Rookie of the Year

by John R. Tunis

  Spike leaped from the bed. No move he ever made on the diamond was quicker. In two bounds he was at the door. His brother had slipped the lock, and for a few seconds that were endless he fumbled with it before it opened. The voice, now familiar, was at the end of the hall, getting fainter and fainter.

  “She’s gonna cry... until I tell her that I’ll never roam... Chattanooga choo-choo... won’t you take me back home.”

  The door finally opened. Two figures, one with his arm half around the other’s waist, were turning the far corner at the end of the corridor.

  Spike stepped out and started after them, then realized he had nothing on but the trousers of his pajamas. Turning, he saw a man and a woman coming toward him from the other end of the hall. He ducked back, closed the door, and stood thinking. Somewhere in the distance the sounds of singing died away. He went quickly into the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked at his watch to be sure of the time. Three-thirty.

  He was back now and had the telephone.

  “Give me Mr. Hathaway’s room,” he said quietly. “That’s right... J. B.” The delay was interminable while the operator finally got the right room number. Then Spike could hear the phone ringing. It rang and rang. Finally a voice answered.

  “Hullo?”

  “This you, Bones?”

  “Naw. It’s Baldwin.”

  “This is Spike Russell, Clyde. Is Bonesy there?”

  A second of silence intervened before the other replied. “Why, yeah, he’s here. He’s asleep. Want him? What’s the matter?”

  Spike was stumped. Clyde might be telling the truth. If he was, to wake up a boy who had gone through that three hour grueling on the field would be wicked. He probably wasn’t asleep, to be sure. But he just might be. A guy could make mistakes.

  “Nope. I’ll see him tomorrow. O.K.” He put back the receiver slowly. This being a manager was really no fun at all.

  9

  THEY SAT ON THE edge of the seat in Spike’s drawing-room on the train. Their faces were worried and tight. So was that of the young manager. He sat by the window looking out and talking all the while as if he were addressing the scenery. Both the rookies were speaking together when he interrupted.

  “Look here, I don’t care. I don’t care for all that. I don’t care where it was or how it happened. I don’t care who started it. I don’t care if it was only beer. This is a ballclub, not a reform school, and a man has to look out for himself. Now, Bones, and you, too, Clyde, this is the last time. Get me, the last time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, Skipper.”

  “You both remember what I said the other day in that meeting, don’t you?”

  They both nodded solemnly.

  “O.K. That was last week. And you forgot it. In less than one week you go out and get high....”

  Their tones were a mixture of denial and hurt feelings. “Oh, no, Spike.”

  “Why, looka, Skipper, we only had a few beers.”

  “How many times do I hafta tell you it makes no difference if you only smelt a beer if you come roaring down the hall at three in the morning? And I don’t care which one of you it was; all I care about is winning that pennant. Anything that interferes with that is out. Now, Bones, whad’ I say in meeting last week?”

  “Skipper, you said you’d fine us fifty bucks the first time.”

  “O.K. I kept my word, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Skipper.”

  “An’ what else did I say, Clyde?”

  “Why, Spike, you said you’d fine a man a hundred bucks the second time.”

  “I’m gonna keep my word on that, too, even if it is hard on one of you. I don’t care, I want you to learn this lesson right now. If you must learn it this way, that’s tough. Both you boys’ll be short a hundred bucks on your next salary check. Get me?”

  He paused, waiting. They both nodded. He knew he had struck home, because if one of them hadn’t been drinking the previous night, they would have protested with heat. As neither of them spoke, he continued. “Now, Bones, whad’ I say about the third time?”

  Bonesy’s voice was hardly audible above the rumble of the swaying pullman. “You said there wouldn’t be any third time,” said the young pitcher, looking at the floor.

  Spike turned toward them. “Remember who I told that to? To Raz Nugent, my best hurler. And I mean it, believe me. This goes for him and for both of you boys and everyone on this club. Even if it costs me the pennant. Get it?”

  They nodded, seriously. “All right. See you don’t forget it in the future, ’cause I really mean business. Now get out; go get your dinner.”

  They needed no encouragement to leave. They rose without a word, pushed back the folding door, and slipped into the thick-carpeted corridor. Bill Hanson was coming down toward them.

  “Hi there, boys,” he said genially.

  Neither rookie paid any attention. They had something else on their minds. The secretary stood to one side, his mouth open, as they passed. He watched them roll down the corridor and disappear at the end. He shook his head and moved along to Spike’s room, where he knocked at the door.

  Spike came down to breakfast the next morning at the William Penn with the Post-Gazette under his arm. Usually he went into the coffee shop where the team ate, but after the scene on the train the night before he wanted to avoid them all, so he went into the main dining room. At the door he ran into Charlie Draper who was leaving.

  “Hey, Spike! Good morning!” Notwithstanding a night on the train and an early morning rising at six-thirty, the little chap was cool and dapper in a thin summer suit. “Ya saw ’em, didn’t ya?”

  Spike nodded. He disliked recalling the scene.

  “They were mighty quiet lads at dinner last night on the train, so I figgered you laid ’em out properly.”

  Spike nodded and went inside. There were things he could talk over with Cassidy and

  Draper; other things he could discuss with Fat Stuff and the old timers; and some things like the trouble with Jocko Klein and the bench jockeys he couldn’t even mention to his brother. This was one of them.

  He sat down and ordered breakfast. That must be Bill Hanson over in the corner. Bill was anxious to know what happened; he had hinted as much last night on the train. Gosh, there’s some folks on this club think they know more about what’s going on than the manager. Bill’s into everyone’s affairs; probably reporting everything to Jack MacManus, the club president, in Brooklyn, too. Sometimes Spike wondered just how much Hanson was really for him, despite his bluff and agreeable manner. He buried himself in the sports pages. There was an Associated Press story from St. Louis about the team.

  “Although the Brooks dropped three out of four here, their playing impressed everyone, including their rivals. Lots of people thought that the newest and youngest pilot in the business was slightly wacky when he sold Slugger Case to the Braves for $2500 and an unknown fly-chaser named Clyde Baldwin, recently up from the Texas League. But the inside on this is that the Slugger has slowed up lately. Nor has the heavy hitting outfielder been carrying his weight at the plate, either, at least so far this season. According to the writers traveling with the club, the whole team has changed. They say there’s a new spirit visible, that the boys are really going all out for Spike. While he’s a youngster in years, he’s been around plenty, and knows most of the answers. He needs to know them to handle some of the temperamental men on his club.”

  Boy, you said something! You really said something that time!

  “Spike’s pitching staff is holding so far. This boy Hathaway lived up to everything said about him in his first appearance in Sportsman’s Park. He’s a real find, and if he lives up to his promise he might turn out to be the rookie of the year.”

  Someone passed by at the side, and a queer inner feeling caused Spike to look up. He glanced back again quickly at his paper. Bill Hanson was leaving the dining room.

  “Besides being the youngest manager in either league, Spike
Russell is also the world’s greatest optimist. Asked by this reporter whether his club, which has been back in the rut most of the year, still had a chance at the pennant, he replied: ‘A chance? Sure we got a chance.’ If Spike ever gets thrown out of baseball, he can always get a job in radio on that one!

  “Here’s the youthful manager’s last word. ‘Our spirit? Great! The boys are hustling because they know if they don’t they’ll be trying it on somewhere else. There’s nothing wrong with our attitude. Look round and see for yourself!’ ”

  Holy smoke, thought Spike, I must stop this sort of thing. Why, I’m getting to be a pop-off guy. Old Grouchy was dead right; when you don’t say anything you don’t ever have to eat your own words. Yessir, he was dead right. Some sportswriter over in St. Loo the other day asked him how Dusty Miller was making out at first. “He can play first,” says Grouchy. That’s all. And see how I popped off; talked three minutes to that reporter and he blew it up into a column and a half. I sure must be more careful.

  Meanwhile up in Room 2516 the secretary sat at a desk covered with letters, telegrams, papers, clippings, railroad tickets, and various other things. His briefcase on a chair was smothered in more papers. His opened satchel also contained club documents. Sitting before the desk, he picked up the telephone and continued working as he talked.

  “Hey there, sweetheart... how ’bout that call I put in for Brooklyn.... Triangle 5-2500... Hanson, W. H.... John J. MacManus... this is 2516... do I hafta go into all that again?... O.K.... yep, I’ll hang on.”

  With the telephone in a vise made by hunching his shoulder and pushing it against his ear, Bill with two hands free continued working. He sorted out papers, scribbled short notes on letters, tossed telegrams over to the chair where his briefcase reposed, arranged clippings in small piles.

  Suddenly he dropped the pencil and his left hand grabbed the receiver. “Yeah... yeah... O.K., go ahead... hello... hello... Jack! That you, Jack?... This Bill.” A silence followed while he listened with a growing frown on his face. What he was hearing he evidently did not like. Finally he broke in.

  “Sure... sure... sure everyone knew we needed that game the worst way... sure it was tough to lose... why, he slipped, that’s all... he just slipped and fell... yes, he is... yes, he is a good fielding pitcher... well, yes, I have a theory... only I kinda don’t like... O.K., if you want my honest opinion, Jack, looks to me as if Spike disliked the boy... well, he’s been riding him pretty hard, and you know how a rookie is. I think the kid’s maybe lost confidence.” Again there was a long silence save for the punctuations caused by Hanson’s assents. “Yeah... uhuh... yep... I will, yeah... I’ll keep my eyes open... yeah, I’ll report.... I getcha.

  “What’s that? What story? Oh... that! Yes, I saw it. Well, Jack, you know what these sportswriters are; they hafta fill up the papers, don’t they? Why, no, I wouldn’t go so far as to say the piece is wrong; the spirit on the club ain’t bad... well, O.K., maybe it’s better’n that. Certainly the boys are trying, they’re trying hard... but he’s kinda a hothead... he gets all steamed up and rides ’em hard. I know for a fact he gave Hathaway and Baldwin a lacing in his room on the train coming over from St. Loo last night. Threatened to suspend ’em both. What for? Why, just for getting loose over a couple of beers after that long night game. How do I know it was only a couple? Well, I happen to know because I was in the grill of the Coronado with ’em myself... no, not at another table, at their table. I saw what they were both drinking, I saw the whole thing.

  That’s how I know. Yep, I will... uhuh.... O.K., Jack, I will... yep... g’by.”

  He rang off. He pushed the chair back and stood up. He wiped his forehead. Then he walked across the room, returned, sat down at the desk again, and finally took up the telephone.

  “Hey there, sweetheart, this is Bill Hanson in 2516. I want the Post-Gazette. That’s right. And look, see if you can get me Bill Smith, the sports editor, and tell him Hanson, the secretary of the Dodgers, wants him, will ya, please?”

  10

  IT WAS WARM that afternoon in the sun at Forbes Field, terribly warm, and after batting and fielding practice the majority of the team trooped into the clubhouse to change wet shirts, rest a minute, and enjoy a coke sitting on the benches before their lockers. Near Spike a salesman was trying hard to sell the rookie, Baldwin, a fancy pair of sun glasses. One of the things that had most astonished Spike and Bob when they first came up into the majors was the number of people who hang around a team making money from the ballplayers. There were the merchants who made you a tailor-cut suit, the real silk hosiery people, the life insurance salesmen, the automobile salesmen, the man in each city who could get things for you cheaper than in any other town, no matter what it was you wanted. By this time the sun glass merchant was almost an old acquaintance.

  “Now these green ones here, Mr. Baldwin, the ones you have in your right hand, they are specially ground. They’re for general all-round use. We call them the every-day pair. Then these polaroid glasses are for an afternoon of blinding glare, when the sun’s particularly strong. All the stars use ’em. And the yellow glasses are for a fielder, now, like picking a fly ball out of a blue sky. You know how ’tis, one miss and there you are, there goes your ballgame!

  The same line, the same tune, same words he used on all the rookies. Then Razzle’s loud voice across the room broke into the salesman’s chatter. Raz was taking off his shirt and putting on a dry one, entertaining an admiring audience the while.

  “... So Rats, he takes one bite, puts down the tools, and calls the waiter over. ‘I ordered breaded veal cutlet. Is this-here breaded veal cutlet?’ The waiter looked at the plate, then he looked at Rats. ‘Can’t you tell by the taste of it?’ he says. ‘No, I can’t,’ says Rats. ‘Well then, what difference does it make?’ ”

  A burst of laughter greeted this. The team’s looser than when we were in St. Loo, thought Spike. Thank goodness, that tight feeling has gone. They’re really loose today; they’ll play ball this afternoon, I know.

  Then Rats’ loud voice could be heard from his corner. “Yeah, an’ I remember when Raz and me was breaking in on the Waterloo team of the Three-Eye League. One day he ordered apple pie. ‘Yes, sir,’ says the waitress. ‘A la mode?’ Raz, he thought it over. Then he cracks: ‘Nope, never mind. Just put some ice cream on it!’ ”

  Laughter again. The laughter sounded pleasant in the ears of the manager. Then the voice of the astonished rookie behind came to his ears. “Six bucks! Six bucks for a pair of sun glasses! Why, I usta get ’em at the Five and Ten!”

  “Talk about eats!” Old Fat Stuffs voice was low, but when he spoke everyone on the club listened with respect. “Years ago, when I made my first trip as a rookie with the Giants, we came north doing our tour with the Yanks, and Babe Ruth was along, his last season. Boy, could he stow the food away! When he got through with a roast chicken, it looked like an old catcher’s mask.”

  The boys started to go out. Razzle’s voice could be heard long after its owner had disappeared. “... I was playing then with Hartford in the Eastern... boy by the name o’ Wright... always had a wad of gum on the button of his cap, and if two strikes were called on him at the plate he’d take that wad off and chew it like hell. You’da died laughing the day we sprinkled it with red pepper... he jumped like somebody give him a double hotfoot.”

  Bob, almost the only player in the room, walked across to the rubbing table, hidden by a curtain at the side, for a last minute rubdown by Doc Masters. Stealing second the previous day he had strained a muscle in his leg. He let down the trousers of his monkey suit, took off his sliding pads, and showed the sore spot to the Doc who felt it gently.

  “Ya got about ten minutes, Doc, just a few minutes. If you’d give this the once-over, please.” The Doc leaned over and looked at it intently, his practiced fingers diagnosing the trouble immediately. Bob climbed up on the table and the Doc started gingerly to work. Soon the place was empty, save for Chiselbeak, the locker-r
oom man, moving around and straightening things out after the players. He was talking to someone.

  “Yeah, them lads is good. They’re both good. If they don’t make it with this bunch, they’ll make it somewhere else.”

  “They’d make it here all right if they were handled properly.” From behind the curtain Bob recognized the voice of Hanson, the club secretary.

  “They’ve been trained right. You’ll hear how important a big league manager is; what I always say, it’s a manager in the minors who’s important.”

  Boy, you’re certainly correct, thought Bob, only half paying attention as he relaxed under the comfortable glow of the infra-red lamp on his sore muscles. Chisel, you’ve got something there; you really know your baseball. Then Hanson’s tone or his words suddenly made him pay attention closely.

  “You said it, Chiselbeak. If they don’t get their fundamentals in baseball down there, they don’t ever get ’em up here. Why, anyone ought to be able to manage those two kids. This Baldwin can hit. He’s a free swinger, have you noticed? He holds his bat loose and away from his chest. And Hathaway’s a real pitcher. I see where a guy in the paper this morning calls him the rookie of the year.”

  “I seen that. Wouldn’t surprise me none, an’ I been around plenty.”

  “You and me both, Chisel. We been with this club a long while. Now you take me. I’ve been on the inside of major league ball for almost fifteen years. So what? So that hothead Jack MacManus goes haywire and makes this kid manager who’s only been three seasons or less in the majors.”

  “Well, Bill, you know how Jack is....”

  “Yeah, he goes off half-cocked more often than not. Well, you and me, Chisel, we’re old timers round here. Then this kid, this johnny-come-lately gets to be made manager. That’s how things are. ’Course I’m only talking to you, Chisel, y’unnerstand.”