Authors: John R. Tunis
“That old Stubblebeard now, he ain’t such a bad fella; knows his stuff, he really does; he won’t take any nonsense from those Redbirds.” “See there! Looka there!” “Yes, sir, there he goes, there he goes!” “There goes Chase! And more of ’em, too, if they don’t pipe down pretty quick.”
The unfortunate Chase was being sent from the field. When the confusion died away and the new pitcher entered the game, Spike was perched on third and the score was tied at 3–3. The manager came home a minute later on Jocko Klein’s timely lift to deep right center, and by the end of the inning the Dodgers were once again in the lead by that all-important run. On the scoreboard in right went the blessed, the wonderful figure 2.
Three outs to get. Three more outs and the game is ours. And the pennant too, for if we win this one they’ll never catch us.
T
HE NERVOUS NINTH,
with every man, every woman, and every kid in the ballpark on their feet, tense with emotion. The nervous ninth, and the last three outs to get, the toughest in any ballgame. And the crowd ready to tear the place apart brick by brick. Then it happened. It wasn’t Bonesey’s fault, or anyone’s. Actually it was one of those breaks that come to a team in a game, bad only when they come at an important moment. Don Lee, the husky Card first sacker, smacked a sizzling grounder that Spike could easily have handled. It struck Bonesey’s foot and rose high in the air. Roy, charging across, snared it falling and pegged it on a line to first. The throw was good but it reached the base just as the runner flashed past. A man on first and no one out. The nervous ninth indeed.
Now the Brooklyn bullpen went into action; Jerry and old Fat Stuff and Mike Mehaffey began to pour it in to their catchers. Out on the mound, Bonesey visited the rosin bag before starting to throw to Tony Carone, the St. Louis left fielder.
This was the time, this was the moment. The signal was passed round and acknowledged by all the men concerned. Suddenly Roy realized that in his new spot he was at the nerve center of a ballclub. He liked it. He liked being in the heart of things; he was a clutch player and he reveled in the excitement, and the danger, too. It aroused his competitive instinct. He forgot his injury, forgot the long illness behind him. And he felt how close they were together, how vital every man was on every play.
With Lee on first and Carone at bat, Bonesey followed the signs and threw wide on the second pitch. Both Roy and Lester Young, who had been hugging the bag, dashed half way toward the plate as if to cover a bunt. Lee at once took a wide lead off first. He was unprepared for Bob Russell’s lightning dash behind him to first base. Vainly the St. Louis coach shrieked and yelled. Jocko’s peg to Bob was perfect, low to the outside, and Bob put the ball on the runner, nailing him cold.
Now the Brooklyn stands had a chance to yell. One out and no one aboard and the Dodgers still leading by a run. The Card left fielder stepped back into the batter’s box. He waited calmly for the 2 and 1 pitch, and then belted a clothesline into center field.
It was a race and a close one out in the garden. Al Whitehouse charged it, digging like mad to collar that ball on the first hop and cut the speedy runner off at third base. He grabbed the ball on the bounce and threw to Roy over third. But the Cards needed that run badly, and their coach held Carone at second, taking no chances at this critical moment of the game. One on, and one down.
Then what they had all been expecting followed. It was precisely the same play which Steve Tracy had messed up earlier in the game: a slow, dragged bunt along the baseline half way to third.
Roy hesitated. He was on his toes, yet he hesitated in starting. Fear, or something stronger, that instinctive desire to protect his weakness which was now almost habit, kept him from making a sudden forward leap. Held in place a fraction of a second, he was slow off the mark. Once away his movements were fast. Racing in, he stabbed the ball with his bare hand, whirled, and forced the runner on second back.
Now the long throw to first, the race between the Cardinal runner and the ball, the field umpire running over toward the bag watching, and then the roar as the Redbird swept across the hassock just as the throw reached Lester’s outstretched mitt.
They stood there tossing the ball about the infield, exchanging it with quick, nervous gestures. Roy handled it last and, rubbing it up, walked slowly toward the box. He knew what Bonesey was thinking and indeed what they were all thinking. That I’m scared; that I can’t take it; that I’m not the old Roy Tucker.
He knew his slip-up would react upon them, for they were a team and so closely united that what happened to one had an effect on the rest. Especially on the younger and sensitive ones like their temperamental pitcher. Some of the old-timers, Fat Stuff, for instance, forgot a bumble in the field as soon as it happened. But Bonesey always felt those things in a critical moment of a game. And when someone made a spectacular catch or came up with a double-play ball, he would bear down harder than ever.
Roy walked slowly back to his position. Shoot, I should have had that one. It wasn’t too hard a chance. I should have had it; I would have had it, too, if only I’d got away as I used to do. Two men aboard and only one out. We ought to have two down and the game in our pocket. That’s bad. It’ll hurt Bonesey, this will.
It did, too. Bonesey, who was tiring, suddenly lost control and couldn’t find the plate.
One ball. Yes, sir, there he goes! Two balls. He’s finished now. Wide, three balls. No mistake, he’s through. Then the batter was slinging away his bat and trotting down toward first. Three men on the sacks, and my fault, all my fault, too.
The Cardinal dugout, with every man on the step, was delirious. In the coaching boxes the two St. Louis veterans were dancing with delight. For any kind of a long ball, a lazy single to the outfield, meant a couple of runs, and even a fly ball would tie the score. To them the game was as good as won. All around the ballpark the crowd was up shouting, while Spike turned toward the bullpen in left, and Roy, his head down, walked across to his position on the grass by third.
Yep, there goes Bonesey—he’s done. And all my fault. He’d never have lost control if I’d nabbed that man on first. A pitcher’s only as good as his support. I quit on the boys, and there goes old Bonesey.
Actually Spike, signaling to the bullpen, had little choice. Jerry Fielding, his fastest and most dependable hurler, was needed for the next afternoon. So, rather than string along with some youngster on his staff, he picked a veteran. To call in old Fat Stuff was taking a chance. But Spike Russell was a chance-taker and knew when to take them.
One down, the bases loaded, one run ahead in the ninth, and the milling thousands in the stands pleading for a stopper to the Cardinal rally. That was the situation they handed the veteran from the bullpen. He came hurrying across, half-waddling on his short, thick legs, over to where Spike was rolling the ball nervously in his glove. Jocko, with the tools on, was waiting for him on the mound. Swinging up to the plate was Stevie Richards, a .300 hitter, one of the best in the business and a man who had knocked in ninety runs that season.
Fat Stuff merely laid one hand on his skipper’s shoulder. “Gimme that ball.”
Then he stepped into the box and slapped his young catcher on the back. Jocko walked to the plate and the veteran with a quick movement and little wind-up threw in a few warm-up pitches. He looked at the runners on the sacks. He nodded to Spike. He was set to go.
His first ball to the batter was across the letters and drew a loud foul to the screen. Then two wasted ones, the pitcher driving the Cardinal slugger away from the slab with low, inside pitches. Next a change of pace that caught the edge of the plate for strike two; then a high one off the point of the chin that the batter took for the third ball and the full count.
Through it all, Fat Stuff was unhurried and unworried. In the midst of that bedlam he stood on the mound, his chin out, glancing coolly around the sacks as he checked the three runners, completely master of the situation. The three Redbirds danced back and forth with outstretched arms upon the basepaths. From the coaching boxes the two coaches shouted defiance through cupped hands. At the plate the batter stood deep, waiting for one to hit.
He never got it. Instead, Fat Stuff sneaked in a fast ball over the corner and Richards swung round vainly in an attempt to crack it. Two out and still three men aboard. Still anyone’s game.
But now it was the Brooklyn turn to yell and yell they did: the Knot Hole Gang in deep center; the kids who lined up early in the morning to get a spot in the bleachers; the folks in the two-dollar seats and the people in the boxes down front; and the fans in the upper tiers reaching almost around the field. They stood cheering the old man’s effort, while the shadows deepened over the field and the September sun sank lower and lower in the sky.
Roy picked up some dirt and tossed it away as Mike Madden stepped forward, rubbing rosin on his hands, hitching his belt before stepping into the batter’s box. What’s the matter with me, Roy thought. I’m afraid. I don’t
think
I’m afraid; yet it holds me back in the clutches. I’m afraid. And of what?
Suddenly there came to him words he had heard as a youngster, words he had heard men repeat many times before, words he had often read but that had had no real meaning to him. For the first time now they had a meaning. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Forget this thing that’s holding me back. Forget it. The only thing to fear is fear.
Big Mike, swinging that war-club, stood leaning forward, watching Fat Stuff, motionless as a statue in the box. The old man nodded to Jocko, took a last look round the bags, gave his short, quick wind-up and let go. Mike hit. Up in the air.
This time Roy was off as the ball was struck. No delay, no hesitation; with a bound he sprang to his right and was off.
It was high to the side, it was a wide foul, beyond his reach. Paul Roth and Jocko and Spike realized this instantly as the ball rose in the air and began to descend.
“Can’t get it!”
“Foul, Roy, foul!”
But he was giving it nothing. Straining desperately, he went in closer, nearing the low boxes back of third. Forgetting everything but the twisting falling ball above, he rushed headlong toward the stands, closer now, closer.
“Watch it, Roy, watch it!”
“Watch it
...
look out!”
He couldn’t look out. He couldn’t slow up. He could only sight that falling ball, dropping there just beyond his grasp. A step, a few steps, and it was there, almost within his reach.
Then the low rail of the front boxes smashed into his thigh with a terrific blow. Off balance he lunged, jumped forward with a last-second stab, and speared the ball with his gloved hand as he plunged over the rail and into the box. His shoulder whanged against an iron chair hastily vacated by a frightened customer. His head hit something hard as he tumbled to the concrete floor. His shoulders first, then his body, and then his legs disappeared from sight. But the ball was in his mitt.
Someone helped him up, yanked him to his feet, and pulled him out onto the field again. He tossed the ball to the grass and staggered ahead until someone put an arm about his shoulder and led him toward the dugout. His hip ached where he had fallen, his arm was skinned where he had scraped it on the floor, his head hurt where he had smacked it. But he had held that ball. The game was over.
Now it was hard to reach the bench through that tornado of fans and players and kids swarming around, that crazy mob which tried to sweep him from his feet. The Dodgers swung in about Roy, pounding his lame back, half-carrying him into the dugout, and so down the long passageway under the stands, separated from that crowd only by a wire grill. They were yelling, the team was, joyous and exultant and happy and half dead, all at the same time.
“Twelve years in the big time, and I never saw anything like it,” remarked Fat Stuff to everyone and to no one in particular in the press surging by. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweat shirt. “No, sir, I never saw anything to touch it. Or that-there kid, either.” He found himself walking along beside the ubiquitous Casey. “Casey, six months ago he couldn’t even walk. Why, I saw him on a bed in the hotel, and he wasn’t able to hobble across the room. I’m tellin’ ya, six months ago the kid couldn’t even walk!”
They stomped into the clubhouse, setting up a din you could hear outside. Tomorrow was another day. They had won the opener, they had the Cards’ number. The photographers thought so too, for they surrounded the team, Spike and Roy and Bonesey and Fat Stuff and the rest. The manager had to pose with the old man, with his arm around Roy, then around Bonesey, then with his brother.
When the reporters tried to talk to the young skipper, they had to drag him by main force away from the cameramen who were around him, as usual pleading for “Just
one
more, Spike, just one more, please. Look this way... here... over here... this way, Spike.”
Finally the newspapermen pinned him in his room. He sat on a chair stripped to his pants, far too excited to collect his thoughts as they peppered him with questions.
Someone turned to Fat Stuff, sitting beside his manager, still in his soaking clothes. “What was the best thing you had out there this afternoon, old-timer?”
The veteran threw up his hands. “You guys and your questions! The best thing I had out there today was my fielders.” He pointed over to the main room where a boy sitting on a chair was peeled down to the buff. There was an enormous patch of red skin where he had attempted to break down the rail on a third base box. And the trainer was working intently over an angry-looking shoulder, trying to get it in shape for the next afternoon.
Fat Stuff pointed at him. “The best thing I had out there today was my fielders, and especially that-there Kid from Tomkinsville.”
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