Rookie of the Year

by John R. Tunis

  “Has being manager made any difference? Too much responsibility running the team?”

  “Nope, that really doesn’t bother me out there. It’s just one of those things, I guess. You all know what ballplayers say: God takes you up to the plate, but he leaves you on your own when you get there.” He slipped down from the table, disengaging himself from the circle. This was too personal. Hang it, whenever Grouchy held a press conference and someone asked a question he didn’t want to answer, he always had one stock reply. “Suppose you let me worry about that.” If Grouchy had been caught on the ark with Noah he would have said, “Looks like rain.” Nothing more.

  That afternoon they were not yet facing Grouchy, but playing the Cubs to win that extra game and so even things up for the final series. Spike started Rats Doyle and kept Razzle and Bones throwing in the bullpen, ready to jump in at the least sign of danger. He wanted to save his two star pitchers for Grouchy and the Cards, and his strategy worked. Rats was superb. He began confidently, went from good to better, and after passing the third batter to face him in the first inning, not a man got on base until the sixth when he lost another Cub hitter. Both were defeated trying to steal by Jocko Klein’s iron arm.

  The crowd yelled louder and louder with every out. The pitcher sat chewing vigorously on the bench between innings, trying hard to pretend it was just another game, not a crucial contest. Beside him the players leaned on every ball that was hit.

  Following that long series of hard-fought, extra-inning games, this was a relief after the first Dodgers came to bat. The Cub hurler was throwing a grapefruit with seams, and the Brooks teed off on him. In the third they put over five runs. Then with the score mounting in the sixth to seven runs, and to nine the next inning, Spike began yanking some of his tired veterans. Whitehouse took over right from Swanny, and Roth came in at first for Red Allen, and in the eighth Raz, who had been in the bullpen, received the signal to come in and take his shower. Pausing for a minute to watch his teammates go to work on the third Cub pitcher, he stood on the step of the dugout, drinking a cup of water.

  “I wonder they wouldn’t take out that pitcher; he hasn’t not done nothing yet,” he remarked.

  “Say! That’s something even for old Raz. A triple negative.”

  “Aw.” The big pitcher turned toward the bench behind. “Think I don’t know the King’s English, hey!”

  “Razzle knows the King’s English all right; trouble is, he doesn’t care if he is.”

  Laughter ran up and down the long seat. They came into the ninth with the score still nine to nothing, three putouts from victory, from a chance to tangle on even terms with the Cards for the first time.

  Rats Doyle never pitched as carefully as to those three men. One after the other, each man walked to the plate in tension. The first fouled to Roth behind the bag. The next man hit a mighty clout to deep center. Roy Tucker was going back, Roy the ever-dependable. He ran, turned, and stood there. He thumped his glove with his bare fist as he waited nervously for the ball to descend, that reassuring gesture which meant he had it. Down it came, he swallowed it, and the roar could have been heard in Boston.

  Now one more out. The last batter was forever at the plate. He waited, he fouled off pitch after pitch, he ran the count up; one and one, one and two, two and two, three and two. He fouled off another, he slashed a hard drive down the left field line which was outside the base by an inch. Then he hit the ball in the air.

  Thirty thousand mouths opened, thirty thousand throats bellowed, thirty thousand fanatics jumped up and down as the ball hovered in the air, high, back of the plate. And the dark-haired catcher threw away his mask and darted for it.

  “Now, Jocko, now, Jocko... all yours, Jocko-boy... grab that ball, kid... grab that one and they’ll give you Brooklyn Bridge....”

  He watched it in mid-air. He came back slowly, following the path of the ball as it descended. His mitt was close to his body, chest high, the open part up. His stocky legs were braced now. The ball came down, plunked into the glove. And stayed there.

  He turned, held it for a second in the air so everyone in the feverish crowd could see, then stuffing it into his pocket he wheeled and rushed for the dugout.

  Now then, bring on those Cards.

  17

  THE CLOCK ON the wall above the bar showed almost eleven o’clock as Bill Hanson lit a cigarette, swallowed the last of his drink, and strolled out into the lobby toward the elevator. He got off at the twelfth floor where the club always lived; but instead of going to his own room he turned the other way, moved down the corridor and knocked hard on one door.

  “Come in.” Hanson turned the handle and entered. Bones Hathaway in his shirtsleeves was all alone. He sat in the easy chair under the lamp, relaxed, reading the sports pages.

  “Hey, there, Bonesy. Where’s Fat Stuff?”

  “He had to go home tonight. Seems like his missis is taken worse. You know she’s been sick. Don’t that beat all, the night before we...”

  Hanson paid no attention.

  “Fat Stuff! Fat Stuff! Why, he’s so old he creaks. It ain’t Fat Stuff that’s worrying me. It’s Clyde Baldwin.”

  The lanky boy in the armchair sat up. He and Baldwin had come up the hard way beside each other and a tie existed between them. If Clyde was in trouble, he, too, was affected. “Clyde? What’s up?”

  “He ain’t in his room, that’s what’s up.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “I just been there to give him his tickets. Here’s yours.” He held out an envelope. The young pitcher took the envelope and tossed it on the bureau.

  “Say! That’s bad.”

  “I’ll say. After what Spike told ’em about turning in early tonight. If he finds it out, that kid’ll be through. On this club, anyhow.”

  “Now where d’you suppose... whad’ you think... he didn’t say anything to me....”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll tell you what I think. Remember that dame, that girl from his home town?”

  “You mean Jane Andrews?”

  “That’s the one. The babe he was in the Coronado grill in St. Loo with that night.”

  “Yeah, that’s her. They come from the same town somewhere in Tennessee.”

  “Uhuh. Well, seems she opens at the Kit Kat Klub tonight. Y’know, Bonesy, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he sneaked off to see her show.”

  “Why, he wouldn’t be such a fool... he wouldn’t.”

  “But he liked her, didn’t he?”

  “I’ll say! He’s nuts about her. Wait a minute.” He stood up, yanked the newspaper from the floor. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, you’re right. Bill, you’re dead right. She opens tonight.”

  “Say, if Spike Russell ever finds this out, that boy’s goose is cooked. He won’t play baseball on this club again, that’s a cinch.”

  “You said it. I wonder if we could... that is someone could... what time is it?”

  “Eleven-fifteen. I certainly wish it wasn’t the night before this game. I’d grab a taxi and get that kid back in his room before anyone knew he was missing. But I got four hours of work ahead of me before I can hit the hay.”

  Bones was grabbing his coat from the bed. “Leave this to me.”

  “What you gonna do? Be careful, Bonesy, you’re kinda taking a chance yourself, beating it like this.”

  “Nuts to that! I’m not going to see Clyde Baldwin ruin his season and throw a World Series cut out the window for that dame, not without a try, anyhow. He’s too darn good a pal.”

  He shoved his purse in his pocket. He was out the door. “No, sir, I’m not letting that girl ruin Clyde’s whole season; no, sir, I’m not.” And he was off. Hanson trailed after him.

  “Now be careful, Bonesy, be careful. If anyone sees you coming in late... remember now....” But Bones was down the hall ringing for the elevator.

  Just at this moment Spike Russell in the other corridor came into his room, shut the door, and taking off his coat emptied the contents of hi
s pockets on the bureau. His purse. A lot of miscellaneous junk. Some cards, one marked “Jack Schwartz, 50 Prospect Avenue, Brooklyn.” Jack, besides being an undertaker, was also the Number One rooter of the Dodgers, sometimes even accompanying the club on their western trips. There was an envelope with tickets for a game several days before which he had forgotten to leave at the box office. And a small, creased paper. He opened it. In his own handwriting was a list of pitchers for the month of September, with the number of days’ rest each would have. It was torn and dingy, having been in and out of his pocket dozens of times in the past month. All past history, now.

  He next emptied the pockets of his trousers, took out his keys, his change, a handkerchief, and stood there looking almost fondly at that list before him, absorbed in it, in what it represented, thinking of those struggles, of games won, pulled out in the last innings, yanked from defeat when hope was gone, when most teams would have given up.

  The door slammed. His brother came in and stood there looking at him.

  “What’s cooking?”

  “Whad’ you mean?”

  “You were talking just now as I came in.”

  Talking! I must ha’ been talking to myself. I must be going nuts. I’m talking out loud to myself and don’t even know it. Holy smoke, this being a manager is getting me down.

  His brother came over to where he stood beside the bureau and put his arm on his shoulder. “Take it easy, old timer. We’ll pull this out for you.”

  “Thanks, Bobbie. You betcha. Thanks.”

  There was a knock on the door. Bob went over and opened it to disclose Bill Hanson. The burly secretary came in genially smiling. If he felt the pressure the club was under as they came into those final games, he didn’t show it. With a smile he flipped two envelopes from his pocket.

  “Here y’ are, Spike. And here’s yours, Bob. You wanted three, didn’t you?”

  “Three. That’s right.”

  “Believe me, I had trouble laying my hands on ’em. Everyone in this club is on my neck, and we could fill the Yankee Stadium six times over for these games.” He walked across and picked up the telephone. “Twelve sixty-one. That’s right. Harry, this Hanson... is Clyde there? Clyde; Hanson. Yeah. I got your tickets. O.K., see me in the morning at breakfast, will you? O.K.” He rang off. Then he picked the phone up once more. “Twelve sixty-nine.” There was no reply. “Oh, sure, must be someone there. You aren’t ringing the right number.”

  Spike, hanging his coat in the closet, looked up. “Twelve sixty-nine... who’s that, Bill?”

  “Hathaway. Seems funny. His room doesn’t answer.”

  “Doesn’t answer at all? Where is he? Where’s Fat Stuff?”

  “Fat Stuff’s wife is sick. He went home to spend the night with her. Nope, there’s no one there. I had a couple of seats for Hathaway.”

  “Give ’em to me. I’ll see he gets ’em.” Spike spoke with grimness. Both the other men in the room knew that Hathaway was in for a calling-down.

  “O.K. You take ’em off my hands, will you, please? I’ll be obliged.” There was a cheery note in his voice as he handed the envelope to the young manager. “He’s dropped down for a coke, mos’ probably. Looks like this heat’s gonna hang on all winter, don’t it? Well, so long. Turn in, you guys, and get your rest now.” He shut the door and was gone.

  Spike looked at Bob and Bob looked at Spike, both thinking the same thing. It isn’t possible! It just isn’t possible that kid is on the loose again, after all that’s happened. Surely he wouldn’t go wild the night before this game. If he has, thought Spike, he’ll get the worst going-over he ever got in his life.

  The young manager went over to the telephone and tried to get the boy’s room. It still gave no answer. Ten minutes later he stalked down the hall, knocked hard on the door; no answer again. He returned, fumed, looked at his watch. Eleven-forty. At midnight he called once more without result and then asked for the desk.

  “Leave a note for Hathaway in twelve sixty-nine, please. Ask him to report in Spike Russell’s room at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.

  He reached over, turned out the light, and lay down. But not to sleep.

  18

  AN OUNCE OF curiosity plus a pound of brass coupled with the sensitivity of a rhino and the pertinacity of a tiger; that’s what makes a reporter. A few of the things, anyhow. How do they work, these mysterious fellows? How is it they invariably manage to smell out trouble on a ballclub; how do they always know when something important is about to break, someone to be traded by the club or sent back to the farm? In a word, how do they do their job?

  IN A DOZEN WAYS and none of them the same. Every reporter is an individual with methods of his own that work for him alone. One man is simply lucky. He’s the sort who always seems to be on the spot when things happen, when someone calls someone else an ugly name in the dressing room, when a notorious character strays off the reservation at night, when a star loses heavily at poker in a closed compartment on a limited train. The reporter’s colleague, who seldom has luck, is intimate with one of the veterans on the team who knows everything about everybody. A third reporter is a shrewd guesser, with a feminine sense of perception; he keeps his ears flapping, hears bits of conversation, asks questions. Questions like this: Say, what’s wrong with Joe? What has Tommy gone and done now? Is it true that Bill is in dutch with the Skipper?

  It was sheer luck that Jim Casey of the News happened to meet Bill Hanson in the lobby the next morning, and seeing the big secretary at the cigar stand, his usual bunch of newspapers folded under his arm, went over. But Bill was not his genial self, and instantly Casey was warned. He could detect small things like changes in mood; that was why Casey was a good reporter. He began to query Bill vaguely. Trouble? Oh, no, nothing. Nothing at all. Everything’s fine. Just a rumor, that’s all; nothing definite, y’ understand, just a rumor; only... well... somebody said someone was seen at the Kit Kat Klub last night. If so, it’s too bad for him, that’s all. Spike Russell isn’t the guy to stand any fooling.

  This was all Casey needed. He waited not a second, but went into the telephone booth and called Spike’s room, glancing at his watch. The time was eight-thirty-eight. The young manager was there and awake, too, judging by his tone which was unusually crisp and sharp. Was any member of the team at the Kit Kat Klub last night and, if so, who was it?

  Spike hesitated a minute. What’s that? He asked Casey to repeat the question. Then again there was a silence. He replied noncommittally and rang off.

  This was sufficient for Casey. And Stan King of the Telegram, who happened to be passing just as he emerged from the telephone booth with the look on his face Stanley knew so well, knew that meant something was popping. So he, too, went for Spike. In ten minutes it was all over the hotel.

  At nine-thirty Bob, unconscious of the spread of the disaster, came out of the grill and went upstairs. As he came down the hall toward his room, he heard the telephone jangling inside.

  He opened the door. The phone had been ringing for some time, and when he reached it the voice on the other end was angry.

  “Spike! What in the hell ails you, anyhow?”

  “This ain’t Spike, Mr. MacManus, it’s Bob.”

  “Oh! Bob! Where’s that crazy brother of yours?”

  The voice was determined. What on earth has Spike done now? “Why, I dunno, Mr. MacManus. I guess he’s downstairs, or maybe he might be in Charlie Draper’s room.”

  “Have him call me. Right away. What’s biting him, firing his best pitcher...”

  “Firing? Firing who?”

  “Bones Hathaway. He suspended him for the rest of the season.”

  Bob was stunned. Spike’s a hothead; Spike’s gone and done it again. Yet he couldn’t somehow believe it. “But I... but he... but Bonesy....” When Bob had left the room to go down to breakfast, Spike was merely going to give him the once-over, to let him have a call-down. Now he returned to find Bonesy fired. “How do you know? Why, that ain’t possi
ble; we need Bonesy out there this afternoon....”

  “How do I know? I know because Hanson just phoned me. It only happened an hour ago and....”

  Suddenly words echoed in Bob’s head. They were words he had heard long ago, words he had heard with dislike and uneasiness, words half-forgotten in the heat and excitement of the campaign, which somehow had stuck with him. He heard them once again, distinctly. They were the words of the big secretary. Not in his usual genial and agreeable tone; but whining words that were unpleasant to hear as he talked to old Chiselbeak, the locker-room man, in the cavernous clubhouse on Forbes Field.

  “... You and me... we been round this club quite some time, Chisel. Now, me, I’ve been fifteen years in the big leagues... then this johnny-come-lately... this...”

  MacManus was ringing off. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I’ll tell him,” said Bob, half-dazed as he put the phone back.

  “... This johnny-come-lately, this...” The words echoed and re-echoed and bounced crazily in his head. He couldn’t make sense out of it, yet he had the feeling that there was something wrong somewhere. Somehow some of the pieces didn’t fit. There’s a whole lot of things screwy and I’m gonna make it my business to find out what’s what.

  Bones Hathaway in twelve sixty-nine was in the act of jamming down the lid of his second suitcase. He was in his traveling clothes, the costume he always wore when they were on the road, a pair of fawn-colored slacks, a silk sports shirt open at the neck, and a sports coat. He was tanned, brown, sinewy, healthy-looking. There was a worried look on his face, however, and his greeting was abrupt.

  “Bonesy! What in the hell’s cooking here?”

  The pitcher straightened up. He was tall and his shoulders were broad above the long body. “I’m through. Catching the noon plane home.”

  “But what... what’s happened? For Pete’s sake, what’s up?”

  “Spike! He fired me. I’m washed up.”

  “Hey, looka here! Tell me now, what’s this all about? Spike’s a reasonable guy; he was plenty mad at you last night ’cause he was tired; but he’d got over it this morning. When I went down to breakfast he was waiting just to give you a lacing, that’s all.”