Authors: John R. Tunis
Inside the Dodger clubhouse that day, only Raz was his usual loquacious self. Notwithstanding the fact that he might have to take an important role that afternoon, he was unconcerned and voluble as ever. Not without purpose, for he was trying his best to amuse his teammates, to keep them from tightening up for the fray ahead.
“Stubblebeard—everyone hates that mean old fella. When I was with the Pirates before the war, Jake Smith gives it to Stubble plenty. He was always bearing down, making things tough for Jake. Now one day, Jake he’s pitching to Bi Thomas of the Reds, hits him on the back and knocks him down. Bi has quite a temper, so he goes for Jake and they tangle. Well, Stubble’s the plate ump, and o’course, he’s got to put in his ten cents’ worth. So he gets in there trying to separate ’em, and they all roll in the dirt together. Jake sees his chance. Well, be darned if the old chap doesn’t come up with a black eye and a big lump behind his ear, though no one knows yet who give it to him. But he was damaged the worst of the three. Other ump, he comes along. ‘What you doing down there, Stubble?’ he asks. ‘Me?’ says the old man, rubbing that lump behind his ear. ‘Oh, jest intervening.’”
They grinned feebly to please Raz; but they couldn’t loosen up. Too much hung on it, far too much rode on every ball, hit or caught. Or not caught.
Outside there was a high sky. No sun shining, but high clouds, making it difficult for players to sight the ball. The Dodgers got to the Card southpaw for two runs in the first, when Roy, at his best in the clutch as usual, belted one down the foul line inside fair territory. Swanny and Lester scored to put the Brooks in the lead. Razzle, always poison for the Cards, held them in check. His fast ball was alive, his curve ball had sharper bends than a pretzel. He loved it, the capacity crowd, the shouts and cheers, the importance of the moment as he mowed the Redbirds down for the first three innings. He might indeed have completed the game in safety but for his infernal vanity.
With two down in the last of the third he managed by desperate racing to beat out an infield roller in a tight race for the bag with the first baseman, a sprint that left him gasping and puffing. Swanny promptly belted the ball on a clothesline to right, and Raz set forth. With a two-run lead there was no necessity to take any chances. The big hurler, however, fancied himself as a baserunner, and tore for third like a frightened fawn. Rounding second, he dashed for the scoring post, sliding into the bag through a hurricane of dust and dirt with all the grace of a water buffalo on the loose.
Smart baserunners seldom took any chances on Tommy Conlin’s arm in right field, and a faster and less clumsy man on the sacks than Raz Nugent would have been nipped by the perfect throw that waited for him as he roared into third. Being the final out of the inning, he picked himself up, shook his head, dusted off his pants, and walked slowly across to the mound. Perhaps five minutes’ rest, maybe only a couple of minutes sprawled out on the bench, would have given him back his wind and saved him. But he was tired from his exertion. The Cards knew it. This was their opportunity, and being smart ballplayers they immediately took it.
From his spot in center, Roy saw the whole drama. The first batter laid one down, a perfect dragged bunt on the grass equidistant from Razzle and the foul line. The pitcher lumbered across as young Tracy came charging in from third. Jocko called to Tracy to take it, but Raz half bent over and made a kind of stab at it. Then, seeing he couldn’t reach the ball, he straightened up. They both stood watching it roll past.
That’s bad, thought Roy. Oh, that’s awful bad! That was young Tracy’s ball; Raz shouldn’t have tried to handle it. That wasn’t the kid’s fault, but it’s bad. It will upset him right at this moment. And we better watch this man coming up now, we better watch him carefully; he’s a mean man in a tight place.
All three outfielders shifted toward left field. Mickey Madden was a right hand batter, able to hit behind the runner, equally good at laying it down or pasting the ball past third. Roy noticed Razzle was trying hard to keep the ball so he couldn’t bunt, but on the third pitch the big man lost control and came in low across the outside corner. Madden immediately put the wood to it and dragged the ball slowly down the third base line, a twisting, teasing roller, the hardest sort of a ball to handle.
The whole pattern of the field shifted before Roy’s anxious gaze as he raced in toward second to back up a possible throw. He could see the runners digging in on the basepaths, and Raz’s broad back, his legs wide apart on the mound, and young Tracy tearing in toward the ball. And above the noise and excitement, Jocko Klein’s voice came to him:
“First... first... first...”
It was one of those plays where you do or you don’t, where the fielder has to grab the ball with his bare hand and let go underhand without a moment’s hesitation. Only a great third sacker could have handled it, and Steve Tracy was merely a rookie from Montreal thrown into the toughest kind of a baseball situation. Roy knew immediately that he would mess the play up, that he would fail to get the ball away cleanly. The boy snatched at it, reached for it, juggled it nervously. Actually he never even tried the throw at all.
The crowd roared, and the Redbirds hugged the sacks, and their coaches danced up and down behind first and third. The battle was on. Actually there were two battles that afternoon at Ebbets Field; the one between the Dodgers and the Cards that the fans all saw, and the one they didn’t see—the battle Roy Tucker was fighting with himself. All his reason, his memory, his intelligence prevented him from taking over third base. But his instinct fought him every second. His instinct told him he was being a spectator when he should have been a competitor helping out his club in that hot spot in the infield.
Big Tommy Conlin lumbered up to the plate, an aggressive hitter facing a panting, worried man in the box. The batter took one, fouled off another, looked calmly at the third that was bad, and then teed off on the next pitch. It was a wicked liner, low and at the third baseman’s ankles, a bit to his right so he had to reach. It was coming toward him, it was at him, it was through. It was rolling and bouncing and sizzling through the grass toward Paul Roth in left field.
Roy raced across but Paul got there first, with a perfect stop and a peg to third, a peg calculated to hold the runner on the bag. But the rookie was upset now and nervous. He was all thumbs, and the ball got away from him. Just a few feet out on the grass it rolled, out by the Cardinal coaching box, and the dancing St. Louis coach, hands in the air. Just a few feet it rolled, but enough. Like a shot the baserunner was off and away for home.
On the bag stood the bewildered third baseman. His head turned, now this way, now that, glancing hastily around, searching for the ball.
“Behind you!”
“Behind!”
“Behind you!”
Spike yelled. Jocko shouted. Swanny shrieked and Roy called out.
By the time Tracy recovered it, one run was over and the other runner was on third, while the batter was sliding desperately into second base. The Cards were on the warpath again, fighting back, taking chances and coming through as they had done all summer long.
Roy could stand the agony no more. Instinct triumphed over intelligence. Slowly he walked through the tumult toward Spike Russell. Forgotten were the sleepless nights and the days of pain, the bent bars at the head of the bed, the suffering and the agony and the uncertainty whether he would ever play baseball again. Or even walk once more. All he could see was the diamond before his gaze, and the triumphant Redbirds on the sacks, and the one run over and the pennant going from their grasp.
So he came slowly into the infield, instinct conquering reason, the instinct of a competitor forcing him over to his manager at short. He said nothing, he merely reached out and put one hand on his skipper’s arm as he went by. Then he stepped in at third, and Jocko, who understood, rolled the ball silently into the dirt at his feet. He scooped it up and laced it over to first.
“Tucker, No. 34, now playing third base for Brooklyn. Whitehouse, No. 6, in center field.”
T
HERE WAS A CONSULTATION
around the box. Spike and Jocko and Raz and Roy stood together. Then a figure sauntered across from the bullpen, and once more the loudspeaker boomed out:
“Hathaway, No. 9, now pitching for Brooklyn.” The score was 2–1, there were runners on second and third, and no one down. A tough spot for a pitcher. But Bonesey was as cold as a landlord’s heart. He took plenty of time, struck out the first batter, and got the second on a fly to Whitehouse, although the man from third scored to even things at 2–2. On the hit-and-run, the next batter dropped a lucky blooper into right which brought in another tally, and when the inning was over the Cards were leading, 3–2.
This was the score up to the end of the fifth. But the Dodgers had been coming from behind all season; this was nothing new, just a bit harder because so much hung on it. They went to the woodpile with determination; they grasped their bats and stepped in to get that run back. Swanny racked it up, lining one down the right foul line, only great fielding holding him to a single. Feet wide apart, arms outstretched, he danced off the base while the stands erupted. As usual, their favorites were refusing to stay down for the count.
Lester, his batting eye back, promptly rifled a single through the hole between short and third. Pandemonium reigned as Roy jammed on the batter’s cap and stepped to the plate. The crowd above rocked, roared, stamped, shrieked. They knew he wouldn’t fail them. Two on, none out, an automatic warm-up situation. Out in right under the fence the Cardinal bullpen went furiously into action.
The first ball was wide. A shout rose, half anger, half delight. But the Redbirds were taking no chances. They weren’t having any of Roy Tucker. There it goes, ball four! Roy slung away his bat, trotted to first, exchanging caps with Red Cassidy in the coaching box. The ballgame rode on a single pitch.
The canny lefthander in the box worked on Spike Russell, who was batting fourth, with everything he had: all his skill, all his control, all his brains. His side-arm curve made the batter step into the ball, made him reach out clumsily. Few hitters ever did much with Sam Chase’s curves. But on the full count, Spike managed to lace an inside pitch on a line into the hole between center and right, going fast, not dropping, either. Vic Fleming, the great Cardinal speedster in center, came burning over like an express train, reached out, and speared the liner waist high with his gloved hand. His throw-in was at second before Lester could turn and backtrack to safety. Then Roth popped up and the inning ended without any score.
As the game continued, Bones had the Cards throttled. Even on three balls and no strikes, with Jack MacManus above in a positive fury, Bonesey would come over the plate, full of assurance he would not be hit hard. He wasn’t, either. He slid them across and curved them in and blazed them through, the Redbirds completely helpless before him. Every inning they went quickly out; every inning the Dodgers threatened and were unable to score that important run. Good fielding cut them down on the basepaths or robbed them of hits in the field. They came into the eighth, still a run behind, with the crowd pleading and yammering for that tally to save the situation.
Chase was weary and panting. It was almost the end of the game at the end of a long and exhausting season. Yet he appeared to be losing none of his stuff, to be getting stronger as the game went along. He had to be beaten; he refused to quit. In the Dodger dugout, the boys were grim. They chewed mechanically, they yanked at their caps; for once even Razzle, sitting on the bench in his jacket, was silent. They stood crowding the steps as Roy came to the slab. This was the big moment, the time for a rally if one was ever to come.
The Redbird pitcher was smart. Taking no chances on the Brooks’ slugger at that critical moment, he gave Roy nothing to hit. He fouled off ball after ball; for five minutes the unending duel between smart hurler and canny hitter went on. Until on the 2 and 2 pitch, Roy swung. However, he only got a piece of the ball, which was exactly what Chase intended. It struck the plate and bounded high into the air, a Baltimore chop that did not come down in time to nail Roy at first. It was scratchy, but it was the start of a rally.
Spike followed with a smart bingle behind Roy into right field, but the Kid, in awe of that strong arm, stayed firmly anchored at second base. Now the Redbird bullpen was a fever of activity. The stands were seething as Paul Roth stepped in. Chase got ahead of him with two strikes and a ball, and then came in with a change of pace that was a beauty, sending Roth down swinging. A groan echoed over the stands. One out, and Bobby Russell at bat.
One run behind, one run needed. A clean single would do it, would push the winning run around to third and would bring the speedy Tucker home with the tieing counter. That was all they needed, a well-timed blow deep to the outfield. But Bob had orders. He bunted the third pitch cleanly down the first base line. There was a rush, a roar, and a stampede for the bag. Old Stubble hovered over the play, his arms extended, hands down as the lightning-fast Bobby flashed across the sack.
Instantly Stubble was surrounded by Cards. Don Lee, their first sacker, turned on him in a frenzy. He whanged the ball to the ground in disgust. It was enough for Roy. Without hesitation, he rounded third, hit the inside corner and struck out for the plate.
Lee, with his teammates shrieking in his ears, reached for the ball and hurled it at the catcher. The umpire was there, bending over, his mask in his hand, while Roy with one arm in the air slid across the platter to score the tieing run.
The Cards protested. They claimed Bob Russell was out at first. They insisted they had called time. They yelled and yowled. Chase was the loudest of all; he declared they were being robbed by the Brooklyn umpires. He closed in on old Stubblebeard. The ancient umpire stood undisturbed, his arms folded, listening, while the Brooks watched with exuberance from the bench.