Fear Strikes Out (11 page)

For one stretch of three weeks, Eileen was up every single night, and I got so I couldn’t stand hearing her cry. When she woke up this time, I didn’t go to her. Instead, I buried my head under the pillow and muttered over and over, “Stop that howling—stop that howling—stop that howling—” I guess I said it aloud, because Mary finally woke up and, without a word, went in to Eileen. After a while, the baby quieted down. I turned over and acted as if I were asleep when Mary came back to bed. Feeling guilty and conscience-stricken, I didn’t want to talk.

Every day after that, I went through the same routine—kissing Mary good-by, heading in the direction of the gym and ending up in a movie. Sometimes I’d go to the same theater two or three days in a row, sometimes I’d switch off to some other movie. Sometimes I’d go to one in town, sometimes to a suburban house. This went on through Christmas week, and I thought I had Mary pretty completely fooled.

One day she said, “Here’s a letter for you. It’s from the Red Sox.”

It was short, hardly more than a note, signed by Joe Cronin, the Red Sox general manager, an invitation—not an order—for me to report on January 15 to Sarasota for a series of workouts in the special spring-training school the club was running. The school would be made up mostly of young rookies like myself. The Red Sox had so many that they had decided to give the boys a chance to get a head start on the veterans, who weren’t due to report for regular spring training until March 1.

“I’m not going,” I said, shortly.

“Well,” Mary commented, “I don’t suppose you have to if you don’t want to. But you’ll be way behind the other fellows if you don’t go.”

“What do the Red Sox care? They don’t want me.”

I stayed in the movies later than usual the following night. When I got home—it was after nine—Tony Howley was at the house.

“Hi, Jimmy,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“Around.”

I hadn’t seen Tony for days. I had been avoiding everyone I knew.

“How were the movies?” he said, casually.

“The what?”

“The movies. Saw you there today.”

“Uh—all right.” Then, to Mary, “I didn’t feel like working out today, honey.”

“Jimmy,” she said, slowly, “you haven’t felt like working out for a long time, have you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You haven’t been fooling me, honey, but it’s all right. If it makes you feel any better to go to the movies every day, go ahead. But it’s pretty nearly time to report to Florida, and you haven’t been sleeping too well. Tony’s got an idea he might be able to help you.”

So she knew all the time—and she hadn’t said a word. But now Tony knew, too. Why had she told him? It was none of his business. But he wants to help me. Maybe I can use some help. I’ve got to get some sleep. Maybe it will stop these headaches.

“—you’ll like him,” Tony was saying.

“Like who?” I asked.

“This doctor I was telling you about.”

“You didn’t tell me about any doctor.”

“You weren’t listening, Jimmy. This is a guy who can give you something to make you sleep.”

“What kind of a doctor is he?” I asked, suspiciously.

“Just an ordinary doctor. Mary knows him.”

“Who is he?” I asked her.

“A good man,” she said. “I’m going to make an appointment for you to see him before you go South.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” I said sullenly. But I wanted to get rid of the headaches and, after a while, I agreed to go.

Mary made an appointment for the next afternoon. I stayed home all day, prowling around the house, playing with Eileen, trying to read the papers, killing time any way I could. When Mary said, “O.K., let’s go,” I helped her into a coat, put one on myself and went out to the car.

It took us only a few minutes to get to the doctor’s. He saw me right away, and, while Mary sat in the waiting room, I walked into the office. As soon as I got inside, I snapped, “This wasn’t my idea. My wife wanted me to see you.”

“That’s all right,” he commented. “Just sit down.”

“I won’t be here long. I’ll stand. Just give me something that’ll make me sleep.”

“I’d like to ask you one or two questions—then I’ll give you something.”

While I walked back and forth in front of him, he began talking, but I hardly listened. Instead, I kept repeating, “O.K., O.K., just give me the sleeping pills.” Finally, unable to stand his voice any longer, I turned and walked out. I picked up my coat and said to Mary, “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

A few nights before it was time to leave for Sarasota—I had steadily insisted that I wasn’t going—Mary drove the car up beside me as I was walking along Capouse Avenue, about three blocks from the house. As usual I had spent the day in the movies.

“It’s after ten, Jimmy,” she said, calmly, as she leaned out. “Time to come home.”

The thermometer was flirting with zero, but I dripped with perspiration as I crunched through the snow. Cold as it was, I had my coat unbuttoned and the collar of my shirt open. My head buzzed with the pressure of pain and my eyes smarted. I was staring at the ground as I walked along, but now I looked up. Then, without a word, I climbed into the car and Mary drove us home. My dad was waiting for me when we got there.

“Hello, son.”

His harsh voice was pitched low, and he had an odd smile on his face.

“What are you doing here?” I managed to ask. I couldn’t say any more. My throat was tight and my shoulders were quivering and my eyes were smarting more than ever. I sank down on the divan, cradled my pounding head in my arms and cried like a baby.

After a while, I heard Dad say, “All set to go South?”

“I’m not going,” I sobbed. “They don’t want me.”

“Sure they want you. Say, Jimmy, you know who was asking for you yesterday? Bill Tracy. He read that you were invited to that rookie school, and he can’t wait to see how you do.”

“I won’t be there.”

“Jimmy—”

My dad’s voice was very soft now, softer than I ever remembered it.

“Yeah?”

“Tracy’d like to see you.”

Tracy wants to see me? Good old Tracy. Such a decent, fair, straight-shooting guy! He knows me and understands me like nobody else does—even Mary. He’s the only person I know I can trust. He’s my friend. He’ll tell me what to do.

“I’d like to see him, too,” I said.

“Fine. We’ll go to Waterbury in the morning.”

Bill met us at the railroad station and drove us over to East Main Street so I could say hello to Mom. We dropped my father off, and then went back to Tracy’s house, where we talked for a while. He told me that no one was trying to get rid of me—that the Red Sox needed me as shortstop and were giving me a chance to play one position that was almost sure to be open right away.

“Just because Boudreau announced that he wouldn’t bring you into the majors now if you look like a promising shortstop doesn’t mean that he really won’t,” Bill explained. “If you look that good, you’ll stay right with the team. He can’t get rid of you, because he doesn’t have another shortstop. Stephens’s hip is still doubtful. There isn’t anyone else.”

“I know, but look at the way I got pushed around last year.”

“You didn’t get pushed around, Jim,” he said. “You pushed yourself around. It all started when you asked O’Neill to send you down.”

It didn’t sound right to me, but Bill seemed to know what he was talking about. He failed to convince me that the Red Sox really wanted me, but I did agree to report to the special training camp just to see what would happen. I took a late afternoon train back to Scranton. It was January 13. I had less than forty-eight hours to get to Sarasota.

I got home late, then paced the floor for a couple of hours before I went to bed
. I don’t want to go to Sarasota. I’ll get pushed around some more there. The Red Sox don’t like me and they don’t want me. But I’ll go—I promised Tracy I would, and I can’t let Tracy down. Besides, I want to prove to him how wrong he is. He thinks Boudreau will keep me with the Red Sox. Of course, he’s wrong. Boudreau will make me fool around in the infield awhile and then send me back to Louisville, or maybe Birmingham, and that’s the last I’ll ever see of the Red Sox. Bill Tracy’s a smart guy, but he doesn’t know all the answers. I’ll go. I told him I’d go. But I’ll fool him and Boudreau and everyone else. I’ll go down there without my fielder’s glove! That’ll stop everyone. You can’t work out without a glove. I didn’t tell Tracy I’d work out. I just promised him I’d report to the ball club in time to make the special training school. When they see that I don’t have my glove, they’ll know I mean business. Yes, sir, I’ll leave my glove home.

I felt better. The headache was still bad, but I could lie down and rest, if not sleep. It was now after three o’clock in the morning. Mary had stayed up to see me after I got in from Scranton, but she had long since gone to sleep. Eileen seemed to be all right. There wasn’t a peep out of her. I couldn’t have stood it if she had waked up and cried.

After a miserable night, I got up and took an ice-cold shower. Then after she had given me some breakfast, Mary said, “Come on. Let’s go down to the airlines’ office and get your ticket. You have to be in Sarasota by tomorrow.”

She had one hand on my shoulder. I reached up and touched it and, for a minute, I felt relaxed.

“How do you feel, honey?” I asked her.

“Fine.”

“You know, I’ve been so upset myself, I forgot all about you for a little while. Take care of yourself?”

“I will, Jimmy.”

“We don’t want anything to happen this time.”

“Don’t worry. Nothing will. It’ll be just like when we had Eileen. Nice and routine.”

“I
will
worry.”

“You’ve got enough on your mind, honey,” she said. “You just go down there to Florida and show all those people that you’re a big-league ballplayer, and don’t think about me. I’ll be all right.”

“Mary—”

“What?”

“I’m not a big-league ballplayer—not if they try to make a shortstop out of me.”

“How do you know? You’ve never tried to play shortstop. Jimmy, honey, the Red Sox know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t try to shift you if they didn’t think you could do it.”

I didn’t say anything.
What’s the use of starting another argument? Mary doesn’t understand, and she never will understand. I’ll just go along with her, and even act as if I agree. What’s the difference? I won’t have my glove with me, so I can’t possibly practice. But she doesn’t know that. She never will know. If she asks me about it later, I’ll tell her I lost it.

Mary helped me pack the old foot locker—the same one I had first taken to Bradenton—and we sent it on ahead by air express when we went down to pick up my plane ticket. After we arrived back at the house, she said, “Now get out your two-suiter and we’ll pack it.”

“I’ll pack it,” I told her.

“You go and take it easy, honey. You’ve got a tough trip ahead.”

“I’ll pack it, I said,” I blazed.

Mary, her eyes wide, backed away a few steps.

“All right, Jimmy. Pack it if you want. I just thought I could help you.”

“I don’t need any help,” I said, sullenly.

If Mary packs it, she’ll be sure I take the glove and if I take the glove I won’t have any excuse not to work out. I’ve got to leave the glove behind. I’ll hide it in my bureau drawer. She won’t think to look for it there. I’ll dump everything else into the suitcase and get it closed and locked before she comes back into the room. She’ll never know the difference.

I pulled the two-suiter off the closet shelf, spread it open on the bed and threw my clothes into it. I worked fast, and the job didn’t take long. I snapped the clasp shut, turned the key in the little lock, then put the key in my pocket. I breathed a long sigh. Mary hadn’t come into the room at all.
Good. Very good. No glove, no workout. Now I’m just going to Sarasota for the ride.

My plane was scheduled to leave at nine-thirty
P.M.
, and, as Mary had pointed out, it would not be an easy trip. I’d either be flying or hanging around airports all night, since I’d have to make two changes, one in New York, the other in Tampa. Shortly after dinner, Mary, George and I got into George’s car, drove in town to pick up Tony and Bob Howley and then went out to the Scranton-Wilkes-Barre airport.

I felt good. My head only ached a little and I wasn’t too nervous. The conversation was pretty general, and I took part in it. I won’t have to talk to anybody once the plane starts. I don’t want to talk to anybody—not ever again. I hope I don’t meet anyone I know. Meanwhile, I might as well be nice to everyone here.

When the flight was called, I shook hands with the Howleys and George, kissed Mary and started for the plane. I took only a few steps, then remembered something. Turning back, I beckoned to Mary, and she stepped towards me. When we met, I put my arms around her, kissed her again and murmured, “Take care of yourself, honey.”

She smiled, a warm, happy smile, then replied, softly, “Don’t worry, I will.”

The new baby was due in six weeks.

I climbed aboard the plane, nodded an acknowledgment to the stewardess’s greeting and walked the length of the aisle, taking a rear seat beside the window. I fastened the safety belt, pulled my hat down over my face, leaned my head against the window and half closed my eyes. I made no attempt to go to sleep, because it is only a short plane ride from Scranton to New York and I had the whole night in front of me.

At LaGuardia, I had about an hour’s wait for the Tampa plane, which was scheduled to take off a little after midnight. I prowled back and forth on the long straight corridor that leads to the plane gates, hoping to tire myself out enough so that I’d be able to sleep on the long ride south. My head was buzzing again. I hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in weeks, and the last thirty hours had been a nightmare. By the time the Tampa flight was called, I was ready to drop. I picked up my grip and stumbled aboard the plane, falling into the first window seat I came to. I fastened the belt and cradled my head into the corner formed by the casement and the back of the seat and I must have gone to sleep before the plane took off. When I woke up, we were taxiing along the ground in Tampa. My seat belt was still fastened.