World Series

by John R. Tunis

“That’s the point. Seems he didn’t shave in Cleveland the day we were behind, and he’s been scared to shave ever since for fear we’d lose. That’s what eats him. He couldn’t go to the dinner last night ’cause he wasn’t shaved, and misses a new car all on account of it. He sure is sick about missing that car.”

  “Well, I shaved this morning. And I shaved myself, too,” said Razzle. “First I tried to get me a shave in the hotel barbershop, and like to bust that barber’s face in. While he’s tucking the towel under my chin, he turns to his buddy in the next chair and cracks, ‘If you ask me, that game yesterday was fixed, so’s they can play it out today for a big gate.’”

  Protests rose up and down the creaking bus.

  “Why, the big bum!”

  “Don’t he know the players haven’t any share in the gate after the fourth game?”

  “What’d you do, Raz?”

  “What’d I do? I ripped that towel offa my neck and jumped out of the chair and gave him a piece of my mind. ‘I ought to flatten your nose for that one,’ I told him. Then I beat it and went back to the room and shaved myself. I guess he’s still wondering who the blazes I was.”

  “He must have found out soon enough if he didn’t know then. Me, I want to win for old Dave Leonard.”

  “Same here.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Say, I’ll break a leg for that old man.”

  “Okay, boys, le’s win out there this afternoon for Dave.”

  “Yeah. We’ll grab this off for Leonard.”

  Suddenly there was a shout of joy from the front of the bus. Street and McCaffrey sitting by the driver rose in their seats, pointing across the avenue where a big truck was passing them. It was a truckload of barrels. To pass a load of hay before a game was bad luck. To pass a load of barrels was the best luck possible.

  The whole bus rose, staring after the truck and yelling. Oh, boy, what a break! They yelled and shouted as the ballpark came into sight. A load of barrels; just before facing Miller, too.

  How could they know the truck had been planted on that avenue at that exact moment by Dave Leonard?

  16

  THIS WAS DIFFERENT! It was the same room, the same scene, the same faces. Yet terribly different, too. In the corner were the black equipment trunks with BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB painted in red on the sides. There were the bats as usual slung on top of the green lockers, the shirts with their big numbers in blue hanging from wire hangers inside. There were Harry and Fat Stuff and Karl and Swanny and Rats and Jerry and the rest, all sitting about in various stages of undress. As usual Chiselbeak wound through the group, taking watches and money for the valuables trunk. In short, the same scene that took place before every game.

  But this was different! There was a different atmosphere in the room. No one was reading Casey’s column. Babe Stansworth had thrown away his crossword puzzle, and no card game was in progress. The usual gang playing rummy in front of Karl’s locker was missing, and the kibitzers who always hung over their shoulders were scattered. The room was oddly quiet. No jokes or wisecracks resounded; no one called to ask Razzle whether he had a date with his girl that evening. In fact, Raz was invisible. The team just sat. They sat solemnly on benches or stools by their lockers, pulling on their clothes, silent and subdued. This was different!

  That first afternoon the Kid had felt everything depended on their meeting. Now he realized how much really hung on this last meeting of all. And on the game to come. For Dave Leonard it meant a new contract and a job in the years ahead. A fat contract, too; that MacManus was a fast gent with a dollar. The same for Fat Stuff and Rats Doyle and all the older players. Under a new manager they’d be traded to Buffalo or Montreal. No room for sentiment in baseball. Baseball is a business.

  For each man on the squad, even for Chiselbeak and the Doc, that meeting or the game to follow might mean the difference between $6,400 and $4,400. For Razzle and himself and one or two others who had received commercial offers during the week, it would mean twice that much. If they won; if he batted .325. If he could only control his nerves and hit Miller. No wonder the room was quiet. Every man was thinking of what hung on that afternoon ahead.

  He peeled off his clothes, put on a pair of shower sandals, and sat there, thinking. Old Chisel passed, apparently the same as ever; but impressed, in spite of all he could do to prevent it showing, by the seriousness of the moment. The Kid handed Chisel his new gold wristwatch and his money for the valuables trunk. Then he rose and went over to the alcove where the Doc’s table stood. The Doc in white pants and a white undershirt was rubbing olive oil into Harry’s back to prevent colds. Harry climbed off the table, and without a word Roy stretched out while the Doc anointed him. Then he went back, pausing at the entrance to Dave’s little room. Dave was being strapped in a corset of tape over his back and thighs, with more tape around his legs. It was not a pretty sight. He turned. On the bulletin board were a dozen wires of good luck that had been pinned there by Chisel.

  “TELL THE BOYS WE HERE ARE BACKING THEM EVERY MINUTE TO WIN THE SERIES AND WE LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR RETURN TO FLORIDA NEXT WINTER. CLEARWATER TOURIST BUREAU.”

  From the town where they held spring training. He glanced at several other telegrams, realizing that he was hardly reading them. So back to his locker where he resumed dressing.

  For the last time he put on his sliding trunks and then sat down and pulled on his sweat socks and the outer socks over the sweat socks. Next he yanked at the long woolen undershirt which almost reached his knees. Then the baseball shirt with the big blue 34 on the back. Finally his trousers. Last of all he loosened his shoelaces but did not put on the shoes.

  “Meeting in five minutes, boys.” Charlie Draper passed briskly through the room. This was usually the signal for the various groups to break up, for the card game to end. That morning there were no chattering groups and no card games.

  Doggone, his shirt felt heavy. Outside the sun was shining. So he peeled off his outer shirt and the heavy woolen undershirt, and replaced it by a light one without sleeves. Then he leaned over and tugged at his shoes. Still he didn’t lace them. As a rule he kept them unlaced until the meeting was over.

  Two thousand! Two thousand and a lot more hangs on this ball game. Now if only Raz pitches a good game. He will, though. The Kid recollected the times Razzle had pulled them from behind during the season. Razzle’s a clutch pitcher. So it all depends on can we hit Miller. Can I hit him? That first time was no test. He really hadn’t hit Miller since the beaning. The beaning! Ten days ago. Only ten days as you counted time. But sixty years in actual space. Sixty years with every minute that continual bong-bong-bong. Yep, it depended on today. On this afternoon, on how he made out against Miller. On whether or not he was scared. A feeling came over him. He didn’t want to bat against Miller. He must be scared.

  Forget it. Here comes Dave.

  His toothpick in his mouth, as casual as ever, the old catcher entered the room followed by Draper, Cassidy, and Mike Sweeney, his brain trust. Draper had the big leather ball bag in his hand, Cassidy swung a bat, Dave walked stiffly.

  “Now, boys.” Silence, deeper than usual, settled over the room. Everyone sat up. Dave looked them over. A manager has to know all the men on the team, not five or six but everyone. He did know them; those who were a little numb, those who were tightened up, those who were tired mentally by the strain of coming from behind to win the last two games.

  “Now, boys. Le’s go out there and hustle this afternoon. We’re all going home tonight, so what say we try and have some fun?” They glanced up at his casual tone. The toothpick waggling in his mouth showed his nerves to those who knew him; but few noticed its significance. To them Dave seemed loose and free, the same as ever. Yet more depended on it for him than any of them.

  “Remember, there’s nothing to worry about. We’ve come from behind, we showed we could do it and we’ve done it again. Others have won three straight in the Series; the Tigers in nineteen and thirty-five, for i
nstance. If they can, you can. Once we get to Miller, it’s in the bag. Those lads are just as tired as you are, and after yesterday’s game they’ll be ready to have the jitters today the first time the breaks don’t go their way.

  “You men have all hit against Miller before, and I b’lieve you’ll do better this afternoon. He beat us in Cleveland, but he sure had luck that day. Don’t forget; he has a very, very sneaky low pitch. If you swing at that low pitch he’ll fool you every time.”

  The Kid tried to listen but he was hardly understanding the words. He was holding a meeting with himself. If I only don’t put my foot in the bucket. If only I’m not scared...

  “...What say we pitch different to old Gardiner? You notice he’s been hitting that first ball pretty reg’lar, and he’s hitting, too. I b’lieve we can slow up to Hammy more. Jim Dennis of the Senators tells me their pitchers always feed him slow balls. Remember, Miller breaks his fast ball down and away from you right-hand hitters, and he tries to crack it straight down on you left-hand hitters. Watch this. That hit-and-run brought us good luck. We’ll keep it up. Look out for it. Well...anyone got anything to ask before we go out there?”

  Roy heard his voice, queer and croaky. Faces turned toward him. “Say...say, I’d like to know when there’s a pitch-out. So’s I can back up first, see? That throw of yours yesterday, Dave, like to catch me flatfooted.”

  “Okay, Harry; you let Roy know. No, wait a minute. Red, you let him know, hey? Any time Red slaps the calf of his left leg, a pitch-out is on. D’you get that, Roy? Get it? Okay. All right now, boys, go out there and take ’em.

  “Hey, there....” Dave stared over the heads of the group at the back of the room as if he had seen a ghost. Actually he had seen one. It was Razzle, his face completely whitened with thick face powder.

  “Hey, there, Raz, what’s the matter with you?”

  “You told Casey yesterday you’d pitch the man who was the whitest, didn’t ya? Well, look at me!”

  The crowd roared. Dave joined in the laughter. The tension was broken as Dave turned and tossed him the ball. The room broke up in confusion.

  “All right, gang, le’s go....”

  “Yeah, le’s win this one. For Leonard.”

  “Whoops, le’s take this one for Dave.”

  “For Dave, sure, we’ll win the one that counts for Leonard.”

  “For Dave...for Leonard...okay, for old Dave then.” Clack-clack, clackety-clack their spikes sounded on the concrete runway to the field.

  17

  DAVE STEPPED ONTO the windswept park in the crisp sunshine. His gaze went first to the flags in center field. The flags were out straight. Fine! That meant the wind was coming in. It would hold back the drives of the Indian power hitters and help his own fielders. So far, so good.

  There seemed to be more reporters, photographers, radio men, and camp followers on the field back of the plate than on the first day, and the crowd milling around seemed larger than ever. Yet the stands were deserted. Roy, waiting to take his raps, remarked this to Rats Doyle.

  “Isn’t much of a crowd. Considering it’s the seventh and everything.”

  “Last game,” explained the old timer. “They always have trouble selling out this one. Folks are afraid they’ll have trouble getting tickets and don’t come out.” He stepped to the plate, while a voice sounded at the Kid’s elbow.

  “Will you, please...for an old ballplayer?” A score card was shoved in his hand, with a pencil. He glanced curiously at the man to see what he himself would be like in twenty years, and scrawled his name. “Thanks,” said the old fellow, moving away. Others noticed this, and immediately a messenger boy came up with a program. Then he was surrounded. They handed him baseballs, programs, score cards, scratch pads, and leather-covered autograph books. For some time he stood signing, his bat under his arm. Then it was his turn, and he broke away to go to the plate. The plate itself had been newly painted. It was fresh and white and there were clean neat spike-marks in the clay.

  When he returned to the dugout waving his bat, he found Harry sitting on top of the bench, his feet on the board seat below, laughing at a girl who was taking his picture from outside.

  “Yes, ma’am, go right ahead and break your machine if you want to.” The old pop-off. Harry was loose; anyone could see he was loose. Several sportswriters climbed down inside.

  “H’ya, Sandy.”

  “Hullo there, Rex.”

  “Good morning, Tommy.” A couple more followed. They surrounded the Kid on the bench, asking questions.

  “How you feel, Roy?”

  “Me? I’m all right.”

  “Feel any different?”

  “No. ’Course I don’t feel different.” Yet inside he realized he did feel different. Except for the bunting over the upper and lower tiers and the flags and the band, the Series was much like an ordinary game. Not the last one, with all that money hanging on it. You felt different, no matter what anyone said. Before the dugout he noticed Razzle, also encircled by a group of reporters. Then the big pitcher broke away, took his glove from his hip pocket, and walked out onto the field. The Kid understood. He wanted to be alone, to get away from foolish questions, autograph collectors, photographers, and sports-writers.

  From his seat the Kid could look into the

  Cleveland dugout across the way. Baker sitting on the step watching the Dodger hitters was apparently as unconcerned as Dave, who just then was signing for a telegram with a casual air, talking to Casey all the while. He opened the telegram and passed it down the bench. An enormous affair, the telegram when unfolded was almost six feet long.

  “WE HERE IN CLEARWATER TAKE THIS MEANS OF WISHING YOU LUCK TODAY.”

  There were hundreds of signatures. A group gathered round, and several photographers knelt outside the dugout, snapping Harry and Rats together glancing over the names.

  “CLANG-CLANG-CLANG” went the bell. Fat Stuff came into the dugout, swinging his bat and grumbling. “Twenty years it’s been like that. I go up to bat and what happens? The bell rings.” With disgust he shoved his bat into its slot in the bat rack, murmuring to himself, “Why shouldn’t pitchers have a crack at the ball once in a while?”

  The rest of the team returned, slapping their bats into place, knocking the dirt from their spikes on the stone step of the dugout. Then spreading themselves on the seat, they watched the Indians full of fire and pepper take the field.

  Glancing down the bench Roy could tell the ones who were tight by the way they sat, chins cupped in their hands, staring at the figures in the field. And those who were loose, too, like Harry with his arms over the back of the bench, relaxed and talking with Casey. “We’re sure gonna tie into ’em today....”A few were concentrated on their rivals lining out drives at the plate; others were just dreaming. But all were thinking the same thing: can we hit Gene Miller?

  From above them came the sounds and cries of the ballpark. “...can’t tell the players without a score card...get ’em red-hot...they’re red-hot...peanuts and popcorn...peanuts and popcorn...who’s next...anybody else wanna cold drink...anyone else...only twenty-five cents...score cards...”

  Then a voice came over the loudspeaker and a sudden sharp yell greeted the words:

  “For Brooklyn, No. 14...Nugent....”

  The fans were on edge. Miller against Nugent. A struggle of giants, with fifty thousand dollars depending on every inning, every pitch, every play.

  Then came that moment which took place before every game, a moment usually unperceived by the crowd. But Roy, realizing its significance, could never see it without a catch in his throat. A lonely group of half a dozen players—pitchers and catchers—detached themselves from the dugout and walked slowly across the field. Relief men going to the bullpen. Just in case.

  The band struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner” and everyone rose on the bench, cap in hand. The last notes died away and an outburst of chatter went up and down the line; their way of trying to allay their tension as the b
ig moment drew near. Together they boiled out of the dugout. In the movement forward, the Kid jostled sleeves with Ed and Swanny on each side. That friendly touch gave him courage. Anyhow the Dodgers were a team, they were a unit, all in it together.

  He raced toward right. The stands rose as he passed. Coming into his position he faced the bleachers in deep right center where the Knot Hole Gang was sitting. Now they were on their feet, shouting through their hands, yelling encouragement. He could even distinguish voices in the roar.

  “Go get ’em, Roy....”

  “You can do it, Tuck....”

  “Give us one them homers, Roy....”

  “Atta boy, Kid....”

  They knew him. And he knew them. Through those terrible periods of July and August they had stayed behind the team; winning or losing, in rain, cold, wind, heat, they were always there. Here they were for the last game of all, his friends, sticking with him to the very end.

  Say, it was swell to play in Brooklyn. He wouldn’t want to play anywhere else. They knew him, this gang, and he knew them. Nearing his position, he waved and the crowd howled with delight.

  A guy was lucky to be able to play ball for a crowd like that. With a manager like Dave Leonard behind you.

  18

  MCCLUSKY SWUNG hard and missed the ball. Instead of stepping from the box and rubbing his hands on his uniform as he usually did whenever he swung from his ears, he walked ten feet away and scooped up a handful of dirt. Roy, watching closely, knew immediately what this meant. McClusky was nervous. The Indian batters were tight, too.

  A minute later they were coming in to the dugout. Nearing first, the Kid saw Razzle go through his customary pantomime. As he neared the foul line on his way from the box to the bench the big pitcher tossed his glove some distance ahead. It fell toward the dugout, and on getting to it he leaned over and turned the glove upside down. Then he walked in to the bench.

  “Just get me one run, gang, that’s all. One run, that’s all I ask; one run.”