World Series (16 page)

When he returned to the dugout waving his bat, he found Harry sitting on top of the bench, his feet on the board seat below, laughing at a girl who was taking his picture from outside.

“Yes, ma’am, go right ahead and break your machine if you want to.” The old pop-off. Harry was loose; anyone could see he was loose. Several sportswriters climbed down inside.

“H’ya, Sandy.”

“Hullo there, Rex.”

“Good morning, Tommy.” A couple more followed. They surrounded the Kid on the bench, asking questions.

“How you feel, Roy?”

“Me? I’m all right.”

“Feel any different?”

“No. ’Course I don’t feel different.” Yet inside he realized he did feel different. Except for the bunting over the upper and lower tiers and the flags and the band, the Series was much like an ordinary game. Not the last one, with all that money hanging on it. You felt different, no matter what anyone said. Before the dugout he noticed Razzle, also encircled by a group of reporters. Then the big pitcher broke away, took his glove from his hip pocket, and walked out onto the field. The Kid understood. He wanted to be alone, to get away from foolish questions, autograph collectors, photographers, and sports-writers.

From his seat the Kid could look into the

Cleveland dugout across the way. Baker sitting on the step watching the Dodger hitters was apparently as unconcerned as Dave, who just then was signing for a telegram with a casual air, talking to Casey all the while. He opened the telegram and passed it down the bench. An enormous affair, the telegram when unfolded was almost six feet long.

“
WE HERE IN CLEARWATER TAKE THIS MEANS OF WISHING YOU LUCK TODAY.
”

There were hundreds of signatures. A group gathered round, and several photographers knelt outside the dugout, snapping Harry and Rats together glancing over the names.

“CLANG-CLANG-CLANG”
went the bell. Fat Stuff came into the dugout, swinging his bat and grumbling. “Twenty years it’s been like that. I go up to bat and what happens? The bell rings.” With disgust he shoved his bat into its slot in the bat rack, murmuring to himself, “Why shouldn’t pitchers have a crack at the ball once in a while?”

The rest of the team returned, slapping their bats into place, knocking the dirt from their spikes on the stone step of the dugout. Then spreading themselves on the seat, they watched the Indians full of fire and pepper take the field.

Glancing down the bench Roy could tell the ones who were tight by the way they sat, chins cupped in their hands, staring at the figures in the field. And those who were loose, too, like Harry with his arms over the back of the bench, relaxed and talking with Casey. “We’re sure gonna tie into ’em today....”A few were concentrated on their rivals lining out drives at the plate; others were just dreaming. But all were thinking the same thing: can we hit Gene Miller?

From above them came the sounds and cries of the ballpark. “...can’t tell the players without a score card...get ’em red-hot...they’re red-hot...peanuts and popcorn...peanuts and popcorn...who’s next...anybody else wanna cold drink...anyone else...only twenty-five cents...score cards...”

Then a voice came over the loudspeaker and a sudden sharp yell greeted the words:

“For Brooklyn, No. 14...Nugent....”

The fans were on edge. Miller against Nugent. A struggle of giants, with fifty thousand dollars depending on every inning, every pitch, every play.

Then came that moment which took place before every game, a moment usually unperceived by the crowd. But Roy, realizing its significance, could never see it without a catch in his throat. A lonely group of half a dozen players—pitchers and catchers—detached themselves from the dugout and walked slowly across the field. Relief men going to the bullpen. Just in case.

The band struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner” and everyone rose on the bench, cap in hand. The last notes died away and an outburst of chatter went up and down the line; their way of trying to allay their tension as the big moment drew near. Together they boiled out of the dugout. In the movement forward, the Kid jostled sleeves with Ed and Swanny on each side. That friendly touch gave him courage. Anyhow the Dodgers were a team, they were a unit, all in it together.

He raced toward right. The stands rose as he passed. Coming into his position he faced the bleachers in deep right center where the Knot Hole Gang was sitting. Now they were on their feet, shouting through their hands, yelling encouragement. He could even distinguish voices in the roar.

“Go get ’em, Roy....”

“You can do it, Tuck....”

“Give us one them homers, Roy....”

“Atta boy, Kid....”

They knew him. And he knew them. Through those terrible periods of July and August they had stayed behind the team; winning or losing, in rain, cold, wind, heat, they were always there. Here they were for the last game of all, his friends, sticking with him to the very end.

Say, it was swell to play in Brooklyn. He wouldn’t want to play anywhere else. They knew him, this gang, and he knew them. Nearing his position, he waved and the crowd howled with delight.

A guy was lucky to be able to play ball for a crowd like that. With a manager like Dave Leonard behind you.

M
C
C
LUSKY SWUNG
hard and missed the ball. Instead of stepping from the box and rubbing his hands on his uniform as he usually did whenever he swung from his ears, he walked ten feet away and scooped up a handful of dirt. Roy, watching closely, knew immediately what this meant. McClusky was nervous. The Indian batters were tight, too.

A minute later they were coming in to the dugout. Nearing first, the Kid saw Razzle go through his customary pantomime. As he neared the foul line on his way from the box to the bench the big pitcher tossed his glove some distance ahead. It fell toward the dugout, and on getting to it he leaned over and turned the glove upside down. Then he walked in to the bench.

“Just get me one run, gang, that’s all. One run, that’s all I ask; one run.”

Shoot! That’s no good. The bench leaned back together in resignation as Red Allen flied to Rock.

“Now then, Roy, what say we go places....”

“Okay, Kid, you can do it....”

“Unbutton your shirt up there, Roy....”

He stepped to the plate. In the box the big pitcher stood motionless on the rubber, arms on his hips, legs apart, looking inquiringly at McCormick. All the friendly look had vanished. In its place was an ugly grin, and with that tooth missing in front he seemed to Roy the meanest man he ever faced. The bong-bong-bong in the Kid’s head sounded louder than ever while the pitcher shook off his catcher and then, nodding, went into his wind-up. Roy connected with a hook on the first pitch and started for first as if he were running a hundred yard dash. Close; but the ball was ahead of him. Returning to the dugout he felt a tremendous sense of relief, almost light and happy. It might be three innings before he’d have to bat again.

With both pitchers throwing airtight ball, the innings went by rapidly and it hardly seemed any time before they were swarming back into the dugout at the end of the third, the score still nothing to nothing.

Then in the fourth inning things happened. The Kid realized as he had so often before that every situation in baseball was different and that new situations arose every day. The top of the Cleveland batting order was up, with Lanahan at bat. He smacked a hard drive near first for which Red ran desperately. He stabbed at it and missed. Roy was waiting and froze the ball, but Lanahan was safe on first.

Raz went back to the mound and he and Dave started to work on McClusky with care. The Kid dug the dirt from his spikes, set himself ready to move, flexed his arm...

An easy out. A grounder. A doubleplay ball. In fact
the
perfect doubleplay ball, a rolling grounder to Harry, right where he liked it on his throwing side. Directly the ball was hit Roy broke in toward second, although Harry was never known to mess up the throw from any position. Nor did he; the throw was chest high and perfect. With desperation Lanahan slid into second. Then realizing he was beaten, he dug his spikes into Ed’s left leg, bowling him over before he could snap the ball to first. It dribbled dangerously along the dirt toward the grass in right field.

Instantly the situation changed. The Cleveland coaches on the base lines became dancing figures, on their toes yelling. The stands rose shrieking. The whole diamond was alive with shouts and the figures of racing men, as Lanahan jumped up and dashed for third while McClusky turning first darted for second. This might well be the game, the fifty thousand dollar break, the whole thing. The two runners tore for the forward bases as the ball bounded aimlessly.

Roy, charging in, saw Lanahan’s trick, saw the loose ball, and bore down with everything he had. There was still a chance, a good chance. He neared the ball lying motionless on the grass.

“Third...third...hurry up...take yer time...third...Roy....”

Timing his stride exactly, he scooped the ball up with his bare hand while still on the run and, raging inside, rifled it into third all in the same motion. Jerry, the old reliable, was waiting. He whanged the ball on Lanahan and shot it back to second. McClusky had overslid the bag and before he could scramble to safety Ed had completed the double play.

A roar rose all round the diamond as in the flash of a few seconds the situation shifted from confidence to disaster and back again to confidence. Heads-up ball had saved them momentarily. A minute later they trooped back to the dugout, panting, hot, weary. No wonder Ed dropped that ball. He showed an ugly gash down the side of his leg and even his shoe was so cut and ripped as to be unwearable. The team gathered round as the Doc patched him up with tape and brought out another shoe. Then they settled back. Dave leaned down the bench approvingly.

“That’s picking them up, there, Roy. Did me good to see you go for that ball.”

“Boy, you really can throw that old apple,” said Jerry. “Like to bum my hands offa me.”

He felt encouraged by their words which gave him strength and confidence. “Okay, Razzle, we’ll go get you your run this inning; just you see if we don’t.”

Allen up, Tucker in the hole. Dave called down the bench to the Kid as he pulled his bat from the slot.

“Now, Roy, go get me a single. Just a single, will ya?”

“Only one run, that’s all I ask, only one run, Tuck old kid.” By gosh they’d get it, too. This was the inning.

On one knee in the circle, now almost enshadowed, he watched Red take the first one, swing hard at a hook, and then crack the next pitch on the nose.

“ITS A HIT! A HIT! OH, BOY! ITS A HIT!”

A hit it was, the first real clean hit of the game, a scorching drive which Gordon fielded well to hold Red from going to second. The Kid watched anxiously but Cassidy held him at first.

He stepped to the plate, determined to forget the bonging in his head, the swoosh of Miller’s fast one close in, the nearness of the big man in the box. Miller looked as diabolical as ever on that mound. Once again he shook off his catcher. Roy took the signal and watched one go past, right across. Then expecting a fast ball, he hit. It was a slow grounder, a grass cutter beyond Hammy and far to the left of Gardiner. But that old man was fast just the same, he was going hard, and Roy dug in, giving everything he had, straining as if the game itself depended on his speed. A burst of noise came from the stands as he flashed past the bag. Safe!

There! That would spark ’em. That would start the boys below him rolling. Two hits in succession off the great Miller. Panting and heaving from his effort, he stood on first watching the signals.

Swanny at the plate rubbed his uniform, thinking he’d take the first one. Ball. Then Swanny made a gesture which left Roy puzzled. This was important. Mustn’t make any mistake, because the way the two pitchers were going this inning might decide the whole game. So he leaned over and tied his shoe to indicate that he had missed the signal. Charlie Draper back of third base hitched his belt. Roy, one foot on the bag, hitched his to show he understood. A hit-and-run on the third pitch.

“Strrrike...” growled old Stubblebeard back of the plate. One and one. Here was the pay-off pitch. Now for it. There...there....

Swanny swung a trifle late and only got a piece of the ball. The result was a nicely hopping roller between first and second. Gardiner, back on the grass, came forward a few feet and instantly the Kid saw what was coming: the quick throw to second, the one to first to nab Swanny, the doubleplay for which the two old timers were famous, which they had made thousands of times in their baseball career. The Dodger rally would be killed at the start.

Nearer, nearer came the ball. With an extra burst of speed he dived at it and let the ball catch him full on the thigh. It caromed off and bounded away. Gardiner ran to retrieve the ball, but Swanny was automatically safe at first and Red was still securely perched on second, having checked his dive for third when he saw the play.

He came back to the bench. One down, but there was no doubleplay. Or maybe he should have done what Lanahan had done in the same situation. “Was that the right play there, Dave, or should I have slid into Lanny to break it up?”

“Just right, Roy. You did the smart thing. Now boys, one down.”

Beyond him on the bench sat Razzle, pulling at his cap and repeating half to himself, “Only one run, boys, give me one run. That’s all I ask, one run.”

“One down. Only one down,” shouted the coaches, holding up a finger. From the bleachers in right came the roar of his gang pleading for a hit.

Karl Case tried hard to respond. His best effort was a pop-up to Lanahan. Two down. Run on anything. Now, Harry, it’s up to you, old timer. The coaches were yelling, the stands yowling for a hit. Harry’s effort wasn’t much. A looping Lena that Hammy couldn’t quite reach back of first. Gordon running full tilt came racing in, his glove outstretched. He reached out, missed, and the ball fell safe in the field. Red racing hard came across with Razzle’s run. The Dodgers were in the lead at last.