Keystone Kids (11 page)

The next batter came up with Spike’s favorite ball. It was a sizzling grasscutter well over toward third, a ball that had legs on it, low and fast. Harry, his glove outstretched, stabbed and missed. Spike was there behind the third baseman, waiting for the ball, got it cleanly and burned it home ahead of the heavy, slow baserunner. The huge man on the path was ten feet from home when the ball landed in Klein’s hands. So instead of sliding he ran as hard as he could and hurled himself, shoulder forward, at the rookie catcher. The blow knocked Klein spinning, and the ball tumbled from his grasp.

Confusion! Everyone was running. Rog raced for the ball, Harry came charging in from third, and Spike dashed for the plate, too. This was something he wouldn’t usually have done. But he snatched the ball from Rog Stinson and ran over to the burly Cub runner, who was picking himself up from the collision and shaking dirt out of his shirt. He slapped the ball on his shoulder.

“He never touched the plate, he never touched the plate!” shouted Spike to the umpire.

From nowhere Crane appeared at his side. For just a second or two his cursing was directed toward the young catcher, and then as he caught the significance of the shortstop’s words, he, too, charged Old Stubblebeard, the umpire, with all his fury and all the invective at his command. He shouted, he shrieked, he screamed. His howls drowned out the protests and assertions of the player, the rival manager, and his coaches. For the second time in two days the umpire turned away from the plate, arms folded. But this time his patience was short. Suddenly he turned and pointed toward the dugout.

Ginger refused to budge.

“This’ll cost you a hundred dollars,” said the umpire. Then Ginger moved. Slowly he moved. He was out of the game.

Too late Cassidy took over the team. The winning run was home and they trooped in to the lockers twenty minutes later, another lead thrown away, another game lost that should have been won, another bitter disappointment, and another cheerless dinner ahead of them. They sat there dispirited and disgusted.

“What time is it?” asked someone finally. “Does anyone know what time it is?”

“Does anyone care?” said a voice. It was typical of their feeling. No one cared.

Crane had for some reason vanished from the room and at least they were thankful to be spared his rasping voice as they slumped down before their lockers.

Tired and discouraged, Spike sat on the bench. Someone touched his shoulder. There was a quiet sentence in his ear. He tried to hear, to understand.

“MacManus wants to see you.” He looked up at Bill Hanson, the club secretary.

“Me? Now? Like this?”

“Yeah. You better go right up.”

Now what could that mean? Dismissal, probably, or a ticket for Nashville, or a fine at the very least for his raging at the umpire that afternoon. Hang it, he’d defend himself. The man never did touch the plate, never.

He was sure there was something wrong, but he felt almost too tired to think. And he knew Jack MacManus would be in a terrible mood after watching them lose that game. So he was prepared for the worst, prepared also for the owner’s red angry face, his abrupt manner. He could see that things had been stormy already that afternoon in the main office.

“Russell! Sit down!” It was a command.

MacManus rose, threw away the stub of a cigar, and lit another. He walked across the room, came back, and reseated himself under the big elk’s head on the wall. He started to speak.

Then something hit Spike, hit him hard, knocked all the breath out of him. It was the tense voice of MacManus.

“How’d you like to manage the Dodgers?”

The world went round. He was dizzy. He was insane. He was hearing things. Manager! Manage the Dodgers!

He tried to collect himself, to hold himself down to the chair from which he had been blown by the explosion. Then he heard his own voice, thin, far away.

“Reckon I wouldn’t, Mr. MacManus.”

That red, freckled face under the sandy hair became redder and redder. “What?” he bellowed. He thumped the desk. “Mean to tell me you’d turn down an opportunity to manage the Brooklyn Dodgers? Here I offer you a chance...”

“No, sir, no, Mr. MacManus. You get me wrong. You asked would I
like
to... to manage the team. Now... and all... managing a sixth place club... well, that isn’t fun, sir.”

There was a pause. Then the same hesitating expression came over his broad face that Spike had watched that evening in the Andrew Jackson in Nashville when the five dollar bill had been offered to him. Once again he was ready either to explode with rage or roar with laughter. There was the same moment of tension over the room; then slowly the same grin appeared.

“Spike, by ginger, you’re a case! You’re the only player who ever got the better of me in a business deal, too. You got an old head on those shoulders, and I believe you can handle this job. What say?”

“Well, sir, it’s like this. You’ve heard the saying—when you sleep on the floor, you can’t very likely fall out of bed.”

T
HE TEAM SAT
dressing the next morning in the lockers, each player thinking the same thing. He’s a good kid; sure he’s a good kid. But what will he be like as manager? Will he dish his brother; will he change roomies, or won’t he? And what about me? Will I get traded or will he keep me on the team? That’s what they were all thinking, all except the second baseman.

Bob was thinking: He’s the manager of the Dodgers now; he’s Spike Russell, the manager of the Dodgers, the kid that came up from the Nashville Volunteers. He’s the manager, Spike is, the best guy who ever lived. Gosh, how I wish the Old Lady could have seen this! Wouldn’t she be proud!

Then the door opened and MacManus entered with the new manager, the older man’s arm in that of the shortstop. Bob looked at his brother, suddenly realizing that his shoulders had filled out. He’s broader and stronger; that’s why his ball is steaming in there, why he’s getting those extra bases on his hits. There were new lines in his face, lines Bob had never seen there before, and a new seriousness there, too. Now MacManus was talking, talking slowly and calmly, not in the least in his usual vein.

“Of course all you men know there’s been an unsatisfactory situation here for some time, and I... that is, we... that is, the management... think the club can go further under a new manager. We’re making this change therefore, and we hope you’ll back it up with everything you’ve got.” He hesitated, looking at Spike in his monkey suit, standing by his side. “Guess that’s about all.” He stuck out a big paw. “Spike, good luck! Everyone upstairs is behind you.” He turned and walked from the room.

Spike was alone with them. He stood for a minute glancing at the players grouped on the benches or squatting on the floor or leaning against the lockers in the rear; at Roy Tucker with his friendly, honest expression; at Fat Stuff and McCaffrey; at Karl Case, a scowl on his dark, handsome face; at Klein, the black-haired rookie, a catcher’s mask under one arm; at Razzle, standing negligently to one side; at Draper and Cassidy, the coaches; at Harry Street and Swanny; and last of all at his kid brother, the best guy who ever lived, the best pivot man in the leagues. Somehow the look on Bob’s face gave him courage to go on, to begin, to speak. He raised his head and stuck out his chin.

“I’ve just been made manager, as you know, and I’ll do the best I can; but any success will come—must come, from you guys. It’s your show from now on. We all know what the situation here was, what it’s been like on this club, and many of us were unhappy. You can’t play good ball when you feel that way. We know what the trouble was, no need to go into that. From now on we’ve got to pull together. This crowd must turn into a real team. From now on no one is working for himself. We’re all working for all of us. When you do that, a team has something solid.

“We’ll play a little different type of baseball; maybe I’ve been brought up in a different kind, and of course I expect to play the system I know best. We’re not going to fight the umps or the other teams any more. Let’s us win ballgames, not arguments. We aren’t going to get into rhubarbs with every team in the league. In every one we’ve been in our club has become disorganized; we’ve all got mad and lost the game, like that blow-up at Boston the other day where Elmer forgot to cover first. I b’lieve players do better when they keep cool, when they don’t lose their heads.”

He paused, trying to think of his next point.

Why, he’s older, he’s grown older, thought Bob. Here I’ve been living with him, rooming with him all summer, and never noticed it until just now. He’s ten years older than he was this time last year. He was growing older right under my eyes and I never realized it. How’s that for being dumb?

“I’m manager now, and you won’t maybe know how to act. To hell with all that! I’m a ballplayer just the same. I’m out there going through the motions, same as the rest of you. If any of you have anything to say, say it; if you have anything you want to get off your chest, let’s thrash it out right here in the clubhouse.”

Once again he paused, thinking hard and trying to phrase his sentences so they wouldn’t hurt.

“Now we all know some of us haven’t been keeping in shape the way you should. Want you to realize one thing: when you do this, you’re hurting all the other men on the club. It isn’t just MacManus or the stockholders you hurt when you go out at night. It’s us, all of us. That’s what I mean when I say in the future we must be a team that pulls together, not an individual record team. I’m sick myself of this whispering stuff in corners.

“I don’t hardly think we’ve been giving enough, either. Oh, sure, I know, you come out and give all you got on the field; I know that. But the point is, if you stay out all night or if you’re in your room in the hotel playing gin-rummy ’til three-four in the morning, you just can’t... you just haven’t got it once you get onto the field. That’s all going to stop. Anyone who feels he must get loose once in a while, come see me. O.K. I’ll give you late permission.”

Hang it, thought Bob, the guy’s got it. He’s really got it! He could see the effect of his brother’s words on the team. They were easier now, less tense. Gosh, thought Bob, what a fellow he is, that Spike!

“Now I’m not going to make any radical changes or shake-up in this ballclub. It only needs to hustle. Baseball, as you all know, is played in fractions; fractions of a second, fractions of an inch. I realize I’m not telling you anything; you all know this, especially those of you who’ve been in the game lots longer’n I have. But seems to me we haven’t been hustling; we’ve been thinking about this or that, about the cut in the meal allowance or how much we lost in that poker game last night or who’s running today at Belmont. I want us all to be thinking about who’s hitting for them in the seventh instead of who’s running in the seventh at Jamaica. Keep on missing signals the way some of us have lately, and we’ll all be back seeing the folks at home sooner than we expected.

“From now on I want hustle and more hustle. I want everyone on this club to run out everything to first, whether they think they can beat the throw or not. Yes, and that means all of you pitchers, too. Rats and Elmer and all the rest of you. You gotta presume the fielder’s gonna boot that ball. Other day over in Cinci we dropped an important game that shoved us down into sixth place. Why? ’Cause a pitcher started toward first on a hard hit ground ball with his bat in his hand. The shortstop muffed it and threw wild, and he’d been safe if he’d hustled. He didn’t hustle and he was out, and we lost the winning run right there when Klein tripled. He was out, and that’s out, too, on this club from now on. When you get a single, I expect you to take that turn at first and go on until you see you can’t make it. If you can’t, O.K., dig in those spikes and hustle back to the bag. But if the fielder so much as bobbles the ball, keep going and you’ll be in there. And you won’t get a bawling-out if a perfect throw nails you, either. I want you to take chances. You never reach second if you run to first and stop.

“Now there’s certain things on this club that’s annoyed us all, you and me and everybody. I’m gonna put a stop to ’em. One is morning practice. We been practicing mornings lately, and I think maybe it hurt more than it helped. Maybe we’ve all got a little stale. ’Nother thing, about the meal allowance. It was cut from six bucks to four bucks this summer, and for some of you big eaters I realize that’s not enough. If the other teams in our league get six, we oughta get six, too. We won’t have any more of this getting up to eat breakfast together at nine o’clock, either. You come down when you like, jes’ so long as it’s a reasonable hour. I’m glad to say Mr. MacManus sees things this way, and has agreed to put the meal allowance back where it was.”

Man, is he smart! Is that guy smart! They’ve all been beefing about that meal allowance for the last two months. That coming down to breakfast on the button hurts, too. It’s those grudges against the management that burn up ballplayers, that are worse than a two-thousand-dollar cut in salary, thought Bob. Yessir, he’s really smart, starting off like that. Looking over the room, he could watch them relax and settle back, see the relief on every face.

So, I’m not fired or traded; he’s not shaking everyone up; he’s not trying to show his authority right off; he’s not sending me back to Montreal. O.K., let’s us all go out for this kid, they seemed to be saying to themselves.

“I guess that’s about all. For now. This isn’t a second division club, and I know if you’ll hustle for me we can go places... Oh, yes, one more thing. I realize how it upsets a man not to know when he’s due to pitch. From now on we’ll have a regular schedule. A man’ll rest one day after pitching. He’ll run and run hard the next day chasing flies. Then he’ll throw a little the next day and be ready to pitch if I want him either the fourth or the fifth day. Is that understood? Everyone will take their turn pitching batting practice, too. Raz... you’ll go in today.”

Razzle, leaning against a locker in the back of the room, straightened up and replied hastily. “Yeah, but you know I don’t never aim to pitch batting practice, Spike.”