  “Nope. Not often, not every day. I’m gonna write her tonight, though, and ask her to pack up and come on to New York. If Case can play ball in the big leagues, so can she.”

  A sportswriter passed across the room from the manager’s quarters, hurrying to the door.

  “Hey there, Stanley,” shouted Razzle. “Wait a sec. Do me a favor, will ya?”

  “Whazzat, big boy? Quit writing baseball?”

  “Naw! That would be a double favor. I only asked for one. Put in the paper that Case is a semi-pro. The people deserve to know the truth.”

  There were titters throughout the room from the stragglers dressing, for Case, known in the league as a man who thought chiefly of himself and his batting average, was by no means popular on the club. The sportswriter waved and went out.

  Razzle continued dressing, watched closely by the Russell boys and especially by Bob. Bob enjoyed watching Raz garb himself. It was known all over the circuit that Razzle had sixteen suits with accessories to match, and that particular evening he was a scenic effect worth seeing. He put on a gray silk sports shirt, gray silk socks, gray shoes and a gray suit. Then with care he tied and re-tied an elaborate gray silk necktie. He stood five minutes before the mirror brushing his long black hair.

  “Well, I’m gonna have me a good time this evening. By gosh. I think I earned it. Four hits I hold ’em down to, and what do I get out of it—a shutout. I’m gonna have me a good time tonight. I’m gonna hire a plane at La Guardia Field and take a ride. Anyone wanna go with me? Wanna go Tong, Spike?”

  “Gee, Raz, I’d sure like to. I didn’t realize you were an aviator!” Spike looked at the big chap with new admiration. Why, the guy was a wonder. He could do anything.

  “I ain’t,” said Razzle with decision. “Look, this-here-now Case ain’t no ballplayer, but he plays ball, don’t he? I ain’t an aviator, either, so why shouldn’t I drive a plane?”

  The great man glanced round with scorn and, as no one challenged him, stalked out to a taxi.

  Roy Tucker was yanking on his coat. ‘That guy’s a card. They say he has a hundred and fifty-nine neckties, all different, too.”

  “A hundred and fifty-nine neckties!” said Bob. “Man, what on earth for? What does he want a hundred and fifty-nine neckties for? He’s only got one neck, hasn’t he?”

  6

  UNDER THE RELENTLESS drive that was keeping the Pirates on top, even some of Ginger Crane’s assurance vani
shed. The hawks really had them, and when the hawks have you nothing goes right and there isn’t much you can do. Ginger sat disgustedly in one corner of the bench before the game, talking with Stanley King of the Telegram. He hitched his leg up beside him, leaned one arm on his bent knee, and ejected a wad of tobacco onto the sparse grass before the dugout.

  “Shoot! Why, when we left on that last western trip in August, when we were two games behind, I’d ’a’ bet you all the tea in China we’d come home in front. Now look! Now where are we? Five games back and still slipping.”

  “I can’t yet believe what’s happened,” he continued. “Last week I just felt we weren’t hitting, we were in a slump that couldn’t continue. I thought sure we’d get going by this time. But we haven’t. Seems like when the hawks have you every break goes the other way. D’ja notice that third strike old Stubblebeard called Sunday on Red with two on base? Things like that hurt.”

  “You bet. That was a tough one,” said the sportswriter sympathetically.

  “It slays me. And yesterday that decision on third, against Slugger Case; remember? I didn’t get more than an hour’s sleep last night, and I guess I look it, too.... All right, c’mon now, guys! Wake those bats up there...”

  That afternoon the team won and everyone felt better. Even winning one game made a difference; the whole attitude of the dressing room changed.

  As Spike remarked when he left the park beside Razzle and his brother, “Baseball’s a swell game—when you win.”

  The big pitcher looked solemn. He was having none of that. “No, sir. No, sir,” he answered emphatically. “Baseball’s a grand game any time.”