Keystone Kids

by John R. Tunis

  “Reckon I wouldn’t, Mr. MacManus.”

  That red, freckled face under the sandy hair became redder and redder. “What?” he bellowed. He thumped the desk. “Mean to tell me you’d turn down an opportunity to manage the Brooklyn Dodgers? Here I offer you a chance...”

  “No, sir, no, Mr. MacManus. You get me wrong. You asked would I like to... to manage the team. Now... and all... managing a sixth place club... well, that isn’t fun, sir.”

  There was a pause. Then the same hesitating expression came over his broad face that Spike had watched that evening in the Andrew Jackson in Nashville when the five dollar bill had been offered to him. Once again he was ready either to explode with rage or roar with laughter. There was the same moment of tension over the room; then slowly the same grin appeared.

  “Spike, by ginger, you’re a case! You’re the only player who ever got the better of me in a business deal, too. You got an old head on those shoulders, and I believe you can handle this job. What say?”

  “Well, sir, it’s like this. You’ve heard the saying—when you sleep on the floor, you can’t very likely fall out of bed.”

  13

  THE TEAM SAT dressing the next morning in the lockers, each player thinking the same thing. He’s a good kid; sure he’s a good kid. But what will he be like as manager? Will he dish his brother; will he change roomies, or won’t he? And what about me? Will I get traded or will he keep me on the team? That’s what they were all thinking, all except the second baseman.

  Bob was thinking: He’s the manager of the Dodgers now; he’s Spike Russell, the manager of the Dodgers, the kid that came up from the Nashville Volunteers. He’s the manager, Spike is, the best guy who ever lived. Gosh, how I wish the Old Lady could have seen this! Wouldn’t she be proud!

  Then the door opened and MacManus entered with the new manager, the older man’s arm in that of the shortstop. Bob looked at his brother, suddenly realizing that his shoulders had filled out. He’s broader and stronger; that’s why his ball is steaming in there, why he’s getting those extra bases on his hits. There were new lines in his face, lines Bob had never seen there before, and a new seriousness there, too. Now MacManus was talking, talking slowly and calmly, not in the least in his usual vein.

  “Of course all you men know there’s been an unsatisfactory situation here for some time, and I... that is, we... that is, the management... think the club can go further under a new manager. We’re making this change therefore, and we hope you’ll back it up with everything you’ve got.” He hesitated, looking at Spike in his monkey suit, standing by his side. “Guess that’s about all.” He stuck out a big paw. “Spike, good luck! Everyone upstairs is behind you.” He turned and walked from the room.

  Spike was alone with them. He stood for a minute glancing at the players grouped on the benches or squatting on the floor or leaning against the lockers in the rear; at Roy Tucker with his friendly, honest expression; at Fat Stuff and McCaffrey; at Karl Case, a scowl on his dark, handsome face; at Klein, the black-haired rookie, a catcher’s mask under one arm; at Razzle, standing negligently to one side; at Draper and Cassidy, the coaches; at Harry Street and Swanny; and last of all at his kid brother, the best guy who ever lived, the best pivot man in the leagues. Somehow the look on Bob’s face gave him courage to go on, to begin, to speak. He raised his head and stuck out his chin.

  “I’ve just been made manager, as you know, and I’ll do the best I can; but any success will come—must come, from you guys. It’s your show from now on. We all know what the situation here was, what it’s been like on this club, and many of us were unhappy. You can’t play good ball when you feel that way. We know what the trouble was, no need to go into that. From now on we’ve got to pull together. This crowd must turn into a real team. From now on no one is working for himself. We’re all working for all of us. When you do that, a team has something solid.

  “We’ll play a little different type of baseball; maybe I’ve been brought up in a different kind, and of course I expect to play the system I know best. We’re not going to fight the umps or the other teams any more. Let’s us win ballgames, not arguments. We aren’t going to get into rhubarbs with every team in the league. In every one we’ve been in our club has become disorganized; we’ve all got mad and lost the game, like that blow-up at Boston the other day where Elmer forgot to cover first. I b’lieve players do better when they keep cool, when they don’t lose their heads.”

  He paused, trying to think of his next point.

  Why, he’s older, he’s grown older, thought Bob. Here I’ve been living with him, rooming with him all summer, and never noticed it until just now. He’s ten years older than he was this time last year. He was growing older right under my eyes and I never realized it. How’s that for being dumb?

  “I’m manager now, and you won’t maybe know how to act. To hell with all that! I’m a ballplayer just the same. I’m out there going through the motions, same as the rest of you. If any of you have anything to say, say it; if you have anything you want to get off your chest, let’s thrash it out right here in the clubhouse.”

  Once again he paused, thinking hard and trying to phrase his sentences so they wouldn’t hurt.

  “Now we all know some of us haven’t been keeping in shape the way you should. Want you to realize one thing: when you do this, you’re hurting all the other men on the club. It isn’t just MacManus or the stockholders you hurt when you go out at night. It’s us, all of us. That’s what I mean when I say in the future we must be a team that pulls together, not an individual record team. I’m sick myself of this whispering stuff in corners.

  “I don’t hardly think we’ve been giving enough, either. Oh, sure, I know, you come out and give all you got on the field; I know that. But the point is, if you stay out all night or if you’re in your room in the hotel playing gin-rummy ’til three-four in the morning, you just can’t... you just haven’t got it once you get onto the field. That’s all going to stop. Anyone who feels he must get loose once in a while, come see me. O.K. I’ll give you late permission.”

  Hang it, thought Bob, the guy’s got it. He’s really got it! He could see the effect of his brother’s words on the team. They were easier now, less tense. Gosh, thought Bob, what a fellow he is, that Spike!

  “Now I’m not going to make any radical changes or shake-up in this ballclub. It only needs to hustle. Baseball, as you all know, is played in fractions; fractions of a second, fractions of an inch. I realize I’m not telling you anything; you all know this, especially those of you who’ve been in the game lots longer’n I have. But seems to me we haven’t been hustling; we’ve been thinking about this or that, about the cut in the meal allowance or how much we lost in that poker game last night or who’s running today at Belmont. I want us all to be thinking about who’s hitting for them in the seventh instead of who’s running in the seventh at Jamaica. Keep on missing signals the way some of us have lately, and we’ll all be back seeing the folks at home sooner than we expected.

  “From now on I want hustle and more hustle. I want everyone on this club to run out everything to first, whether they think they can beat the throw or not. Yes, and that means all of you pitchers, too. Rats and Elmer and all the rest of you. You gotta presume the fielder’s gonna boot that ball. Other day over in Cinci we dropped an important game that shoved us down into sixth place. Why? ’Cause a pitcher started toward first on a hard hit ground ball with his bat in his hand. The shortstop muffed it and threw wild, and he’d been safe if he’d hustled. He didn’t hustle and he was out, and we lost the winning run right there when Klein tripled. He was out, and that’s out, too, on this club from now on. When you get a single, I expect you to take that turn at first and go on until you see you can’t make it. If you can’t, O.K., dig in those spikes and hustle back to the bag. But if the fielder so much as bobbles the ball, keep going and you’ll be in there. And you won’t get a bawling-out if a perfect throw nails you, either. I want you to take cha
nces. You never reach second if you run to first and stop.

  “Now there’s certain things on this club that’s annoyed us all, you and me and everybody. I’m gonna put a stop to ’em. One is morning practice. We been practicing mornings lately, and I think maybe it hurt more than it helped. Maybe we’ve all got a little stale. ’Nother thing, about the meal allowance. It was cut from six bucks to four bucks this summer, and for some of you big eaters I realize that’s not enough. If the other teams in our league get six, we oughta get six, too. We won’t have any more of this getting up to eat breakfast together at nine o’clock, either. You come down when you like, jes’ so long as it’s a reasonable hour. I’m glad to say Mr. MacManus sees things this way, and has agreed to put the meal allowance back where it was.”

  Man, is he smart! Is that guy smart! They’ve all been beefing about that meal allowance for the last two months. That coming down to breakfast on the button hurts, too. It’s those grudges against the management that burn up ballplayers, that are worse than a two-thousand-dollar cut in salary, thought Bob. Yessir, he’s really smart, starting off like that. Looking over the room, he could watch them relax and settle back, see the relief on every face.

  So, I’m not fired or traded; he’s not shaking everyone up; he’s not trying to show his authority right off; he’s not sending me back to Montreal. O.K., let’s us all go out for this kid, they seemed to be saying to themselves.

  “I guess that’s about all. For now. This isn’t a second division club, and I know if you’ll hustle for me we can go places... Oh, yes, one more thing. I realize how it upsets a man not to know when he’s due to pitch. From now on we’ll have a regular schedule. A man’ll rest one day after pitching. He’ll run and run hard the next day chasing flies. Then he’ll throw a little the next day and be ready to pitch if I want him either the fourth or the fifth day. Is that understood? Everyone will take their turn pitching batting practice, too. Raz... you’ll go in today.”

  Razzle, leaning against a locker in the back of the room, straightened up and replied hastily. “Yeah, but you know I don’t never aim to pitch batting practice, Spike.”

  It was the first time one of them had addressed the new manager, and the initial contact was a refusal, almost insubordination. As the star of the team’s hurling staff, Razzle had never been forced to pitch batting practice by Ginger Crane. The others took their regular turn save the prima donna of the pitchers.

  A bench creaked in the stillness. No one spoke, for everyone was watching to see what would happen. Raz stood motionless. He looked at the new manager. The new manager looked back with a steady hardness that Bob had never seen before on the face of his brother.

  What’ll he say? What’ll he do now?

  His voice was calm. “Razzle, from now on you’ll take your turn out there with the rest. And you’ll... pitch... batting practice... today.”

  Somewhere in the rear another bench creaked as someone leaned forward to see what the big pitcher would do. He hesitated, astonished, dazed for a moment, his mouth open. Then he slapped his glove.

  “O.K., Spike,” he said.

  A kind of murmur went round the crowded room. Say! Maybe this kid, this rookie manager, isn’t going to be so soft after all.

  14

  WINNING SPIKE’S OPENER as manager of the Dodgers was important. They won it decisively. Winning a doubleheader on his first afternoon in charge was better still. They won those two games as a team, as a unit, something they hadn’t been lately. Now we’ve got a manager, everyone seemed to be thinking. Now we’ve got a real manager; now we’ll go places.

  It was the rookie, Klein, whose lusty two bagger won the opener in the ninth and who, with the help of his keen-witted manager, saved the second game. The boy was good. He had a pair of shoulders behind his bat and back of his throws. He had more ginger than old Stansworth. He kept the pitchers alert by the manner in which he pegged the ball back to them. Also he had a head, and that day he showed he could use it in the pinches. The pinch came in the ninth of the second game, the sort of thing that often happens in a ballgame. Everything goes right, everything breaks your way—up to a point. Then nothing clicks; the play that worked a few innings before doesn’t come off; the player who made a wonderful stop the previous inning lets a ball through his legs or misses a signal in a crisis.

  The Dodgers were on their toes for the new manager; they were playing as a team, giving everything they had, and for seventeen long innings were on top every minute. Then with a three run lead young Rog Stinson weakened in the ninth. While the huge crowd watched intently, the Cubs, with the top of their batting order crowding the plate, got men on first and third with no one out.

  Shrieks and cries came from the stands. “Take him out... take him out... take him out...” The cruel, relentless yell of the mob, the mob that can manage a ballclub from the bleachers better than any manager on the field.

  The roar grew, for the fans wanted that game as much as the team.

  Would Spike call on old Fat Stuff?

  The veteran in the bullpen, pretending as usual not to hear the call, threw in a few extra warm-up pitches and then waddled across to the box where Spike and Klein were waiting. It was the first time Klein had caught the old timer.

  “Hope you’re not one of these pitch-out catchers!”

  “No, sir,” replied the boy. “You get that ball in there and I’ll take my chances with the men on bases.”

  “O.K., Fat Stuff! O.K., Jocko! Let’s go,” said Spike, slapping the pitcher on the back.

  The team and the batter and the whole ballpark settled into that ninth inning tension, the tenseness that spells drama, that comes when the shadows hang over the diamond, when a tight one hangs in the balance. A hit, a throw, a close decision, and there goes your ballgame. That afternoon the tenseness was the more acute because of the young manager. Out in deep short he kicked nervously at the pebbles in the dirt.

  “Strike one!” cried the umpire.

  A roar went up with his hand, and all over the diamond came the chatter, especially from second base. A ball. Another strike. Fat Stuff was working carefully and confidently on the better, teasing him with a low one. Two and two.

  Suddenly on the next pitch the man on first broke. Spike, in deep short, was ready. He half expected a steal and came charging into the cut-out position behind the box, anxiously watching Klein receive the ball, half seeing the umpire’s hand go up as the batter swung fiercely. How would the youngster react? Would he become the typical rookie, holding the ball for fear the man on third would dash home? Or would he crack and throw the ball into center field?

  The double steal with men on first and third is one of the hardest plays to prevent. The prevention falls almost entirely on the catcher. In half a second or less he must decide whether to throw to third and hand the other man second base. This was the moment, this was the test. This might make him or break him.

  With one glance over his left shoulder at third, the catcher took the hard way. He pegged high at Spike in the cut-off position, just as the man on third broke for home. The manager caught the ball shoulder high and burned it back to the plate, nabbing the runner by yards. Klein tagged him as he slid in, jumped aside, and shot the ball to second where the base-runner was four feet off the bag toward third. Bob, waiting, slapped the ball on him for the second out.

  A roar broke out all over the stands, and Spike, turning, saw his brother toss his glove back onto the grass. It was the third out, for the man at the plate had swung on the third strike. They had made a triple play. The game was won.

  They came charging in from the field while the crowd stood roaring above. Hands slapped at them as they rushed under the dugout and into the locker room.

  “That’s heads-up ball there, Buglenose,” said old Fat Stuff affectionately.

  “That’s the angle, Jocko.”

  “Nice work, Buglenose, nice work there! That’s keeping your eyes peeled.”

  Everyone had a good word fo
r the rookie except Karl Case, who sat beside his locker muttering. “Howsat for luck? This kid breaks into a triple play his first month in the league! I never been in on a triple play and I been in the majors eleven years. Howsat for luck?”

  Everyone else was happy; happy, loose, and warm. The warmth came from inside, not from the exercise in the hot July sunshine.

  Now we’ve got a manager, we’ll go places. We’ve got a manager and a catcher, too. Stansworth was so old he wasn’t getting down to the low ones half the time.

  “Boy,” said Spike, “you like to burn my hands off on that cut-off play. You can throw all right, and you get ’em off quick, too. O.K., gang. Train leaves Pennsylvania at eight-thirty. We gotta hustle. Don’t forget to take your jackets. It gets cold out on that lake front there...”

  They piled into the train and assaulted the dining car. An hour and a half later they returned in twos and threes. Spike and the coaches were together in a drawing room working over the Reds’ batting order. As usual, Red Allen turned to the evening newspaper and a crossword puzzle. Case and Street and Swanny, the card players, broke open a pack. The door of their compartment was ajar as the young catcher passed by on his way from the diner. He paused a moment in the doorway.

  “Nice work, Buglenose, nice work on that cut-off play,” said Swanny. The rookie stood leaning against the doorway while Harry Street pulled a suitcase onto their laps and Swanny began to shuffle the cards.

  “What’s that?” asked the rookie. “One down and four up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s for letting me in on it? I played that all over the Middle West these last years.”

  Swanny looked at Case and Case glowered at Swanny. There was a moment of silence which some would have noticed. But the young catcher, feeling himself a part of the team, exhilarated by the warmth of their approval, by his play in the last inning, did not perceive Case’s glowering glance, nor understand the hesitating silence that followed his request. On a ballclub the rookies all play cards together and the veterans have their own game. The old timers usually have a higher stake and don’t want to take money the youngsters can’t afford to lose. For a minute or so no one answered the young catcher.