Rookie of the Year

by John R. Tunis

  “Uhuh. I was out until twelve-fifteen, see!”

  “I know, I know, sure I know that.”

  “An’ someone called Spike while we was talking this morning, and told him I was at the Kit Kat last night.”

  “But you weren’t, were you?”

  “Yeah. I was.”

  “You were? Oh, that’s bad; that makes things different; that’s a different story, that is.”

  “Only I wasn’t up there chasing a dame. I was chasing Clyde Baldwin.”

  “Baldwin?”

  “Sure. It seems he went up to see that skirt of his. She was opening last night. I tried to nab him and bring him back. I was scared he’d get caught out. But the crowd was so darned big I couldn’t find him. An’ it was twelve-fifteen when I got back. Then this morning some guy phones Spike and tells him...”

  “But look... but listen... why didn’t you tell Spike?...”

  “I started to. I didn’t want to give Clyde away. I told him I had a special reason for going up. He wouldn’t listen. He didn’t care....”

  “But... but... yeah, but, Bonesy....”

  “So.” He shut the second suitcase. “I’m through. Good luck, kid. You’re a swell little guy, and you’ve got the best pair of hands I ever had behind me at second base. I’ll be seeing you. And I’ll be pulling for you, alla time.”

  “Here! Wait a minute! Hold on a sec. How d’you know Baldwin was up there? D’ja see him this morning?”

  “Nope. But I know he was. Hanson told me so last night. He caught him — or at least he wasn’t in his room about eleven when Bill went to give him his tickets.”

  Hanson. Hanson again. Hanson who griped to Chisel in Pittsburgh, Hanson who spoke to Hathaway the night before, Hanson who telephoned MacManus, Hanson who... this began to... began to shape up... to look all of a piece.

  The telephone rang. “Yeah. O.K. O.K., I’m all packed. I’ll be right down.” He put back the receiver. “It’s the bus for my plane at La Guardia. Leaves in ten minutes. G’by, boy. We had us one swell time together, didn’t we, kid?”

  “Now listen, Bonesy, wait a minute. Wait a sec, will ya, please? I’m mixed up on this; but yet and all, it don’t somehow piece together. Wait a while; don’t be in such a rush, Bonesy... wait a minute, please, will ya?”

  But the big chap grabbed his two suitcases and threw open the door. The star pitcher of the Dodgers was leaving for home on the morning of the most important game of the season.

  19

  A LARGE GREEN CAR swung boldly in ahead of Spike’s taxi, and the driver turned into the parking space opposite the field. Four attendants rushed together to open the door. It was Razzle’s pale green Chrysler Imperial, with the maestro himself at the wheel. Others besides Spike Russell recognized the great man, and an army of kids dashed across the street, risking death under the manager’s taxi, to demand the pitcher’s autograph. Razzle finally squeezed his two hundred pounds from under the wheel, backed away from the car, and carelessly handed one of the attendants a half dollar tip. He strode over to the entrance, a massive island surrounded by an agitated ocean of beseeching youngsters.

  Spike followed. In spite of the anguish in his heart, he couldn’t help smiling at Raz’s confident manner. The team might be in the critical contest of the year, everyone could be tense and tight; but Razzle was as loose as ever. To him it was just another day’s work. While they dressed silently, the flow of chatter continued without pause from his locker.

  “... Time we was together on the Seals... one day I says to him, I says... ‘Bill,’ I says, ‘Bill, this is your chance today. This is where you get that offer from the big time. No foolin’, there’s a couple of scouts here today; they wanna see you right after the game. Said they’d be waiting back of third base.’ Well, sir, Bill plays his old head off, collars four hits outa five times at bat, and really turns it on in the field. When it was over, he couldn’t wait to dress; he rushes over back of third base and, sure enough, there they were, too. A coupla 12-year-old Boy Scouts, asking for his autograph. Say, was he burned up!”

  Razzle roared at his own joke. But the rest of the team dressed in silence. They sat serious and solemn-faced, oiling their gloves, getting ready for the conflict ahead with heavy hearts. A few leaned over, discussing the situation in half-tones, shrugging their shoulders when asked questions by the reporters, of whom there were plenty on hand. The sportswriters were out in full force that morning, moving from one man to the next, anxious to tackle Spike Russell as soon as he finished dressing. Not that they liked the job. This was a tough one to handle, the story of how one player had thoughtlessly jeopardized the chances of the Dodgers for the pennant.

  The telephone rang. Old Chiselbeak answered. “Yeah... yeah... he is... yeah. He’s in there with Draper and Fat Stuff now. O.K., I’ll tell him.” He went across the room, knocked at the door, and opened it. “Hey there, Spike. MacManus wants you. He wants to see you right away in his office.”

  Well, he thought, here goes. I intended to go up and tell him the whole thing myself as soon as I got rid of the reporters. But you can’t keep things quiet long on a ballclub. Here goes, then. And this is one more time when being a manager is no fun.

  The second he entered the luxurious room of the president, he realized trouble was ahead. Like everyone connected with a major league club, Jack MacManus loved baseball. But first of all he was a businessman; he was not in there solely for the love of the game but to make money. Sport was one thing, and he was sincerely interested in sport; yet money was something else. And anything that interfered with a profit was apt to arouse his ire. Seated behind the big desk, clear and free of papers, he was puffing a large cigar, angrily blowing clouds of smoke into the air.

  “Spike! I didn’t wanna discuss this over the telephone. What seems to be the trouble with young Hathaway?”

  “Jack... I... that is, we... that is... I’ve been having considerable trouble all summer with this boy Hathaway. He’s kinda been a problem. ’Course he’s a good pitcher, none better; and he’s become hotter’n a firecracker as he got some good coaching from Charlie Draper and old Fat Stuff. They’ve really developed that lad between ’em. But all the time he was a pain in the neck for me. First of all, Jack, he injured his finger, you recall, and was laid off for several weeks. That was bad. Then he got to running round and, Jack, the fact is the boy got to drinking. He raised cain one night in St. Loo, so I caught him and fined him fifty bucks. I warned him at the time, in fact I warned the whole club. I told ’em all as plainly as I could I wouldn’t stand for any....”

  “Why, sure, I remember all that. I was for you, Spike; you gotta maintain discipline. I understand, but right now with the Cards here....”

  “Yes, but, Jack, wait a minute; lemme tell you the whole story. Then he cuts loose again, and I fine him a hundred bucks, and then in Chicago he goes haywire after pitching that shut-out and eats herring and bacon and eggs twelve days running for breakfast. Of course he gets sick. I overlooked that, just a fool stunt, though he was lost to us for almost a week. You know when a thing like that happens, and a man can’t take his turn, it throws a burden on the other men on the pitching staff.”

  “Why sure, I know. I see how ’tis. But...”

  “And then one night, in Pitt, I think it was, he went an’ got gingered up, and had the telephone operator call everyone for a seven-thirty meeting in my room the next morning.”

  “Aw, what the hell! I heard about that. Why, Spike, he’s only a crazy kid. You know how it is; you gotta expect things like that from these screwballs.”

  “Maybe so. Although I know what Grouchy Devine would have done to Bob and me if we’d ever pulled that one on the Vols. Anyhow, I talked to him. I explained how he’d bust up the sleep of the whole club. I warned him, Jack, his third time. I told him it would be the last time. I told him if he got into trouble again, I’d sure suspend him. The way he was pitching he could have been the rookie of the year if he’d only have steadied down. Th
en last night, before our big game, he goes out chasing this skirt, this what’s-her-name up there at the Kit Kat Klub.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I didn’t know for sure. All I knew was he didn’t roll in until some time after midnight. Then this morning, just by chance, Jim Casey happened to phone right while I was talking to him. Casey asked me point blank if he was the player seen last night at the Kit Kat Klub. I put it right up to Bonesy, and he admitted he was. What could I do? Three times... and out.”

  “Yeah... yeah... that’s tough. I know how you feel... player disobey you like that... I unnerstand....” He puffed nervously on his cigar and tapped it on the ashtray. No ashes fell off. They had fallen before in his excited movements, and dropped on the thick carpet on the floor. “Yeah, O.K. The guy deserves it. I’d say he deserves it and you did just right. But for gosh sakes, Spike, look at the consequences.”

  “You tellin’ me! Only baseball is built on discipline, Jack. I couldn’t do anything else but suspend him, even were we due to go into the World Series tomorrow.”

  “But the team! Look at it from their viewpoint. The team’ll be sore as hell at you; they’ll...”

  “No, they won’t. They’ll be sore at him. Remember it’s Hathaway who’s taking the money out of their pockets when he doesn’t step out on that mound, not me. They all know what’s happened; they know I’ve been patient with him. They’d like to go out and let loose, too, only they don’t. You see they’ve been bearing down and he hasn’t, and they darn well realize it.”

  “O.K. O.K., fine him. Fine him, Spike, fine him plenty. Give it to him with both barrels. Fine him a thousand bucks. But for goodness’ sake don’t suspend him; keep him in there working today.”

  “But, Jack, this is the third time. This has been going on since July. Ordinarily I’d be glad to keep him working. Not this time. He has it coming to him. Besides, he’s hopping a plane for home. And that’s all right with me.”

  Now Jack MacManus was furious. This was the last straw. The kid manager was stubborn. Recollections of previous clashes came to him; their battles over contracts, battles which Jack MacManus always won against other players because he held all the cards. Maybe he held them against Spike Russell, too; if so, he never played them right. Why, as his brother once said, “Spike’s as stubborn as a North Carolina mule.”

  “Gone home! You let him get away! Listen, Spike! This means anywhere from four to six thousand bucks for every man on the club. They’ll be down on you for life. You get that kid back, somehow, anyhow. If not, why, I couldn’t keep you on as manager.”

  The shot struck home. Spike winced. But he replied quietly, firmly, with insistence.

  “No, Jack, I’m not afraid of that. They won’t be down on me; they’ll be down on Bones Hathaway for quitting. Anyhow, I can’t help it if they are. He’s not coming back.”

  “Look, Spike.” His tone was desperately persuasive now. “Frankly now, the Series would put the front office on easy street. We need that Series dough the worst way. It’d give us three-quarters of a million clear for working capital that we could use. With that we could go out next season and get you some top class kids to replace our veterans; we could pay off the bank mortgage; we could enlarge the place and build some new stands we need badly; we could...”

  “Nosir, Jack, I just can’t. I’ve already announced it, the newspapermen have put it on the wires by this time. And Bonesy is on his way home. Besides, no one man is indispensable to a ballclub. It’s a lesson these kids all have to learn. Doggone, we’ll win this thing without Hathaway; that’s the kind of a ballclub it is. The tougher things get, the harder they fight. This’ll put ’em on their mettle, you wait and see.”

  “You mean to stand there and tell me you can beat the Cards two out of three with Hathaway down in Tennessee?”

  Silence fell over the room like a heavy fog. “Well... I’d say we gotta chance.”

  “Gotta chance! Gotta chance! Why, hang it all, you’re throwing away the pennant, that’s what you’re doing. And the Series, too. You’re costing the boys five-six thousand bucks apiece, and the club stands to lose half to three-quarters of a million. Yet you insist on ruining us... by being stubborn... by refusing to give in an inch... by...”

  This was the MacManus that Spike Russell had always dreaded. He had seen the big fellow in rhubarbs with umpires, in disputes with officials of other clubs, or with the president of the League. Never had the Irishman’s wrath been turned his way. Now it was on him, full blast. The red-faced man rose from the desk and, spluttering invective, shouting, growling, threatening, came forward.

  Spike wavered before the storm; but he did not quit. He held his ground. Even when the irate magnate came round from behind his desk and walked close to him, shouting as loud as he could.

  “... Chucking away a pennant... that’s just what you’re doing... a million bucks into the bargain... for what?... a whim... a fancy... one million bucks....” His voice was raised; he was shrieking now. “Looka here, Spike Russell! I hafta back you up on this; you released it to the papers. I can’t change my manager now. But you just called the turn; one man isn’t necessary to a ballclub, and you better think that over; you better get it out of your thick head that you are. If you persist... if you go ahead and ruin this team... I’ll never give you another contract as long as you live. Nope, nor that kid brother of yours, either.”

  Spike saw the enraged face come close to his. There was much he wanted to say. But he didn’t trust himself to reply. Instead he turned, opened the door, and walked out. His hand shook over the handle as he closed it. Going down the hall his knees were wobbly and he was trembling all over.

  20

  WAS IT THE enormous crowd in the stands and the importance of the contest or the reaction from their long, stern chase or the suspension and departure of their star pitcher that made them slump that afternoon? Whatever it was, the Dodgers had the jitters. Old reliables like Harry Street hobbled easy grounders. Swanny juggled a single which was promptly stretched into a triple. Even Bob, with a runner trapped off second base, let a throw from Klein through into center field, and the man later scored.

  Old Razzle felt this uneven support. He became wild and began passing men. Ordinarily pitchers don’t mind walking a man, they have confidence in their ability to get the weaker hitters coming along. But now Razzle began to lose the next man also. This in turn reacted on the rest of the club. To the team behind the pitcher nothing is as demoralizing as bases on balls at critical moments. You can’t do a thing about them. Outfielders paw the earth and walk around restlessly; inflelders spit into their gloves and look nervously at each other from the corners of their eyes.

  Fortunately the Cards were tight also that afternoon and ready to become panicky at the least chance. Like the Dodgers, they did their best to toss away the game. They, too, messed up easy chances, threw the ball wildly around the bases, missed opportunities at the plate. Both pitchers watched with agony from the box as runs were scored on careless mistakes in the field. This game on which so much depended, which should have been so close and tight, became a comedy of errors. Two apiece in the fourth; then the Cards scored twice and led four to two in the sixth. The Dodgers caught them and went ahead five to four in the seventh; but the Cards retaliated in the eighth when Clyde Baldwin, usually the steadiest of fielders, misjudged a fly. He first ran back for it, then saw it was falling short, came in, stabbed at it, and missed. The ball rolled through to the fence and three runs were over before Roy Tucker retrieved the ball.

  “Shoot!” said Spike to Charlie Draper as they passed each other when the inning was over.

  The coach, on his way to third base, paused. “Why, Spike, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t even get up off my seat in the dugout, I was so sure he had it. He never did that before, never.”

  But there it was, and the score seven to five going into the eighth. The Dodgers managed to pick up two runs by forcing the Cards to throw the ball ro
und the diamond, and should have had another. But Red Allen was called out on a grounder which he beat into third by a foot. The decision was so raw it brought the entire dugout to the step, while a howl rose from the fans back of third base. Red Allen, quiet and even-tempered, went to pieces. He stormed up to Stubblebeard behind the bag, protesting violently. The old man folded his arms and turned away. The decision stood.

  At the start of the ninth the Cards worked a man to third with one out. The next batter hit an easy fly, and Roy Tucker stood under it waiting, thumping his glove as usual, while the ball dropped. Before he had it the man on third was off to the plate, and with a desperate slide beat Roy’s perfect throw to Jocko Klein. This time Spike roared out of the dugout, Charlie Draper at his side.

  “Why, Stubblebeard, he was out from here to breakfast!”

  “Man, you saw; he was at least four feet offa that bag before Tuck had the ball in his mitt.”

  “Shoot, Stubble, you know darn well he left that base before the ball was caught, you know that....”

  The umpire was surrounded by a noisy, angry mob of players, everyone shrieking at him. The stands were howling also for everyone had seen the runner break before the ball was caught. But once again the umpire was firm. His decision was made. In vain the Dodgers protested, appealed to the plate umpire. The Cards were ahead, eight to seven.

  Once more the Dodgers had to pull up, to come from behind. A game team, as usual they made the effort. Harry Street struck out; but Bob drilled a clean one into center field. The stands watched as Jocko Klein went up to the plate.

  Would the manager try for a tie or try to win? Would he order his catcher to bunt or hit straightaway? With the St. Louis bullpen going furiously into action, he played boldly for victory, and Jocko, hitting behind the runner with a clean drive into right, vindicated his judgment. Now there were men on first and third, one out, and the winning run on the bases, as Clyde Baldwin, the Brooks’ slugger, came to bat.