Rookie of the Year

by John R. Tunis

  “Oh, sure, I getcha, Bill.”

  “Well, I’d better get out there. He’s gotta win this one today; he’s on the spot this afternoon. He’d better win this one.”

  Hanson’s voice died away and his footsteps sounded outside the room. Chisel continued hanging up clothes, opening and shutting lockers.

  Bob sat up. “Thanks, Doc. That feels much better. I’m glad I slipped in and let ya work on it, mighty glad.”

  11

  SPIKE LAY THERE YAWNING, his hands behind his head. The room was hot even at eight-thirty in the morning, betokening another steaming afternoon at Forbes Field. In the other bed Bob snorted and turned over. That boy, he can sleep all day and all night. Give him a chance and he’d just never wake up at all. It’s different when you’re running the team; when you’re the manager and responsible for things; when you’ve got everything on your neck. You wake up then fast enough. You wake up in the middle of the night and you can’t get back to sleep for thinking of this and that; or you wake up before daylight and lie there wondering who to pitch that day, or why you didn’t pull off the hit-and-run in an important moment the afternoon before. You go all over the things you must do, and think of all your problems. You got plenty of ’em, for you have twenty-four ballplayers and every single man is a problem and a new one. You get rid of one problem; you imagine you’re all set, and then bang! Up comes a different problem. A pitcher like this boy Hathaway who’s temperamental. Wouldn’t you think these kids would realize what a chance they have and tend to business!

  Well, that’s how things are; one problem after another. When you get up there in second or third, when nerves become tighter as the season gets longer, the problems multiply. Still and all, we’ve done pretty well, if we lick these birds today, we’ll go home tied for second. That’s all right; that’s as good as could be expected; that’s better than all right when you consider we were in sixth place when I took hold in July. Why, we could even beat those Redbirds. I mean, we gotta chance.

  His brother stirred. Spike realized he had been muttering out loud. He jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom to shave. I must be going nuts, he thought, talking to myself like that!

  That afternoon, in their last game on the western trip, the team threw away a golden chance. The Cubs were leading the Cards, and the Dodgers, watching the scoreboard, started to press. They wanted to win too badly. They made errors. Rog Stinson had one of the bad days that come to even the most experienced hurlers; a day when nothing went right, when he hadn’t a thing on the ball. In the second the Pirates scored three runs, filled the bases, and knocked him from the box. Spike was obliged to call on Elmer McCaffrey, who was lucky to put out the fire. This upset the pitching schedule, because he had counted on using McCaffrey in the doubleheader against the Giants the next afternoon in New York.

  McCaffrey was in one serious difficulty after another, but partly through his own skill, partly because of the fine defense of the Dodger infield he sneaked out of every hole. Yet the team looked bad. In the seventh the Pirates loaded the bases again and got two more runs. The Cubs had scored four runs off a Card pitcher and knocked him from the box, so neither team seemed likely to lose ground to the leaders that afternoon.

  Now then, thought Spike as they came in to the dugout, it’s the ninth and we’re five runs behind. But I’m not giving up yet, no siree; I’m not giving up. By golly, I’ll never give up on this club; nothing is impossible with this gang. Nothing.

  “Uncross those bats, boy, uncross those bats there.” The noise ran up and down the bench; Razzle’s bark and Bob’s shrill-voiced pepper and Swanny’s deep-throated roar and Roy Tucker’s chatter.

  “C’mon, gang, le’s get us some runs. Five runs! We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”

  Jocko Klein, the first batter, hit a slow, bounding roller to the left of the pitcher and tore for first.

  “Hurry, Jock! Get the lead outa yer pants! Hustle, kid... looka him go....”

  He was safe. The Pirates protested but he was safe. McCaffrey was at bat, and the veteran pitcher was a good hitter. He waited for a full count, and then a shout rose from the bench as the man in the box lost him. It was evident the Dodgers weren’t the only ones to feel the coming of September in their tired bones.

  “Whitehouse, number 18, running for McCaffrey.” Swanny next forced Klein at third on a bunt that was too deep. Shucks! One out and men still at first and second. Now then, Red, old kid, you can do it. Pick us up; you’ve picked us up more than once in a pinch like this. We sure need a hit; get us a hit and keep us going.

  The veteran first baseman waited for the full count and then leaned into one and drove it hard to right center. He was perched on second and two runs were over when the ball got back to the infield.

  Here’s Tuck! Roy Tucker came to the plate, the crowd yelling. Spike watched him as he touched all four corners of the platter for luck. One out, a man on second, and the enemy bullpen swinging furiously into action. You could never tell when the Dodgers were beaten; this might be a ballgame after all.

  Roy swung off his heels and missed. The next pitch was low, inside. The hands of the umpire went to the left.

  “Ball one.”

  Then another ball. Then the center fielder laid down a perfect bunt, in the ideal spot halfway between the plate and third. The pitcher raced over, so did the third baseman, who charged in, got to the ball first, and threw.

  If they catch that boy they’ll hustle, thought Spike. If they nip him they’ll move fast; Roy’s a speed merchant... safe! He’s safe!

  An angry crowd of Pittsburgh players surrounded the umpire at first. The man on the sack, furious, hurled the ball into the ground before his feet. Suddenly a piercing shout rose from the diamond and from the bleachers behind third. The first baseman jumped down, grabbed the ball, whirled and burned it to the plate. Big Red Allen, on second, had started with the bunt, rounded third without pausing, and roared home. His two hundred pounds straining to give everything he had, legs extended, arms up, he came charging into the plate in a smoke screen of dust as the ball reached the catcher above. The umpire, bending over, extended his hands. Another run across.

  When the noise subsided, or as it was subsiding, Roy Tucker was sliding head first into second. The catcher, off balance, threw quickly and the ball got past the shortstop into left field. Roy picked himself up and came into third standing. Meanwhile at the plate Red Allen rose slowly from the dirt. Spike ran over and helped the big chap to his feet, walking back to the bench, his arm around him. “Red, by golly, before I came to this club I always thought you were the greatest first baseman in the game. Now, doggone, I’m sure of it!”

  The veteran leaned over, shook the dirt from his uniform, and grinned. “We’ll get ’em for you yet, Spike.”

  Gosh, what a team! They’re money players; looks like they’ve got to be spotted a couple of runs before they really bear down. What a team they are in a pinch!

  “All right, gang, le’s go! Here comes another pitcher, boys; here comes a new man. What say we get this one? O.K., Clyde, one man down and a runner on third.” Nervously swinging two bats, Spike Russell stood in the circle watching his star rookie in the batter’s box. Holy smoke; he’s cooler’n I am. But we sure need this game. If we can only grab off two more runs and take second place tonight, we won’t ever look back; I know we won’t.

  Baldwin hit cleanly into the hole between second and first. Tucker came across with the fourth run. What a crowd to play with! They’re just never beaten. Now it’s up to me.

  The man in the box was keeping the ball low and outside, Spike’s one weakness, but at two and two he hit. A weak one, in the air. He ran hard to first but the yells from the stands told the story. He was out.

  Shaking his head, he returned to the dugout. Shucks, that’s not backing them up like I should. I ought to have crowned that second pitch, that fast ball. You can’t hit if you don’t take your bat off your shoulder. And my timing is way off t
hese days. But we aren’t licked yet; Harry Street always picks me up.

  Harry caught the two and two count and laced the ball over third down the left field line, a good clean single. Baldwin was coming into third, and Spike, tense and anxious, stood on the step of the dugout watching Harry race like mad, head down, for second base. The throw was to third, it was wild... c’mon, Clyde, c’mon in.... Holy Smoke, now Harry’s going into third! What a ballplayer that guy is!

  Baldwin was in and Harry slid safely into third. The bases were cleared ahead of him and the score was a tie at five apiece. When Bob swaggered to the plate, Spike hardly dared look, feeling certain his brother would bring home the winning run. He did. His shot bounced against the scoreboard; 475 feet from home plate.

  Now the Dodgers were leading; they were ahead by two runs, but they weren’t yet out of the woods. For in the last of the ninth the Pirates came roaring back, angered at seeing a game already won snatched from them. The first batter hit a sizzling bounder through the box. Spike darted across. It was a hard ball tagged for center field, yet he had stopped harder ones. So he went all out, racing desperately over to stab it back of second. Then, in his hurry, he made a mistake. Off balance, he threw to Red.

  The throw was so wild not even Red could block it, and the runner, without pausing, rounded the inside of the bag and started for second. Then Spike saw Jocko Klein. He ran to back up first on every ball hit to the infield and one never thought about it, never even saw him. Now, when he was needed, you suddenly saw him and your heart jumped. Because that error could mean the ballgame.

  The stocky catcher stopped the ball and then, without hesitating, burned it to second. Spike, waiting, slapped it on the runner just as he came tearing in, and the man was out. One out, instead of a man on second with no one down. Well, that’s picking me up; that’s certainly picking me up all right.

  Then Speed Boy Davis, the pitcher who had gone in for McCaffrey, weakened and lost the next batter. Once again there was a runner threatening. Gosh, won’t this ever end? Is this going on all night? Spike retreated to his position, glancing back at Rats Doyle throwing in the bullpen, watching Speed Boy carefully. He’s tired all right; he’s really tired. If this man gets on I better yank him.

  They all expected the man to bunt. That was percentage baseball. He did. The bunt was well placed, between the pitcher and first, and Davis went over. It was a slow hit, and he was near first when he scooped it up. He straightened as he got the ball, and threw it over Red’s head into right field. Immediately the runner on second broke for third, and the batter roared into second despite Swanny’s recovery and quick throw. The winning run was at the plate.

  Davis was weakening in the heat and the long, exhausting game. When he passed the next man to fill the bases, Spike turned and waved to the bullpen. As usual Rats, warming up, pretended not to notice him. They stood around the rubber, Spike and Bob and Harry and Red and Davis, gloomy and silent, saying nothing because there was nothing to say, while the crowd in the stands began shrieking for a hit to win the game.

  Shoot! That’s awful bad. Davis knows better than to straighten up on a play of that kind. He was just plain tired; he didn’t stoop down, he stood up straight and let go. Shucks! You practice and practice and practice a play all spring; then comes an important moment in a vital game and someone forgets everything he’s been taught. That can cost us second place.

  Now old Stubblebeard, the umpire in charge, was becoming impatient. He went out to deep short and waved for Rats to come in to the box. The big lefthander swaggered across the field, accompanied by hoots and claps from the bleachers. Spike kicked at the dirt in the pitcher’s box. This is going to raise hob with my pitching schedules. This will upset everything. Now I don’t know who’ll pitch tomorrow. Shoot, I don’t know who’ll pitch the next inning, if there is any, and it certainly looks as if there would be now. But we need this game the worst way; we simply gotta have this one.

  The Pirate coach held up one finger to the baserunners. Three men on, one out and two runs behind. Rats pitched. The batter hit the first one hard, to Spike’s right, the sure test of a shortstop. It was a ground-hugging hopper, and the Pirate baserunner hid it momentarily, then jumped it and was off toward third as the bounder sizzled toward Spike.

  Now... careful... steady... make it sure... don’t throw before you have it....

  He sent the ball away cleanly and fast to his brother on second. Bob jumped deftly out of the path of the spikes of the Pittsburgh runner charging into second, and got the ball off quickly to Red on first. One out! Two out! Almost before the batter had slowed up back of first they were running in, stuffing their gloves in their pockets, racing toward the showers. As they roared past the dugout, Chiselbeak was already lugging out the bat trunk and throwing the bats into it. Within the clubhouse the equipment boxes were set out before each man’s locker. These small, oblong wooden boxes had a space at one end for caps, and a large place for wet clothes, the whole to fit into the equipment trunks. It was the usual sign that meant a change of scenery. The western trip was over and the Dodgers were headed for home in second place.

  12

  THE AMERICAN ROCKED along the rails through the gathering dusk. The players had eaten and returned to their air-conditioned rooms. Red Allen, quietest and most reliable member of the team, was deep as usual in a crossword puzzle. Razzle, neither the quietest nor yet the most reliable member, had dropped in and was sitting with his feet on the opposite seat.

  “We sure needed that one. Boy, we needed that one. And we could use those two against the Giants tomorrow. There’s a couple of good ball-games to win. Second place ain’t bad; it ain’t bad, kid.” Then he added: “That is, if we stay there!”

  “We’ll stay there,” replied the big first baseman not glancing up from his crossword puzzle.

  “Yeah. Looks like this-here club is moving the right way at last. Say — d’ja hear about those fans who started that fight by calling Jocko Klein names over in Phillie in June? Remember? Their case came up finally. The judge fined them twenty bucks and sent ’em to the cooler for ten days.”

  “That right....”

  “Uhuh. Fine and cooler, eh!” The first baseman was too deep in his crossword puzzle to get it.

  “Razzle, what’s an eight letter word for satisfy?” The pitcher reflected a minute. “Highball. At least there’s a few guys on this club what seem to think so. Hey there... hey there, Jocko! Boy, you really backed us up out there today; you were really on your toes, Jocko.”

  The black-haired catcher passed by in the corridor and paused, smiling. “Anyone hear how those Redbirds made out this afternoon?” No one knew, so he moved along.

  In the next compartment, Rats Doyle was talking to young Hathaway. “Say, are my dogs tired! That gettin’ up and settin’ down and gettin’ up all afternoon tires a man more’n pitching a full nine innings of ball.”

  “Being a relief pitcher is no joke,” said the rookie, sympathetically.

  “Boy, you oughta have been on this club last season under Nippy Crane. It was something. A guy was in and out, in and out, every other day. I was a regular pinch pitcher; in more games than a playground director. So was Fat Stuff. He was in the bullpen so much he got his mail there.”

  “It’s different now.”

  “I’ll say,” agreed the relief hurler, kicking his shoes off and pushing them to one side. “Are my dogs tired! Yep, Spike Russell stays with you to the limit. He used more pitchers today than any time for a long while; he likes to give a man a chance to win his own game. Over the long haul it teaches you to rely on yourself, not on bullpen support. I b’lieve it helps a manager, too. Look how some of these boys have come along in the past few weeks. Why... hullo there, Swanny!”

  The big, blond fielder rolled past. He entered and slumped down. “Well, here we are, going home in second place. Darn it all, who’d have thought such a thing could happen? Who’d have thought it possible two months ago?”

 
“You said it, Swanny. Looked to me like we were anchored in sixth place.”

  “For life, if you asked me.”

  “Yep, and since then we’ve won... what? 48 out of 62, isn’t it? 48 games out of 62 since Spike took over. How’s that? .700 baseball, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that couldn’t be just a coincidence. Say, I sure hope we don’t run into another convention in New York when we get there. Everywhere we run into conventions; in Pitt it’s a druggist convention, in St. Loo an undertakers’ convention, in Chicago an Elks’ convention; seems like a man can’t get a decent night’s rest any more!”

  In the compartment at the end of the car, Spike Russell, alone, was reading the morning New York newspaper, just arrived by air. He liked to keep track of what the writers, traveling with the club, felt and what they thought about things.

  “If the Dodgers win today, they’ll go into second place, and if they do it’s speed more than anything which yanked them up there. They aren’t the Dodgers any more; they’re the Swifties. They get a man on first, you look at your watch to see the time of day, you glance back, and the guy’s sliding into third. How he got there is a mystery; hitch-hiking a plane most likely. The miracle is the way their manager, young Spike Russell, shook this team up, bought a player or two, made a few trades, got them playing together, injected speed until at present it’s the fastest club in baseball. And so into second place.”

  There was a knock at the door. He set the newspaper down. “Come in.”

  The door opened and in came Doc Masters, the trainer, wearing a worried look on his face. He closed the door behind him and stood there. Now what?

  “Sit down, Doc, sit down. What’s up?” Spike knew it was bad news. When anyone came to see him, it was always bad news. When things went smoothly, they let him alone.

  “Spike, I hate like hell to cloud up and rain on you right now, but this kid Hathaway...”

  “What’s he done?” Spike sat up quickly.