World Series (7 page)

He felt his face redden. That wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all. Washed up! We are, are we? He read along. “The Dodgers one-two punch, with Babe Stansworth out, has failed miserably. Swanson has been a soft touch for all the Cleveland hurlers. Tucker is probably in worse shape from his beaning than anyone suspects. He gets dizzy out there in the sun and finds it difficult at times to hear out of his right ear.”

Yes, there it was! “...and finds it difficult to hear out of his right ear.”

“Hey, Harry! Just listen to this, Casey says I can’t hear out of my right ear. Where does he get that stuff?”

“Aw, that bird! Last May he said I was sick with the flu and wouldn’t be back in the line-up for two weeks. Gee, was I mad! My mother sent me the clipping from home. That same day I’d written her saying I was feeling fine and everything was dandy. She thought it was a lie and came hustling down to Chicago to find out. I like to paste Casey when I seen him in the dugout before the game that day.”

“Yeah, but saying I’m deaf in one ear. And suppose the Dodgers let me out? Suppose I get that pink slip one of these days? What then? What chance have I got with any other club? Who wants a deaf mute around? Say, who do you guess told him that?”

“Nobody. He just made it up.”

“Made it up?”

“Why, sure. He’s too busy playing poker and gobbling his laughing soup at night to chase round and check on all the rumors floating about.”

The Kid shook his head. He was sore and no mistake. Leaning back, he shook the paper and read on.

“In the eighth this afternoon Andy Painter drove a deep one to right center. It was a hard hit ball but the Tucker of the days before he crashed into the Polo Ground wall would have been up against the fence and speared it. Those catches were a dime a dozen for the Dodger right fielder in the old days. But since that injury and since he was skulled by Gene Miller, the Kid from Tomkinsville is wall-shy. The ball got away for a double and a run. The fact is that Tuck is wall-shy and plate-shy, too. Leonard better write him off as a total loss.”

There was lots more but he didn’t care to go on. Instead he threw down the paper and jumped from the bed, his face flushed. Harry was busy telephoning. Harry was always telephoning. In every city of the circuit he spent his time telephoning. But say, that man Casey...wall-shy and plate-shy, was he? And deaf in one ear!

It wasn’t true. Nosir, it wasn’t true, none of it. “Look, Harry, look at what that fella says....”

Occasionally someone in the club was late. Occasionally there were the usual stragglers filing in to a meeting or getting to a train gate after everyone had arrived. Not tonight. They all knew they were in for a lacing and nobody felt like making it worse by showing up late. Even Razzle in his green suit was solemn and subdued as Roy and Harry met him before the elevator. Together they got off and walked silently down the hall. At 977 they paused, picturing the scene inside. There would be Dave astride a chair, a toothpick waggling from one side of his mouth to the other, his face grim and serious. There would be the coaches near him, and opposite the circle of chairs, everyone wide-eyed and sober. So the three stood outside, hesitating. None of them wanted to knock.

“Come in.” The door opened. There was no meeting. Instead a long table almost filled the room. Big bunches of flowers decorated the table and there were printed menu cards at each place. Already the small space around the long table was jammed. Laughter rose, and big Bill Hanson the business manager was pointing across to Karl Case. Dave stood by the door holding it open.

“Come in, boys, come in. Come in, Raz; come in, Roy. Hullo, Harry.”

Never would the Kid forget that dinner. There was no baseball. Baseball was out. No one talked baseball or mentioned the Series or the game that day. No one spoke of Gene Miller. Instead they were laughing at Charlie Draper giving an imitation of Babe Stansworth behind the plate, or smiling while Cassidy, the first base coach, exchanged wisecracks with Razzle and Harry Street. There was beer, plenty, in pitchers. Before long the whole room was noisy and happy. Everyone was at ease. But the thing they would never forget beside the atmosphere was the food.

It wasn’t the regular food, the food they ate every day in the Coffee Shoppe. As Fat Stuff once remarked, that Coffee Shoppe food was cooked about three in the afternoon and kept warm in an oven until dinner time. This was real food, especially ordered for them. They started with a planked lake shad. The Kid had never eaten a planked shad before. It was wonderful. Then a steak and fried potatoes. Boy, what a steak! Even Charlie Draper who knew where to get the best meals all over the country said it was a good steak.

“Yeah, that’s a good steak all right. That’s a good steak, couldn’t do better in Kansas City.” “But that’s a K.C. steak right there, you bum.” The boys laughed to see Charlie fooled.

Then a peach melba. Peach ice cream and crushed peaches and whipped cream, lots of it, poured over it. As much beer as you wanted, waiters filling up your glass from behind. The Kid preferred his favorite drink, a lime Coke.

Over everything was the noise and laughter, Raz’s voice, and a spirit of comradeship. He felt himself one of the gang, warm and happy. It made him forget Casey and those smarting words.

“Babe, how much you weigh?” asked Raz.

Babe Stansworth at the end of the table looked up suspiciously. Too often he had been the butt of Razzle’s jokes.

“What’s it to you?”

“No kidding. What’s your playing weight?”

“Two thirty.”

“Two thirty. Two hundred thirty pounds, he weighs. Get that, fellas. Weighs two hundred and thirty and sits with a crossword puzzle in our room for half an hour trying to think up a three letter word for obese.” The crowd roared.

“Fat Stuff would get that right off, wouldn’t you, Fat Stuff?” The old pitcher looked up and grinned. He was deep in his steak, saying little.

“Hey, Elmer, how ’bout that jane you had the date with the other night? Did she show up?”

“Yeah, she showed up all right,” said Red Allen, McCaffrey’s roommate. “She showed up and you know where Elmer took her?”

“To the Ritz, I suppose,” said Raz.

“Naw. He took her for a bus ride.”

“Know what he says to her?” Bill Hanson’s blue eyes shone. “He says, ‘Sister, you know you got great potentialities.’ And she says, ‘Shhh...the driver’ll hear you.’”

Laughter. More laughter. Dave’s voice, quiet and relaxed, came down the table.

“Hank Butler? Yes, he was with me back in nineteen and thirty-one, you remember, Charlie....” Time flew. Cigarettes were passed and cigars. Razzle stuck one in his mouth at the usual jaunty angle. Finally Dave rose. A kind of suspense hung over the room. Was it coming now? Was the dinner a prelude to a grim scene, was baseball coming back? Then he spoke.

“All right, boys. Everyone had enough? You, there, Rats...sure you finished?” Rats Doyle ate twice as fast and twice as much as anyone on the club. “If you’re ready, Rats, we’ll move on.”

“Aw, leave him here. Cassidy didn’t finish all his steak.”

“Okay, Rats? Everyone set? We’re going to a burlesque show. Century Theatre, corner Grand and Cuyahoga. Bill Hanson has the tickets. Bill will give each man his ticket. It’s nearly eight now and time to go. Everyone ready? Get your seat from Hanson and let’s get going.”

After the show they walked along in a bunch to the hotel. A few stepped into a kind of open store with a rifle range at the rear. Dave stood watching. “Why, Roy,” he said, “I hadn’t any idea you were such a good shot.”

“Yessir...yes, Dave. We do quite a bit of shooting on the farm every fall. Until I went to work in town we did.”

“What you shoot up there on that farm, Kid? Lions?”

Roy flushed. “Yeah, lions...and tigers. And sometimes Indians, too, Razzle.”

Raz, to whom the word Indian was not exactly a subject for jesting, quit like most jesters when he found himself on the receiving end. They reached the hotel and went into the crowded lobby over which hung an air of excitement. In his green suit, green hat, green shirt and necktie, Razzle was instantly picked out and surrounded by autograph hunters.

“They say Dempsey signs over five hundred autographs a day,” said Charlie Draper at the Kid’s side. “Hullo...there’s Connie Mack over there.”

“Where? Where? Which one?” Connie was a hero of Roy’s.

“Over there against that pillar. Wanna meet him?”

“I sure do.”

They picked their way through the groups of talking, gesticulating men. Draper touched him on the shoulder. He looked around with a quick, youthful movement. Tall, thin, an erect carriage, deep blue eyes, he acted and looked far less than his almost eighty years.

“Hullo, Mr. Mack.” The old fellow’s face lit up with a warm glow.

“Why, Charlie! Charlie Draper!” He pronounced the words precisely, with emphasis. “How are you? I’m glad to see you. How you making it?”

“Pretty good, Mr. Mack. Say, I’d like you to meet Roy Tucker, our right fielder.”

His hand was firm and strong. “Yes, sir, I’m real glad to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Mack.” The Kid wanted to say more, to tell him that ever since the great days of Grove, Cochrane, Simmons, and Earnshaw he had been his hero, although he had never dreamed of meeting him.

“Yes, yes. Been watching you out there. You keep on, son, and you’re gonna be a ballplayer. I was telling Dave the other day, Charlie, I’d be mighty pleased to have this boy on my club.”

“Gee! Thanks, lots, Mr. Mack.”

Charlie said something but the Kid lost his words in the loud tones which came from behind. The familiar voice of Harry Street, now rasping and harsh, drowned out Charlie’s remark.

“Let me tell you something, Casey, you can’t get away with that stuff round here. We know him too well.”

“Aw, I say he’s yeller. A yeller busher with a big head. Gets conked once and he’s all washed up.”

The Kid whirled about. Casey and Harry had their chins together in anger. He pushed his roommate out of the way. “What’s that you were saying, Casey?”

“I said you were washed up.”

“I heard you. And you said something else, too. Better take it back. In a hurry.”

“Or you’ll make me, hey? You and your six big brothers here.”

The sneer was too much. It touched off his resentment of the afternoon, set his irritated nerves afire. Hardly realizing what he was doing, he felt his fist against Casey’s round chin. The sportswriter staggered back, pulled himself together, and came on, his face angry and aflame.

Once more Roy caught him full on the jaw. The burly figure went down as someone grabbed the Kid.

“Get upstairs.” It was Charlie Draper, his arms round him, shoving him toward the elevator. “Get upstairs quick. Lock your door and whatever you do don’t answer the phone.”

T
HE MEETING THAT
next morning was short.

“Boys, there are two departments of play, batting and fielding. They should be separate in the minds of all you men, but they aren’t. When a player isn’t hitting, he takes his slump out there on the field. He broods about his inability to hit. His mind isn’t concentrated on his fielding so he makes mistakes. He boots one. I never knew it to fail. Then he starts thinking about that error he made and takes it up to bat with him. So he doesn’t hit. That’s the way it goes.

“Now I want you should all forget what’s happened. If you can forget you’ll begin to hit. Once you begin to hit, everything will be fine. No club looks good when they’re not hitting. I think we must have set a record of some sort these last three games for men left on bases. But we’ll come out of it. We have power. If we’re not a power team we’re nothing. Try and get relaxed. That’s the trouble with you, Roy, and you too, Swanny. I was watching you both at the plate yesterday. You each had your elbows too close to your sides; you were all tied up. Remember, those elbows have gotta be out from your body, and your bat well off your shoulder to get a free swing. Don’t forget it, any of you.”

Nothing yet about the Casey episode. Yet surely Dave had heard all about it by now. Nothing escaped that old fox. The Kid waited, wondering, as the manager, toothpick in his mouth, continued. “I know we can win. I got plenty of confidence in this here ball club. However, no use talking, the chips are down. We can’t kid ourselves; we must pull this one out today. Rats, you’ll pitch. Now that ball to McClusky, where was it? High inside? Yeah? But we said we’d pitch low to him. Didn’t we? Didn’t we agree?” He looked around. Solemn nods. Yes, they’d agreed on that.

“All right. Rats, I want you should pitch to Hammy and Lanahan like I told you. Lanahan’s been hitting us hard. Catfish Crawford came up to the room late last night and said we oughta pitch low to him all the time. Whaddya say we crowd Painter?”

“Le’s pitch over his fist to Lanahan. He can’t hurt us more’n he has.”

“Okay, we’ll do that. And we’ll throw McClusky some slow balls. We haven’t slowed up to him in the whole Series yet. If Spike Johnson goes in today, don’t forget he’s got a mighty mean sinker. Let’s not give them a chance to get going. Soon’s he throws you one you can hit, sock it. All we need is two-three runs. Whatever you do, don’t worry. Keep relaxed. The ability to relax is what makes a money player in every sport, boys. Remember, we’ve come from behind lots of times this season, and if you’ll play the game you’re capable of playing, the game I know you can play, we’ll come from behind again. That licking we took yesterday doesn’t mean a thing. Not one thing. All right...any questions...anyone...

“Yesterday I met up with Joe Jacobson, old friend of mine, now manager in Tulsa. Joe’s up for the Series, and I met him in the lobby as we came in. Joe started to ride me. ‘What you-all gonna do with those tickets you been printing for that game in Brooklyn tomorrow?’ he asks me.

“‘We’re gonna sell ’em,’ I told him.” There was a ring of determination in his voice. “Okay. Let’s go.”

And there was a ring of determination in the sound of their spikes; clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack on the concrete. They were going to win. They were determined to win for Dave. No one more so than the Kid. Dave hadn’t said a word about Casey. That was the kind of a guy he was. He knew who was right in that little incident, Dave did.