“Okay, Rats? Everyone set? We’re going to a burlesque show. Century Theatre, corner Grand and Cuyahoga. Bill Hanson has the tickets. Bill will give each man his ticket. It’s nearly eight now and time to go. Everyone ready? Get your seat from Hanson and let’s get going.”
After the show they walked along in a bunch to the hotel. A few stepped into a kind of open store with a rifle range at the rear. Dave stood watching. “Why, Roy,” he said, “I hadn’t any idea you were such a good shot.”
“Yessir...yes, Dave. We do quite a bit of shooting on the farm every fall. Until I went to work in town we did.”
“What you shoot up there on that farm, Kid? Lions?”
Roy flushed. “Yeah, lions...and tigers. And sometimes Indians, too, Razzle.”
Raz, to whom the word Indian was not exactly a subject for jesting, quit like most jesters when he found himself on the receiving end. They reached the hotel and went into the crowded lobby over which hung an air of excitement. In his green suit, green hat, green shirt and necktie, Razzle was instantly picked out and surrounded by autograph hunters.
“They say Dempsey signs over five hundred autographs a day,” said Charlie Draper at the Kid’s side. “Hullo...there’s Connie Mack over there.”
“Where? Where? Which one?” Connie was a hero of Roy’s.
“Over there against that pillar. Wanna meet him?”
“I sure do.”
They picked their way through the groups of talking, gesticulating men. Draper touched him on the shoulder. He looked around with a quick, youthful movement. Tall, thin, an erect carriage, deep blue eyes, he acted and looked far less than his almost eighty years.
“Hullo, Mr. Mack.” The old fellow’s face lit up with a warm glow.
“Why, Charlie! Charlie Draper!” He pronounced the words precisely, with emphasis. “How are you? I’m glad to see you. How you making it?”
“Pretty good, Mr. Mack. Say, I’d like you to meet Roy Tucker, our right fielder.”
His hand was firm and strong. “Yes, sir, I’m real glad to meet you.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Mack.” The Kid wanted to say more, to tell him that ever since the great days of Grove, Cochrane, Simmons, and Earnshaw he had been his hero, although he had never dreamed of meeting him.
“Yes, yes. Been watching you out there. You keep on, son, and you’re gonna be a ballplayer. I was telling Dave the other day, Charlie, I’d be mighty pleased to have this boy on my club.”
“Gee! Thanks, lots, Mr. Mack.”
Charlie said something but the Kid lost his words in the loud tones which came from behind. The familiar voice of Harry Street, now rasping and harsh, drowned out Charlie’s remark.
“Let me tell you something, Casey, you can’t get away with that stuff round here. We know him too well.”
“Aw, I say he’s yeller. A yeller busher with a big head. Gets conked once and he’s all washed up.”
The Kid whirled about. Casey and Harry had their chins together in anger. He pushed his roommate out of the way. “What’s that you were saying, Casey?”
“I said you were washed up.”
“I heard you. And you said something else, too. Better take it back. In a hurry.”
“Or you’ll make me, hey? You and your six big brothers here.”
The sneer was too much. It touched off his resentment of the afternoon, set his irritated nerves afire. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he felt his fist against Casey’s round chin. The sportswriter staggered back, pulled himself together, and came on, his face angry and aflame.
Once more Roy caught him full on the jaw. The burly figure went down as someone grabbed the Kid.
“Get upstairs.” It was Charlie Draper, his arms round him, shoving him toward the elevator. “Get upstairs quick. Lock your door and whatever you do don’t answer the phone.”
7
THE MEETING THAT next morning was short.
“Boys, there are two departments of play, batting and fielding. They should be separate in the minds of all you men, but they aren’t. When a player isn’t hitting, he takes his slump out there on the field. He broods about his inability to hit. His mind isn’t concentrated on his fielding so he makes mistakes. He boots one. I never knew it to fail. Then he starts thinking about that error he made and takes it up to bat with him. So he doesn’t hit. That’s the way it goes.
“Now I want you should all forget what’s happened. If you can forget you’ll begin to hit. Once you begin to hit, everything will be fine. No club looks good when they’re not hitting. I think we must have set a record of some sort these last three games for men left on bases. But we’ll come out of it. We have power. If we’re not a power team we’re nothing. Try and get relaxed. That’s the trouble with you, Roy, and you too, Swanny. I was watching you both at the plate yesterday. You each had your elbows too close to your sides; you were all tied up. Remember, those elbows have gotta be out from your body, and your bat well off your shoulder to get a free swing. Don’t forget it, any of you.”
Nothing yet about the Casey episode. Yet surely Dave had heard all about it by now. Nothing escaped that old fox. The Kid waited, wondering, as the manager, toothpick in his mouth, continued. “I know we can win. I got plenty of confidence in this here ball club. However, no use talking, the chips are down. We can’t kid ourselves; we must pull this one out today. Rats, you’ll pitch. Now that ball to McClusky, where was it? High inside? Yeah? But we said we’d pitch low to him. Didn’t we? Didn’t we agree?” He looked around. Solemn nods. Yes, they’d agreed on that.
“All right. Rats, I want you should pitch to Hammy and Lanahan like I told you. Lanahan’s been hitting us hard. Catfish Crawford came up to the room late last night and said we oughta pitch low to him all the time. Whaddya say we crowd Painter?”
“Le’s pitch over his fist to Lanahan. He can’t hurt us more’n he has.”
“Okay, we’ll do that. And we’ll throw McClusky some slow balls. We haven’t slowed up to him in the whole Series yet. If Spike Johnson goes in today, don’t forget he’s got a mighty mean sinker. Let’s not give them a chance to get going. Soon’s he throws you one you can hit, sock it. All we need is two-three runs. Whatever you do, don’t worry. Keep relaxed. The ability to relax is what makes a money player in every sport, boys. Remember, we’ve come from behind lots of times this season, and if you’ll play the game you’re capable of playing, the game I know you can play, we’ll come from behind again. That licking we took yesterday doesn’t mean a thing. Not one thing. All right...any questions...anyone...
“Yesterday I met up with Joe Jacobson, old friend of mine, now manager in Tulsa. Joe’s up for the Series, and I met him in the lobby as we came in. Joe started to ride me. ‘What you-all gonna do with those tickets you been printing for that game in Brooklyn tomorrow?’ he asks me.
“‘We’re gonna sell ’em,’ I told him.” There was a ring of determination in his voice. “Okay. Let’s go.”
And there was a ring of determination in the sound of their spikes; clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack on the concrete. They were going to win. They were determined to win for Dave. No one more so than the Kid. Dave hadn’t said a word about Casey. That was the kind of a guy he was. He knew who was right in that little incident, Dave did.
After some batting practice, with no Casey visible among the mob of sportswriters on the field and climbing over them in the dugout, Roy walked out to his place in right field to chase fungoes. The fans were there in the cheap bleacher seats, attentive, watching, knowledgeable. To be sure they were not his own fans, but they were fans, with a fan’s sense of humor as he soon found out.
“Hey, Kid,” someone called affectionately from the bleachers when he came near them. He waved his hand. Instantly the reply came back.
“You big bum!” Not the Brooklyn retort, but close enough to make him think he was at home again.
The game began. Rats lasted exactly two innings. The Cleveland powerhouse went to work
in the second. A single, another single, and a double. Two runs across and McClusky dancing confidently off second. From his place the Kid watched Rats dejectedly stuff his glove into his pocket and take the longest walk in the world—the walk to the showers. In the stands the wolves rose jeering, while from the Indian dugout noise and chatter resounded. It was in the bag. Three games to one. Two runs to the good. Yep, a tough spot for the Dodgers.
Doggone, thought Roy, I won’t quit. I won’t stop fighting. Why, we’re better than that. I just know we are. We haven’t showed it, but we are. Now who’ll Dave throw in? Elmer? Or maybe take a chance on Raz? Nosir. It’s old Fat Stuff.
Yes, there was Fat Stuff in the bullpen, pretending as usual he didn’t hear, and burning in a few more practice throws. Old Fat Stuff, the reliable. He waddled across the field, a barrel-chested figure, long arms swinging by his side. And who’s that...it can’t be...it is! Dave! Dave going in to catch him!
Gosh! Dave was back at the plate. Dave was in there. The old battery, Foster and Leonard. Now we’ll go places. Now you just watch our dust.
Dave strapped on the breast protector, took Foster’s throw, and rifled the ball to Ed at second base, while shouts from every part of the field in confident tones showed how the team felt.
“All right, Dave.”
“Atta boy, Dave old kid, old boy...”
“Right behind you, Dave.”
“Le’s go, Dave...”
Dave back! Gee, it was great to have him there. Fat Stuff threw his last warm-up pitch as the applause sprinkled through the Cleveland stands. Foster and Leonard. Why, they were together on the old White Sox back in 1934. They’d forgotten, the two of them, more baseball than the Indians ever knew.
The first man hit a pop foul. “Yours, Dave...yours...Dave...Dave...Dave.” The cries had the same confidence in them. West might stumble over a bat; even Babe Stansworth could trip on his mask or muff a pop-up. Not Dave. Not old Surefoot. “Atta boy, Dave, good catch, old timer.” You could always depend on Dave in the clutch.
Hammy, the Indian slugger, came to the plate. From his position in right the Kid could see the two veterans go to work on him. Fat Stuff wasted his first ball. Then he got a strike, low, then a called strike. He took the signal and wound up. Hammy caught it and slammed it back. The ball traveled like a bullet, catching Fat Stuff just below the belt. He went down as if he’d been shot. But the fighting instinct which was part of the pitcher’s makeup woke him long enough to get the ball across to first. Running in to back up, the Kid saw Fat Stuff collapse, saw the throw nip the runner at first, and as everyone’s eyes were on the stricken pitcher he saw McClusky, running wild, dash for the plate.
“Home...Red...home...quick...home.”
The big first baseman heard his voice and shot the ball to Dave Leonard, crouching and ready at the plate in time to nab McClusky. A double-play and the inning was over.
Meanwhile the Dodgers formed a circle around Fat Stuff. Just as they were getting ready to carry him off, he came to.
“Wait a sec...if I can only sit still a few minutes, I’ll be all right.”
So they assisted him to the bench where he sat as long as he could, which wasn’t long because he was the second batter. Dave, the first man up, had drawn a base on balls.
The stands applauded when the big man with his bat toddled to the plate. Not a bad hitter, and like most pitchers proud of his hitting, he stood balancing his club. In the box Spike Johnson nodded to his catcher and wound up. The ball came close, the batter turned, turned...and caught it full on the ribs. For the second time in ten minutes he fell, groggy, to the ground.
The Dodger bench jumped to their feet with a roar of rage. This was too much! First the Kid, now Fat Stuff! Swanson rushed at Johnson who was hurrying in. He swung first, missed Swanny, and the Dodger caught him full on the nose. McCormick, the Cleveland catcher, mask off jumped on Swanny. Karl Case ran up and swung on McCormick. The catcher went down on his back, heels in the air.
In five seconds there was a terrific melee at the plate. Fists and spikes flying, a mix-up of players writhed on the ground while poor old Fat Stuff, entirely neglected, rolled on the grass, trying to catch his breath. When the players were finally separated and order restored, the game continued with patched up teams on both sides. Johnson and McCormick were banished. So were Swanny and Case. With two of their best hitters out, with an injured pitcher in the box and a forty-year-old catcher behind the plate, the Dodgers went after that two run lead.
Red Allen hit into a doubleplay, chiefly because Fat Stuff was a slow runner. Now there were two men out with Dave on third. The Kid came to the plate against Paul Drewes, Cleveland’s relief pitcher. If only he could hit that ball. If only he could hit. He was still in a daze after his scrap with Casey. Shaking his head, he tried to forget it, to concentrate on the pitcher. The ball came and he swung. But by the sound he knew it was no good. Just a Baltimore chop that struck in front of the plate. Another easy out at first.
Don’t carry it with you into the field. Forget it. Forget Casey. And the batting slump. And the situation. Dave was back, wasn’t he? Now they’d pull out. They’d go ahead.
Yet inning after inning went by with no runs scored, and the figure 2 on the scoreboard looked as big as a million. Pale, lame, and sore, Fat Stuff in the box hung on by sheer will power, aided by Dave’s knowledge of the hitters.
In the last of the seventh Bruce Gordon, a dangerous man, came to the plate with two men out. Dave waved the Kid toward the right. Still in a kind of daze, he obeyed slowly and was moving just as Gordon caught the pitch and smacked a tremendous drive his way. The wind caught the ball and carried it foul. Had he been on his toes as he should have been it would have meant an easy out.
Just the same, try. You never know. Try, run, run. There...it was falling...almost. Through the roar of the crowd he heard Red Allen warning him. “Watch it...Roy...watch the stand...watch it...” Hang it all, he had to get that ball. Wall-shy, was he? They’d see whether he was wall-shy.
From the stands in right field the crowd watched. Too bad, an impossible catch. No, he’s after it! They rose as he strained forward to the bleachers, desperately reaching for the ball, closer, closer. Look out, he’ll hit the wall. With a final burst of speed he stuck up one hand, caught it, and stumbling rolled over on the turf right against the barrier. At last he picked himself up, the ball safe in his glove.
There! How do you like that, Casey? Wall-shy, am I? Yeah! The best one hand of anybody in the business, that’s what they said last year. Listen to ’em yell. Say, the fans in this man’s town are fair after all, aren’t they? Three out. “All right, gimme my bat, boy. Give us that heavy stick there. Who’s up, Allen? I’m next. We gotta have a rally. Give us a start, big boy, I’ll bring you round. Wait and see if I don’t.”
“Roy, step up there and get me a hit. You’re better’n you’ve shown so far. Go get me a single. There goes Red!”
Red Allen was fast. But fast as he was, old Lanahan’s arm was faster. The runner almost beat the throw, but the ball was there ahead of him. No! Hammy dropped it. He dropped it! The coaches danced with delight on the base paths. Here’s where we go. Man on first and nobody out. The Kid grabbed the heavy bat. I can always hit better with men on bases, he thought. That was a slow ball Drewes threw Red, I noted particular. Hope he throws me a slow ball, I can hit ’em.
It was a slow ball and he caught it squarely. All he saw was old Cassidy urging him along from first, Lanahan dancing near second yet keeping well out of the path of his flying spikes, and then Charlie Draper back of third giving him the slide signal. The ball was still in the air as he felt the gorgeous touch of the canvas sack at his feet.
Now the Dodger dugout was alive with pepper and noise. For the first time since the first game they had a chance really to yell. Sitting on the step they shouted at him through cupped hands. Swanny’s substitute flied out, and for a moment they cooled down, but then Whitehouse, substituting for Karl C
ase, came up. He looked at the outfielders, surveyed the situation, knocked the dirt from his spikes. The pitcher wound up.
Another hit! McClusky and Gordon were both scampering after it. Once the ball landed, the Kid danced into the plate and stood watching McClusky reach it, fumble it momentarily, and then drop it. Finally he grabbed it and threw to Gordon, while Whitehouse, a jackrabbit on bases, was scooting round third and tearing for home. Turning to throw, Gordon slipped, caught himself, and burned the ball in hurriedly. The throw was wide and in a flurry of dust Whitehouse came across the plate with their third run.
They scored another, and somehow Fat Stuff hung on. He weakened toward the end, but sheer heart carried him through, for the only way he would go off the field was on a stretcher.
In a short while the game was over. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack their spikes sounded gaily on the concrete runway. Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch their spikes beat a joyful tune as they poured onto the wooden floor of the dressing room. Laughing, yelling, shouting, they threw themselves down.
“Swell playing, Roy....”
“Great work, Roy....”
“Thanks, Karl...thanks, Harry....”
“Nice going out there, Fat Stuff....”
“Meat and potatoes, oh, boy....”
“Nice hitting, Whitey....”
“Thanks, Chisel...how’s for a Coke?...”
“Whoopee...yippee....”
Yells, shouts, confusion. They sat shaking their fists at each other in triumph across the room. “I knew you could do it, Roy. Boy, did you bust that ball.”
“Yowser. Fellas, that’s one game we really wanted, I’m telling you all.”
“Great work, Fat Stuff. Great going out there.”
“Thanks, Harry, thanks, Roy....”
For a while they sat, exultant and perspiring, reading their fan mail and telegrams, too content to move, drinking Cokes and calling across the room to each other.
Now the photographers crowded in. The photographers had left them alone since their victory in the first game. Now they stood on tables, benches, chairs. They shot Fat Stuff shaking hands with Dave. They took Red in every conceivable pose. They came sparking their flashlights right in your face. Inside the manager’s room Dave was soon surrounded by sportswriters. The Dodgers were still in the race.
World Series Page 6