World Series

by John R. Tunis

  Shoot! That’s no good. The bench leaned back together in resignation as Red Allen flied to Rock.

  “Now then, Roy, what say we go places....”

  “Okay, Kid, you can do it....”

  “Unbutton your shirt up there, Roy....”

  He stepped to the plate. In the box the big pitcher stood motionless on the rubber, arms on his hips, legs apart, looking inquiringly at McCormick. All the friendly look had vanished. In its place was an ugly grin, and with that tooth missing in front he seemed to Roy the meanest man he ever faced. The bong-bong-bong in the Kid’s head sounded louder than ever while the pitcher shook off his catcher and then, nodding, went into his wind-up. Roy connected with a hook on the first pitch and started for first as if he were running a hundred yard dash. Close; but the ball was ahead of him. Returning to the dugout he felt a tremendous sense of relief, almost light and happy. It might be three innings before he’d have to bat again.

  With both pitchers throwing airtight ball, the innings went by rapidly and it hardly seemed any time before they were swarming back into the dugout at the end of the third, the score still nothing to nothing.

  Then in the fourth inning things happened. The Kid realized as he had so often before that every situation in baseball was different and that new situations arose every day. The top of the Cleveland batting order was up, with Lanahan at bat. He smacked a hard drive near first for which Red ran desperately. He stabbed at it and missed. Roy was waiting and froze the ball, but Lanahan was safe on first.

  Raz went back to the mound and he and Dave started to work on McClusky with care. The Kid dug the dirt from his spikes, set himself ready to move, flexed his arm...

  An easy out. A grounder. A doubleplay ball. In fact the perfect doubleplay ball, a rolling grounder to Harry, right where he liked it on his throwing side. Directly the ball was hit Roy broke in toward second, although Harry was never known to mess up the throw from any position. Nor did he; the throw was chest high and perfect. With desperation Lanahan slid into second. Then realizing he was beaten, he dug his spikes into Ed’s left leg, bowling him over before he could snap the ball to first. It dribbled dangerously along the dirt toward the grass in right field.

  Instantly the situation changed. The Cleveland coaches on the base lines became dancing figures, on their toes yelling. The stands rose shrieking. The whole diamond was alive with shouts and the figures of racing men, as Lanahan jumped up and dashed for third while McClusky turning first darted for second. This might well be the game, the fifty thousand dollar break, the whole thing. The two runners tore for the forward bases as the ball bounded aimlessly.

  Roy, charging in, saw Lanahan’s trick, saw the loose ball, and bore down with everything he had. There was still a chance, a good chance. He neared the ball lying motionless on the grass.

  “Third...third...hurry up...take yer time...third...Roy....”

  Timing his stride exactly, he scooped the ball up with his bare hand while still on the run and, raging inside, rifled it into third all in the same motion. Jerry, the old reliable, was waiting. He whanged the ball on Lanahan and shot it back to second. McClusky had overslid the bag and before he could scramble to safety Ed had completed the double play.

  A roar rose all round the diamond as in the flash of a few seconds the situation shifted from confidence to disaster and back again to confidence. Heads-up ball had saved them momentarily. A minute later they trooped back to the dugout, panting, hot, weary. No wonder Ed dropped that ball. He showed an ugly gash down the side of his leg and even his shoe was so cut and ripped as to be unwearable. The team gathered round as the Doc patched him up with tape and brought out another shoe. Then they settled back. Dave leaned down the bench approvingly.

  “That’s picking them up, there, Roy. Did me good to see you go for that ball.”

  “Boy, you really can throw that old apple,” said Jerry. “Like to bum my hands offa me.”

  He felt encouraged by their words which gave him strength and confidence. “Okay, Razzle, we’ll go get you your run this inning; just you see if we don’t.”

  Allen up, Tucker in the hole. Dave called down the bench to the Kid as he pulled his bat from the slot.

  “Now, Roy, go get me a single. Just a single, will ya?”

  “Only one run, that’s all I ask, only one run, Tuck old kid.” By gosh they’d get it, too. This was the inning.

  On one knee in the circle, now almost enshadowed, he watched Red take the first one, swing hard at a hook, and then crack the next pitch on the nose.

  “ITS A HIT! A HIT! OH, BOY! ITS A HIT!”

  A hit it was, the first real clean hit of the game, a scorching drive which Gordon fielded well to hold Red from going to second. The Kid watched anxiously but Cassidy held him at first.

  He stepped to the plate, determined to forget the bonging in his head, the swoosh of Miller’s fast one close in, the nearness of the big man in the box. Miller looked as diabolical as ever on that mound. Once again he shook off his catcher. Roy took the signal and watched one go past, right across. Then expecting a fast ball, he hit. It was a slow grounder, a grass cutter beyond Hammy and far to the left of Gardiner. But that old man was fast just the same, he was going hard, and Roy dug in, giving everything he had, straining as if the game itself depended on his speed. A burst of noise came from the stands as he flashed past the bag. Safe!

  There! That would spark ’em. That would start the boys below him rolling. Two hits in succession off the great Miller. Panting and heaving from his effort, he stood on first watching the signals.

  Swanny at the plate rubbed his uniform, thinking he’d take the first one. Ball. Then Swanny made a gesture which left Roy puzzled. This was important. Mustn’t make any mistake, because the way the two pitchers were going this inning might decide the whole game. So he leaned over and tied his shoe to indicate that he had missed the signal. Charlie Draper back of third base hitched his belt. Roy, one foot on the bag, hitched his to show he understood. A hit-and-run on the third pitch.

  “Strrrike...” growled old Stubblebeard back of the plate. One and one. Here was the pay-off pitch. Now for it. There...there....

  Swanny swung a trifle late and only got a piece of the ball. The result was a nicely hopping roller between first and second. Gardiner, back on the grass, came forward a few feet and instantly the Kid saw what was coming: the quick throw to second, the one to first to nab Swanny, the doubleplay for which the two old timers were famous, which they had made thousands of times in their baseball career. The Dodger rally would be killed at the start.

  Nearer, nearer came the ball. With an extra burst of speed he dived at it and let the ball catch him full on the thigh. It caromed off and bounded away. Gardiner ran to retrieve the ball, but Swanny was automatically safe at first and Red was still securely perched on second, having checked his dive for third when he saw the play.

  He came back to the bench. One down, but there was no doubleplay. Or maybe he should have done what Lanahan had done in the same situation. “Was that the right play there, Dave, or should I have slid into Lanny to break it up?”

  “Just right, Roy. You did the smart thing. Now boys, one down.”

  Beyond him on the bench sat Razzle, pulling at his cap and repeating half to himself, “Only one run, boys, give me one run. That’s all I ask, one run.”

  “One down. Only one down,” shouted the coaches, holding up a finger. From the bleachers in right came the roar of his gang pleading for a hit.

  Karl Case tried hard to respond. His best effort was a pop-up to Lanahan. Two down. Run on anything. Now, Harry, it’s up to you, old timer. The coaches were yelling, the stands yowling for a hit. Harry’s effort wasn’t much. A looping Lena that Hammy couldn’t quite reach back of first. Gordon running full tilt came racing in, his glove outstretched. He reached out, missed, and the ball fell safe in the field. Red racing hard came across with Razzle’s run. The Dodgers were in the lead at last.

  Jerry Strong, t
he next man up, struck out with Swanny stranded on third. The inning was over but they had the fifty thousand dollar run. They’d given Razzle the run he asked for. Now they only had to protect that lead.

  Easy and loose, Roy trotted out to the field, passing Gordon, hot, panting, angry.

  “Boy, were you lucky on that one! Six inches closer and I’d had it.”

  “Yeah, maybe, Bruce. Well, class’ll tell,” responded the Kid lightheartedly. Who said we were licked? As Casey put it, there’s no quit in the Dodgers.

  Ahead of him the boys in the bleachers were on their feet, yelling. They yelled and yelled insistently, so he yanked at his cap. They yelled louder. Say, with a gang like that back of you every minute, with a manager like old Dave at the plate, no wonder they’d come from behind to win.

  19

  FOR ALMOST THE first time since the second game the pressure was on the Indians. This the Dodgers realized. One saw it in their attitude, in their confident manner, in the loud and breezy crackle around the infield, in Karl’s sharp tones from left center, in Swanny’s deep boom, encouraging, supporting. While all the time Raz towered on the mound, master of the situation.

  Now the pressure was off the Dodgers. They had that vital, precious run. It was a question of which pitcher would crack first. Inning after inning passed. The shadows slowly lengthened to cover more and more of the diamond. All over the stands the fans rose to slip on overcoats. And every minute victory came closer and closer.

  They came into the seventh with only nine more outs to get; only nine men between them and victory. It was beautiful to watch Raz and Dave despite their fatigue go to work on Gordon. To see them together in harmony gave the Kid added courage. We’ll get this man for you, Raz. Let him hit it. First the batter swung at a fast one. Then he watched a ball, and on the third swung again from his ears. The crowd jeered. He fouled an outside pitch. Raz had him. Raz was ahead of the batters. The man at the plate swung, swung viciously, missing a mean one close to his body. First man. Only eight to go.

  The ball snapped briskly round the infield and was finally thrown to Harry. Every team has one man who feeds the ball to the pitcher. On the Dodgers it was Street.

  That’s pitching, Raz old boy, old kid. That’s chucking, that is. Why, Bruce like to swing himself clean into his dugout on that-there pitch. Say, is Raz a pitcher! Six, nope, five strikeouts so far. He’s a clutch pitcher, old Raz is. Now for McCormick. Mac is just a bread-and-butter player at bat.

  “Okay, Raz old boy, let him hit.”

  Raz smoothed the dirt before the rubber, hitched his shirt, raised his arms and stood watching Dave with care. Getting the sign he nodded, looked round, and went to work. Mac swung with all his strength. The ball popped into Dave’s mitt and again the chatter rose from the diamond. Boy, if he’d hit that one he’d have plunked it over the fence. Anxiously the Kid backed up a few yards. He’s hitting hard. He sure is trying. But Raz is too good for him.

  Look out! From deep right Roy saw Mac suddenly set his feet and dump a perfect bunt along the third base line. Jerry deep on the grass was caught unexpectedly on his heels. Charging in fast, he stabbed at the ball with one hand, missed it, and the hit went for a single. Immediately a burst of noise came from the Indian dugout. With reluctance the Kid admitted to himself the smartness of the play. They swing from their ears and set us up for a hard hit ball, then they bunt one. That’s smart baseball. That’s crossing us up, all right.

  The Indians came to the step of their dugout, shouting. The bench was all in shadow; so was most of the infield as Roy stood wondering whether Baker would throw in a pinch hitter for big Miller. Then Miller, muffled up in a sweater, came to the plate. He remembered that Miller was not a bad hitter. He wasn’t any slouch at the bat.

  Supremely confident of a Dodger victory, the crowd could afford to be generous and gave him a big hand. The Cleveland star had pitched a grand game, his third in the Series, holding them down to one clean hit in six innings. Raz went to work with care. The pressure was on the batter but that old right field fence beckoned and a single poor throw could mean disaster. He fed Miller a couple of teasing pitches. Gene was not tempted. He was no two o’clock hitter. Then Raz sneaked over a strike. 2 and 1.

  The next ball Miller hit, hit hard. It went on a line toward third. Jerry with a lunge reached it, knocked it down, and deflected its movement. The ball rolled toward the stands while the diamond dissolved in movement. Jerry hustled over for it inside the foul line, Karl dashed in vainly from left, McCormick rounded second, Harry ran to cover third, and Miller lumbered past first. The stands rose, watching anxiously as Jerry pursued the bounding ball. Now Mac was nearing third, streaking for home, Miller almost at second. Too late to save the run.

  “Third, Jerry, take yer time...hurry up....” The tieing run was across; the teams were even again.

  Then without any cause, without any rhyme or reason, the Dodger defense faltered. The strain suddenly told. That infield which had played faultless ball for so many games all at once crumpled and cracked. An easy bounder of Lanny’s drew a bad throw from Harry who never made bad throws. It took Red off the bag long enough to plant runners on first and second. Now the fifty thousand dollars really hung on every single pitch. The noise of the dugouts lessened, the roar of the stands died away as the shadows lengthened across the field. Quiet hung about the diamond while Raz hitched his belt, stuffed in his shirt, and taking his glove from under his armpit stepped to the rubber.

  McClusky smacked the first pitch. A line drive between first and second, the kind of a hit Ed ordinarily would have had in his pocket. He ran over, failed to touch it, and the ball went through Roy saw it coming, bouncing toward him along the ground, and picking up the dribbling sphere he turned and threw to second. Instantly he realized his error. He should have thrown home. They could have nabbed Gene Miller who was tearing for the plate. Or anyhow held him at third.

  Miller took over the second run and a minute later when Gardiner flied deep to Karl, Lanny came across with the third. Rock ended the inning by popping to Harry and three runs had been scored. Three to one. There was little to say after an inning like that, and most of them were far too numb to talk. Imagine, throwing a game away on easy chances.

  Holy suffering Codfish, thought Roy, if only I hadn’t booted that one, we’d only be one run behind. I threw it away on that bonehead play. Usually my throwing instincts are good, too; usually I make the right play. Well, the boys won’t hold it against me. All they ask is, a man should hustle. I’ll hustle now. See if I don’t.

  But like the rest, in his heart he knew they were up against it. That’s baseball. One bad inning and bang goes fifty thousand dollars. Six innings of first class pitching, then a couple of simple mistakes and the game is lost. One moment you have a world’s championship in your hands. Then next you’re two runs behind.

  “Who’s up? Karl? Okay, Case old boy, give us a hit. Start things moving, will ya?”

  But that three-run inning had given confidence to the Indians and strengthened their worn and haggard pitcher. They were relaxed and loose behind Miller, and he was loose, too, for when a pitcher is hitting well you can be sure he hasn’t any nerves. Gardiner knocked down a drive to nip Karl by inches at first. Harry popped to McCormick. Jerry tried hard with no luck, and Lanahan tagged his liner.

  Start of the eighth. The diamond and most of the outfield was deep in shadow, giving every Dodger a feeling of desperation as he walked to his position. Like a menace of approaching doom those lengthening shadows foretold disaster...unless they got two runs. Two runs anyway; we’ll settle for two runs but we really need three. Two runs for Dave, fellas, we gotta grab us off two runs for Leonard. Behind the plate the old catcher went wearily into his crouch. Ed nailed Hammy at first. Then Dave waved the Kid toward right for Painter, always a dangerous man. The batter smacked a wicked liner at Roy. In fact he stood to take it without even moving his feet. Dave knew the hitters all right, Dave sure knew the batters. Raz th
en struck out Gordon. Say, he hasn’t given up, he’s really bearing down as much as ever, old Razzle is. What a money player. Hot, sweating, anxious, they trooped into the dugout for the end of the eighth.

  Ed Davis, the first man up, flied out to center field.

  Dave had unbuckled his shin guards and taken his bat from the boy.

  “Okay, Dave, here’s where we pick you up.”

  “Le’s get ’em back, Dave, and more, too.”

  The Kid took a drink of water and squeezed in beside Raz, who was pulling on a sweater.

  “How you feel, Raz?”

  Razzle rubbed his right leg. “The old pusher’s kinda tired. If only we can pick up a couple of runs.” His eyes were on Dave walking to the plate. Roy followed his gaze, noticing how sore and stiff the catcher was. He even limped slightly as he went into the batter’s box. And we let him down, me, and Harry, and Ed, and Strong. We let him down. Now it’s up to us to come through for him. We gotta come through for Dave.

  A double! A clean one, sailing over third and falling safe inside the left foul line. Now we’re off. Boy, is that old man a ballplayer! Is he there in the clutch! Raz is up. Raz, however, was sitting quietly on the bench. He’s pulling Razzle. Yep, he’s pulling him. The Babe is gonna bat.

  A voice over the loudspeaker tried hard to outshout the crowd but lost the decision as big Stansworth, his taped thumb in evidence, came to the plate. The Babe was a favorite of the bleachers. His clumsy and familiar figure shuffling to bat drew heartening cheers round the dusk-covered field.

  One down. Leonard on second, Stansworth at bat. By gosh! He won’t...yes, he’s passing him. That’s not percentage ball. Guess Baker’s playing a hunch here. It looked like it as the Cleveland catcher stepped to the side of the plate and received four wide ones in his mitt.

  Stansworth trotted down to first, where he was immediately relieved by Roth as a runner. First and second, one down. A roar started in the bleachers. It began with the gang in right, spread to the stands in left, caught hold of the mob behind third, back of the plate, and rose, a loud, continuous shout. They shrieked, they pleaded for a hit as Red whacked his bat on the plate. Along the bench no one could sit still. The gang stood, clapping their hands, yelling at the batter. As he fouled one off they jumped out, watching the ball’s curve into the stands. 1 and 1. An important pitch.