Kid Comes Back

by John R. Tunis

  As he raced ahead he saw the first baseman had been caught cold. The pitcher had to come across, scoop it up, and throw all in one motion. Consequently his hurried toss was low and wide, getting away from the man on the bag. Roy without pausing in his stride took a sharp turn around first, his spikes gnawing holes in the basepath, and lit out for second. This was going to be close, awfully close, so he slid in with a hook through a storm of dust, once again drawing a quick throw that was low and difficult for the fielder to handle.

  Watching as he slid in, Roy realized at once that the ball was getting away from the man above him and dribbling behind into open territory. Without checking his slide, he rose in one movement, came up and was off for third, while shortstop, second baseman, and fielder chased the ball. He was in pay dirt now, with Charlie, back of the bag, yelling at him to slide. Determined not to be caught, he roared into third and flung himself with a perfect tumble for the corner of the bag. Actually the throw was high enough so that the fielder never even reached for him.

  He stood there panting, wiping off his monkey suit, the sweet music from the fans in his ears, the bleachers in deep center fermenting with excitement. Yes, the doctor was right. He was as fast as ever.

  The harassed pitcher held a conference with his manager. Then he passed Swanson. It was good tactics, for one run would win and the old reliable was always a dangerous man. Next he went to work on Young.

  With men on first and third, no one out, and the fans shrieking their heads off on every side, the pitcher stood there, impassive as though it was his first inning on the mound. Then he warmed up. A slider over the corner, a wasted ball round Lester’s neck, a fast ball that was smoke, a curve that broke with Young’s bat on his shoulder—and that was that. Lester went back to the bench.

  Alan Whitehouse walked up to the plate. The pitcher stood in the box with his hands on his hips, glancing at Roy on third and Swanny on first, surveying the best pinch-hitter in the league, needed now if ever. Alan took the first two pitches, a strike and a ball. Then Charlie Draper put on the hit-and-run. Roy rubbed the left leg of his pants to show he had the sign, and danced up and down the baseline in foul territory, so as not to be struck by a batted ball.

  He was off with that full-sounding smack of bat on ball, only to hear Charlie’s warning shriek behind him. Realizing it was a fly, he dug in, turned, came back and tagged up. The ball was hit to left field, a good average fly, not deep, and not a short one either. Roy got set five feet back of the bag along the foul line, watching closely over one shoulder. Then he turned. Taking a running start, he hit the bag exactly the second the ball was caught, and struck out for home with every ounce he had.

  That everything depended upon him he knew. This was their chance, this was their big moment, because Spike had no good pitcher left to put in if the game continued. That the throw-in would be close he was sure, because the Cub left fielder had one of the best arms in baseball. So he gave it the works. Forgotten was his weak leg and the months of pain and agony behind him. He only thought of the run they needed and the plate ahead.

  On a play of this kind, most runners “put their heads down and go,” as the old-timers say. Not Roy Tucker. He had been taught always to keep his wits about him and watch for the whereabouts of the ball. Instead of running head down, full tilt for the plate, as he charged toward home he kept his eyes upon the catcher. Seeing the receiver’s position, he instantly saw that a straight slide would be sure death. So ignoring a possible injury, he hurled himself forward, rolling toward the right side of the platter, reaching for it with outstretched arm. Above was the catcher, slashing round, lunging for him in vain.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE WINDOWS WERE high up along one wall of the big room, about halfway to the lofty ceiling. Around three sides were the lockers, six feet high and open in front, with a shelf near the top. There was a large weighing machine beside the door, and to the left as you entered was a small room with two rubbing tables and the Doc’s electric diathermy machine. Back of it was Spike’s dressing room, separated from the players’ quarters by a wire grill. And to the left of the main door was a large blackboard, with a chalked notice written on it.

  TRAIN LEAVES GRAND CENTRAL FOR ST. LOUIS TONIGHT AT 9:00 P. M. ALL UNIFORMS TO BE HANDED IN AFTER THE GAME. MGR.

  The blue trunks with the red borders and the big letters in paint on the sides: BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB, were in the middle of the floor, half filled with clean uniforms. Near the outer door stood the bat trunk, ready to be hauled onto the field as soon as the game was over, for the bats to be stacked inside. Everything spoke of departure, of travel. The team was on the road again.

  The Dodgers were off to battle abroad. But it wasn’t the same ballclub that it had been three weeks previously. Things happen fast in Flatbush. That 9-game lead looked as safe as a church in mid-July. To catch the Dodgers, as Casey remarked, would take a writ of mandamus. It all seemed so easy then with everyone loose and confident, but when the first week of August rolled round and that margin had been peeled off to a couple of games, it wasn’t quite so nice. Now the worst of the summer lay ahead, the intolerable heat of the middle west, with the whole National League hotter than a three-alarm fire. For only twelve games separated the first and eighth place clubs, and three of them, the Giants, the Cubs, and the Cards, all within a few games of the top, were breathing heavily down the Dodgers’ tanned necks.

  What had happened?

  Yanking at his pants in his room after the game, Spike glumly tried to explain things to Casey and two reporters assigned to the club from the New York papers. The Dodgers had just blown their sixth straight game. You could feel the tension in the clubhouse as the men trooped in, disappointed and disgusted.

  “Why, no, Jim, frankly, I don’t agree. It isn’t any disgrace to lose to those Cubs; they’re a fine ballclub right now. Sure, we beat them in Chicago badly the last trip; they were in a slump. O.K., we’re in a slump now. What of it? Haven’t we got a right to one slump a season? The Giants had theirs in the spring, the Cards had theirs in June, and the Cubs in July. We’ll work out of it, same as the others did.

  “How’s that, Roscoe? Sure we’ve been held up by injuries. Jocko Klein split his thumb on a foul tip. My brother’s legs? Well, they’re a bit rusty after four years in the service; why wouldn’t they be? I realize with Swanny suffering from a charley horse that the right side of the infield looks like a sieve now. Frank Havens hasn’t really panned out on first the way I hoped either. Don’t print that, fellas; don’t print that, please. We’ll fight back—you wait and see.”

  Spike Russell never quit on his team, especially for publication. Yet that night in his compartment on the Southwestern he was gloomy. Surrounded by his brain-trusters, Charlie Draper and Red Cassidy, the coaches, and Fat Stuff, the wise old pitcher, he felt low. Things were worse than he really cared to admit in public.

  “Le’s see now, who does that leave for Cincinnati?”

  “Mike’s out until Monday with a cold; the Doc says Jerry Fielding is coming down with one too.”

  “I wish air conditioning had never been invented. You lose more pitchers through colds caught in air-conditioned rooms than through sore arms.”

  “We used Raz day before yesterday, and you were saving Ed Stone for the Reds. They hate knuckle-balls and he has a good one.”

  “Spike, why not let me take another crack in Cincinnati? I always had good luck there.”

  “You, Fat Stuff? Why, you were supposed to be a relief pitcher. Shucks, you’ve been starting more games this last month than the kids.”

  “That’s O.K. with yours truly.”

  “I don’t like the idea. Things really are tough when you get to using a relief pitcher regularly. Hang it all, Charlie, I thought shaking up the batting order might help. Then what happens? Young comes up with two on in the ninth and a chance to win the game, and...”

  “Strikes out!” Charlie Draper lit a cigar. “Spike, let me tell ya, I never knew it t
o fail. When you have a guy in your line-up who isn’t hitting, it makes no diff where you hide him. He’s sure to come up when he can do you the most harm.”

  “Right!” said the old pitcher. “And lemme tell you, if he doesn’t strike out he hits into a double-play. Well, I dunno about you fellas, but I’m all played out. Guess I’ll turn in.” He stood up. “Don’t you worry, Spike. We got you out of worse holes than this; we’ll yank you out of this one in a week. Watch our dust when we start to move.”

  Trouble, however, is hard for a losing club to shake. Paul Roth, who had been fielding brilliantly in left and had been up with the leading hitters in the league all season, came down with Lester Young’s disease and fell into a batting slump. Frank Havens, the rookie on first, cost them a game in St. Louis by a bad error at a critical moment, and was far from a steadying influence over the infield. But good first sackers aren’t a dime a dozen in mid-season, so Spike simply had to make the best of it. Then in Chicago the whole thing blew up.

  They opened with a double-header against the Cubs, pacing the National League at the moment and only a game and a half back. The accumulated pressure of too much work caught up with Raz Nugent, and he found himself in trouble in the first game. Before Fat Stuff could warm up and get in to put out the fire, the Bruins were ahead, 8 to 5, and finally won the game by that score.

  The second game was a heart-breaker. Earl Wingate, the Chicago star, was tieing the Brooks in knots, handcuffing the hitters, doing everything but making them throw their bats away. Young Jerry Fielding was almost as effective. It was, in fact, a replica of that extraordinary game in Brooklyn, with no score up to the eighth inning.

  Then in the Cub’s at bat, with two away and Jerry completely master of the situation, the batter hit a high foul near the right field stands. The ball seemed to be dropping into the boxes, so Havens ran over a few yards, stopped, and stood watching. Actually, the wind brought it back and it fell just inside the railing. The boxes in Wrigley Field are on a level with the field and it would have been easy to have reached over and snared that fly. On the next pitch, the batter pulled one down the right field line for two. Jerry became upset. He lost control momentarily, passed the next man, and then the catcher came up to clear the bags with a triple to the center field bleachers that Lester Young played badly. The final score was 2–0. The Cubs led the league by half a game.

  It was after supper when Roy walked down the corridor to his room in the Edgewater Beach Hotel where the club was staying. An evening thunderstorm was coming in from the lake, and the wind happened to blow open a door at one side, disclosing an amazing spectacle. A big chap in shirt sleeves stood swinging a bat before a mirror. There was a puzzled frown on his forehead. He turned as the door banged, to see Roy standing there in the hallway.

  “Roy! See here a minute, boy. Look at me, tell me what I’m doing wrong, will ya? You know, I heard of golfers fixing up their troubles by swinging before a mirror, so I brought this-here bat back with me tonight. Darned if I can figger out what’s wrong.” Lester Young stood there, stepping and swinging, stepping and swinging, stepping and swinging. Then he sank despondently into a chair.

  “Twenty for one! Say, I bet that’s about the worst record any Dodger had for years. Why, I haven’t got a hit for so long I’ll need a guide to show me the way to first base. I’ve tried everything but nothing works. Had a million tips telling me what to do; wandered about looking for hairpins and a load of barrels, only the women don’t wear hairpins any more, and the boys, looks like they all drink beer out of bottles.”

  Roy laughed. “Les, you sure got yourself all tied up, haven’t you? I was the same way when I first came up to the big club.”

  “You were! I always figgered you were a born hitter.”

  “No, sir, I wasn’t a born hitter. I made myself, I taught myself to hit. Lester, I picked up your bat the other day. It’s light. Why don’t you use Swanny’s club; you’re strong enough to use that bat of his. Go up there and put the wood on the ball.”

  “Mebbe I could. That won’t get me out of this slump.”

  “Well, I watched you last few games; I wonder isn’t your timing off. Think perhaps you’re striding too soon. Hit what you see, don’t anticipate too much; when it gets over the plate, swing. This’ll keep you from striding too soon. Watch that ball; you know how ’tis, even the best hitters get a spell when they take their eyes off it. You’re a good batter, must be some reason you fell off. I watched you at the plate; I think that’s it.”

  Lester grabbed the bat from the corner again, stepped forward, and swung it before the mirror. “By ginger, I believe you got something there, Kid, I really do.” He stepped once more, swinging the bat again and again. Then he turned.

  “Ya know, Roy, we’d be well out in front in this race if I’d done any hitting at all the past month. I believe I’ll snap out of it. Say, you’re an okay guy to help me when I’m grabbing your spot on the club... and all...”

  The door shut with a bang. “Nope, Lester, that’s not the way to look at it. What helps you, helps us all. I’ll get my cut of the Series dough if we win, whether I’m a regular or not. That’s how the boys are; they’ll vote it to me, that’s the spirit on this-here club. Last year, Spike had no third baseman, so he yanks Swanny in from right field. That guy isn’t young any more; likely you’ve noticed he always wears a hat; his hair is thin on top. He was a star when I came up before the war. Well, it would have got some men down to leave that nice quiet spot in right for the hot corner, to break into a new position at his age, and in the middle of the season, too. You know, a fella takes lots of pounding round third, and lemme tell you, Lester, that old whip of his saved us more than one game. Yes, sir, it’s why we ended up in the first division.”

  A knock, short, sharp. They stood there, Roy by the bed, Lester before the mirror, bat in hand.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened. Spike Russell stood there, a bunch of papers in his hand. He glanced at them both, at Lester’s bat. They looked at him, at the furrow over his forehead which had deepened in the past few months. He nodded to each.

  Roy immediately started toward the door. “Hello there, Spike. Good night, Lester.”

  The manager came in and shut the door. “Hold on a second. This concerns you both. Roy, you’re going back in at your old spot tomorrow. Lester, I’m putting you on first.”

  Back again! Back with the boys. Down inside was a warm feeling, a glow that enveloped Roy, a feeling so deep he could not think of one thing to say. Back with the crowd, back in there with the team, fighting. His hand was on the doorknob. Then his eyes caught Lester’s face and his expression of bewilderment and disgust. Roy stood there a moment, looking. “O.K., Skipper, good night.” He was gone.

  Lester turned immediately. “Look here, Spike, you can’t... I mean... I can’t... I mean, I haven’t played any at first for years now. I’m an outfielder... I came up as an outfielder... this batting slump won’t last... I can’t... shucks, I don’t wanna...”

  The young manager with the old look around his tired eyes came over and sat down on the bed. He tucked one leg under his knee, lit a cigarette, and reached for an ashtray. “Sit down, Lester. This is one club where you do what you’re told!”

  “Yeah? Zat so! Looka here, Spike Russell, get this, will ya? I don’t hafta play for you or anyone else. I can go back to Milwaukee tomorrow. Just don’t kid yourself...”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Lester, like you’ve been doing quite some time now. Lemme tell you a few things. We need a first baseman real bad, someone we can throw at with confidence. It’s been our weak spot all season. First-off, at the start of the year, I tried Denny Pownall. He couldn’t hit high school pitching, so we brought Havens up from Montreal. Today he played that fly ball as if it was loaded; that rockhead cost us the second game by not running for the foul there back of first. If we’re not tryers on this club, we’re nothing. There’s no place here for a man who doesn’t try. So he’s out. I
think you can be made into a better than average first sacker. I think when you get your eye in again and shake this slump, that with a big chap like you covering the bag and helping us out at the plate, with Roy rampaging in center once more, we can win that old pennant.”

  Some of Lester’s anger had gone. “Yeah. I see, I know all that. But, Spike, I don’t like to play first, never did; they’s too much doing...”

  “Too much responsibility, hey! I getcha. Lester, that boy Tucker who just left here; got an idea why he’s back on the club again?”

  “Sure. He’s one great ballplayer.”

  “You are, too. But he’s more than that; he’s a bear-down guy from way back, that’s what he is. From the things they tell me—I wasn’t with the Brooks then—Roy was a better than average hurler when he came up. But an injury ruined his arm. So what? He learned to bat and play the outfield, and the year before he went into the service he led the league. Then he had that-there crash in France and bust up his back. Why, he didn’t even walk for several months last spring. But he refused to quit. Yeah, just as simple as that. He fought his way back. Now what? There he is on the varsity again.

  “Here’s something else, too. He’s got something inside him, something way down deep, mebbe because he’s always had to fight. He’s been hurt, been laid off, and had to make good in spite of his injuries. And he did, too. That kinda does something to a man. Ever hear of that boy Weilander on the Braves? Had to have a finger of his throwing hand cut off at the knuckle; a drive fractured his finger when he was chucking batting practice one day. Well, he had a leather contraption made to protect the rest of his finger, and he’s up there with the best of the pitchers on their club today. And this boy Scott of the Senators; lost a foot in a bomber over Berlin, gets an artificial one made, comes back, and darned if he isn’t as fast as anyone on the club.”