Kid Comes Back (12 page)

I’m gonna come back... I’m determined to come back... I
will
get back on that club again.

Each day he went a little further and did a little more, each day watching anxiously for the advent of those first spasms of pain. His speed returned, and only in his stopping and starting motions, the jerky movements, did he find himself slowed up. That, he realized, was mostly due to fear. Little by little he found himself thinking less of his handicap and more of that ball soaring toward him through the sky. One day he discovered himself racing hard for a deep drive, sweat pouring from his face. It was a wonderful, a happy fortnight. It also helped one afternoon when he stayed round for the opening game of a double-header, to see Ray Tonelli hopping about on second base like a rookie.

Finally the Brooks returned in triumph from their safari in the west, leading the league by nine games. The boys were affable and pleasant, genuinely glad to see Roy, even though Lester Young, as predicted, was tearing up the basepaths and starring in the Kid’s old spot in center field. But everyone welcomed him back: his old friends, Fat Stuff and noisy Raz and Bob Russell and quiet Jocko Klein; also the rookies, Elmer Shiells, who was doing such a fine job at the hot corner, and the new pitchers—Mike Mehaffey and Eddie Stone and Jerry Fielding.

That first afternoon, Lester Young, big, powerful, sure of himself, strode up to the dugout where Roy was sitting.

“Glad to have you back again, Roy. How you making it?”

The Kid looked at him quickly. Yes, he meant it. Roy, who had disliked him at first, was disarmed. “Shucks, I’m coming along, I guess, Lester. But it looks to me like you boys out there are doing O.K. without me.”

The slugging outfielder went over to the batrack and yanked out his war-club. Striding to the plate, he called back over one shoulder: “You wait. We’ll need you plenty before this summer’s over.”

Yes, it was great to be back, to wear that old 34 again, to haul on the blue socks with the white undersocks showing beneath, and the flannel shirt with the word “Dodgers” across the front, and the trousers patched over the hips where rival spikes had gashed them, and the blue cap with the dirty-white “B” on it. To step once more into the batter’s box, to feel his spikes dig into the thick turf of the outfield, or just to sit there in the dugout watching the splotched stands, the blue and white patches of shirts, the dimness of the rows of seats in the upper tier. It was great to be again in that familiar atmosphere and hear the talk.

“Looka that! See that stop!” Charlie Draper’s tones sounded over the bench. “Yes, sir, the professionals are back. As Raz put it, during the war a pitcher stood out there and listened to the base hits ringing past his nut. Now he looks up to see a double-play on the same sort of ball.”

Then from the other end Roy heard Casey’s tones, needling, trying as usual to get information from Spike Russell, their fighting manager. Canny Spike was too much for the clever sportswriter, although they fenced each other verbally each time they met.

“But suppose he does, even if he does,” persisted Casey, “where you gonna use him?” This made Roy sit up. They’re talking about me. “Swanny’s better’n ever he was,” Casey went on. “Paul Roth is batting third in the league. As for Young, well, you wouldn’t bench him for DiMag, would you?”

Then came Spike’s tones and words that helped: “A good ballplayer is a good ballplayer and a manager can’t have too many of them. You can always use them, and I’m stringing along with him.” His voice had decision and finality. The sentences and the confidence that clung to them were like a pat on the back.

There, that’s the sort of manager to have, that’s the kind of guy to work for. I’m not quitting on this thing. It may take time, it may take all summer, but I’m coming back to this club.

Count Roy Tucker out! Lemme see, who was it said that?

N
INE GAMES AHEAD
the middle of July, that’s really all right. Especially with the other teams back in the ruck, cutting each other’s throats for you every day in the week. To stay on top, the Dodgers had to win the hard ones under the arc lights of the west. Those were the games they took. So back to Brooklyn, loose, easy, and confident. It was a good ballclub for Roy to return to, and this was the best return of all. Now he could almost see the end of his long, uphill climb.

Sitting on the bench in the dugout with its wide floorboards cut by the scraping and scuffing of thousands of spikes, Roy thought, I’d rather warm the bench for Spike Russell than be a regular on the Yanks. But I’m not going to be a bench-warmer all season. I’m determined to come back; I will get back on that club.

He sat listening to the crack of bat against ball, the thud of the catchers’ mitts as the hurlers took their warm-ups, the friendly voices around, the shouts from the stands, the cries of the scorecard men, of old Jake Schultz especially. No one could mistake his tones.

The old fellow drew nearer. “Peanuts, they’re ten a bag. Fresh roasted peanuts, they’re ten a bag. Who’s next up there? Getcha fresh roasted... fresh roasted... who’s next? Why, Roy! Hullo there, glad to see you back, son.”

“Hullo yourself, Jake. Mighty glad to be back. How’s tricks?”

“Just fine, boy. How are you?”

“Me? I’m coming along. Business good this year, Jake?” It was no secret that he was the plutocrat of Ebbets Field. Never reticent regarding his earnings, Jake confessed to clearing from thirty to forty dollars a day on scorecards alone. He received a penny on each card and each bag of peanuts sold. His big money came from peanuts, and he had a system of his own in selling them.

“See now, I’m a psychologist. I don’t chuck the bags any old way. I throw ’em hard, with a flip, Roy, like this... see? And some wise guy with a girl, some show-off, he hollers and holds out his mitt. So I let him have it, hard as I can. He catches it and comes back for another. Slick, see? Yes, sir, business is good. You can’t lose with a winning club; you can’t help making dough. Well, kid, take care of yourself. We’ll need you out there afore September.” He passed on, his strong tones resounding over the hubbub. “Who’s next? Fresh roasted... they’re ten cents a bag... getcha fresh roasted.”

Now that’s the second person who has said that. Roy was only vaguely aware of the music from the organ above. Suddenly he really heard it.
“Take me out to the ballgame
...”

Then the hot haze of that summer morning on the big
Queen
came back to him—the bands on the pier and the guys aboard yelling at the Red Cross girls.
“For it’s one
...
two
...
three strikes, you’re out
...
at
...” No, sir, I’m not out. I’m back. They’ll need me before September, and I’m gonna get my spot back on this club once more if it kills me.

The bell rang and the game commenced. It was a long game and a tough one, a pitcher’s battle, with Eddie Stone, the young ace of the Brooks, against Earl Wingate, the Cub star. It was one of those dingdong affairs in which the pitchers handcuffed the batters, and the great crowd was tense and restless all afternoon as neither side could get a run. Inning after inning saw only goose eggs on the scoreboard in right. When you have hurlers in the box with perfect control and two clubs playing errorless baseball, you have a stalemate. Lester Young had a couple of chances to bring home that important run, but was unable to get the ball out of the infield. Other hitters were just as bad. So they came into the tenth, the eleventh, the twelfth, and the thirteenth, with lots of cold suppers waiting for their owners around Flatbush.

As the Dodger pitcher slumped down on the bench at the end of the Cub’s thirteenth, Roy noticed his heavy breathing. Quite obviously tired; Spike will go for someone else. Yet although a pinch-hitter was indicated, for he was lead-off man that inning, Spike’s voice down the bench startled Roy. “Go on out there, Tuck, and get us a hit.” Roy didn’t move for a moment. Well, here goes! Will I stiffen up again? Will that leg tighten up the way it did before?

He rose, stepped outside to the batrack, picked up the lumber, cracked the two bats together, and tossed one aside. As he walked out, a shriek from the stands drowned out the voice of the announcer.

“Tucker... number thirty-four... batting for...”

He came up to the plate, the fans still yelling as he went into the box, loyally waving at him, thus making it harder to sight the ball in the fading light. He waited a second, stepped back, knocked the dirt from his spikes, and took his place once more. The pitcher wound up and whipped in the first one, straight at his chin. Roy whirled, stumbled, fell over onto the dirt, his bat rolling away.

Well, things are sure getting back to normal when they start knocking me down at the plate, he thought. Standing there, he dusted off his pants and took the wood from the bat boy. Now then, let’s see what this guy’s got.

The next ball fooled him completely. The pitcher powdered a fast one by him for a strike. He swung all the way round; he really went after it, but his timing was slow and he missed, as the crowd roared. Then came the one he wanted, a curve whipped in above the knees and over the corner. He met the ball, pulled it gently down the line, and was off toward first.

As he raced ahead he saw the first baseman had been caught cold. The pitcher had to come across, scoop it up, and throw all in one motion. Consequently his hurried toss was low and wide, getting away from the man on the bag. Roy without pausing in his stride took a sharp turn around first, his spikes gnawing holes in the basepath, and lit out for second. This was going to be close, awfully close, so he slid in with a hook through a storm of dust, once again drawing a quick throw that was low and difficult for the fielder to handle.

Watching as he slid in, Roy realized at once that the ball was getting away from the man above him and dribbling behind into open territory. Without checking his slide, he rose in one movement, came up and was off for third, while shortstop, second baseman, and fielder chased the ball. He was in pay dirt now, with Charlie, back of the bag, yelling at him to slide. Determined not to be caught, he roared into third and flung himself with a perfect tumble for the corner of the bag. Actually the throw was high enough so that the fielder never even reached for him.

He stood there panting, wiping off his monkey suit, the sweet music from the fans in his ears, the bleachers in deep center fermenting with excitement. Yes, the doctor was right. He was as fast as ever.

The harassed pitcher held a conference with his manager. Then he passed Swanson. It was good tactics, for one run would win and the old reliable was always a dangerous man. Next he went to work on Young.

With men on first and third, no one out, and the fans shrieking their heads off on every side, the pitcher stood there, impassive as though it was his first inning on the mound. Then he warmed up. A slider over the corner, a wasted ball round Lester’s neck, a fast ball that was smoke, a curve that broke with Young’s bat on his shoulder—and that was that. Lester went back to the bench.

Alan Whitehouse walked up to the plate. The pitcher stood in the box with his hands on his hips, glancing at Roy on third and Swanny on first, surveying the best pinch-hitter in the league, needed now if ever. Alan took the first two pitches, a strike and a ball. Then Charlie Draper put on the hit-and-run. Roy rubbed the left leg of his pants to show he had the sign, and danced up and down the baseline in foul territory, so as not to be struck by a batted ball.

He was off with that full-sounding smack of bat on ball, only to hear Charlie’s warning shriek behind him. Realizing it was a fly, he dug in, turned, came back and tagged up. The ball was hit to left field, a good average fly, not deep, and not a short one either. Roy got set five feet back of the bag along the foul line, watching closely over one shoulder. Then he turned. Taking a running start, he hit the bag exactly the second the ball was caught, and struck out for home with every ounce he had.

That everything depended upon him he knew. This was their chance, this was their big moment, because Spike had no good pitcher left to put in if the game continued. That the throw-in would be close he was sure, because the Cub left fielder had one of the best arms in baseball. So he gave it the works. Forgotten was his weak leg and the months of pain and agony behind him. He only thought of the run they needed and the plate ahead.

On a play of this kind, most runners “put their heads down and go,” as the old-timers say. Not Roy Tucker. He had been taught always to keep his wits about him and watch for the whereabouts of the ball. Instead of running head down, full tilt for the plate, as he charged toward home he kept his eyes upon the catcher. Seeing the receiver’s position, he instantly saw that a straight slide would be sure death. So ignoring a possible injury, he hurled himself forward, rolling toward the right side of the platter, reaching for it with outstretched arm. Above was the catcher, slashing round, lunging for him in vain.

T
HE WINDOWS WERE
high up along one wall of the big room, about halfway to the lofty ceiling. Around three sides were the lockers, six feet high and open in front, with a shelf near the top. There was a large weighing machine beside the door, and to the left as you entered was a small room with two rubbing tables and the Doc’s electric diathermy machine. Back of it was Spike’s dressing room, separated from the players’ quarters by a wire grill. And to the left of the main door was a large blackboard, with a chalked notice written on it.

TRAIN LEAVES GRAND CENTRAL FOR ST. LOUIS TONIGHT AT 9:00 P. M. ALL UNIFORMS TO BE HANDED IN AFTER THE GAME. MGR.

The blue trunks with the red borders and the big letters in paint on the sides:
BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB
, were in the middle of the floor, half filled with clean uniforms. Near the outer door stood the bat trunk, ready to be hauled onto the field as soon as the game was over, for the bats to be stacked inside. Everything spoke of departure, of travel. The team was on the road again.