Rookie of the Year (14 page)

The pay-off came later. He was leaving the park when at the exit a hand reached out and drew him to one side. It was Stubblebeard. Spike noticed for the first time the hollow places under the old man’s eyes, and the deep, sunken cheeks. Why, maybe umps didn’t sleep nights, either.

“Spike, boy, I realize this isn’t doing you any good; it isn’t doing anyone any good but me. I just want you to know I was wrong on both those decisions out there. I’ve made a lotta bad ones in my time; but them two was the worst. Only, see, I couldn’t change ’em on the field. It would have looked too raw. That’s how the business is....”

There was something in the old fellow’s tone and twisted face that made Spike forget even the rawness of the defeat that hung over him. He held out his hand and reached for Stubblebeard’s.

“Why, shucks, Stubble, don’t you let that worry you. I know; I understand. I realize you couldn’t change before all that crowd out there. But I’m mighty obliged to you for speaking about it; that helps, Stubble, that helps lots. Now you go home and get yourself a good rest tonight. We’ll see you out there tomorrow, hear me?”

F
OR ONCE
J
ACK
M
ACMANUS
sat back and let someone else do the talking. His few words were brief and pointed.

“Well, I’ll be damned... izzat so? Well... he did... the dirty crook!” And he sat back puffing furiously on his cigar in the parlor of his hotel suite. For once Jack MacManus was allowing someone else to do the talking.

Bob Russell was doing the talking. He was excited, too, and pleased with himself as he watched the president’s expression change. “But even then I didn’t really think anything; I mean, I wasn’t sure. Until I remembered that line of Hanson’s in Pittsburgh, like I told you when he was talking to Chisel that afternoon. And I remembered he was always kinda knocking Spike behind his back, kinda, well, you know....”

“And I trusted that rat, too.”

“An’ so I beat it up to Hathaway’s room as soon as you rang off. Bonesy is packing up to go home; he’s suspended. What for? ‘ ’Cause I went up to the Kit Kat,’ he says. ‘What d’ja do that for?’ I ask him. ‘For Baldwin,’ he tells me. Now these two boys came up together; they usta be roomies on the club and they’re pals. So when he hears Baldwin is off on the loose, naturally he wants to go find him. But wait a minute. ‘How d’ja know he was up there?’ I ask him. Then comes the pay-off. ‘Why, Hanson told me last night. Hanson found he wasn’t in his room.’ Get it?”

“The lousy so-and-so! The big crook!” Jack MacManus’ cigar blew smoke like a factory chimney.

“Then off he piles for his plane before I could stop him. Like that; he’s gone. So I try to find Baldwin. No Baldwin. Or Harry Street, his roommate. No Harry, either. Finally I get to the field just before noon. Spike isn’t there; he’s up with you. But I get Street to one side and ask about Baldwin. ‘Naw,’ says Harry. ‘Baldwin came in at nine and never left the room all night.’ Get it? Hanson, as plain...”

“Why, that bum... that...”

“Wait now. Then directly the game’s over, I see Casey. How did Casey get wind of it? Hanson again. He tells me he gets the tip-off from Bill in the lobby this morning while Spike is dressing down Hathaway. So Casey, he calls Spike and naturally asks who’s on the loose at the Kit Kat last night. Spike falls just as Hanson intended he should, and turns on Bonesy. ‘Were you up at the Kit Kat last night?’ ‘Sure I was there,’ says Bonesy, thinking only to save Baldwin, and won’t tell why.”

For once MacManus was speechless.

“That ain’t all. I’m piecing things together like Sherlock Holmes himself. It’s Hanson this and Hanson that and Hanson here and Hanson there, so I figure maybe it wasn’t either Bonesy or Baldwin who staged that phony meeting in our room early that morning. Finally I get the phone girl who was on duty that night. She shows me the written slip she had with the message to wake up everyone at seven-thirty except the two kids. It’s on Hanson’s typewriter, and what’s more it isn’t signed. Get it?”

“I get it. I get a lot more you don’t know about. Things that have been reported to me over the long distance from Cinci and St. Loo and Pittsburgh. That rat! He’d even wreck the club if it got him a good job.”

“He darn near succeeded. As it was, he cost us this game today. We could have won that easy with Bonesy out there.”

MacManus blew clouds of smoke into mid-air. “We’ll have him for tomorrow. Bob, you’ve done a good job on this. You sure used your bean. And I won’t forget it when next year’s contract comes up, either.” He reached for the telephone, fumbling with a little black notebook in his hand.

“Long distance... I want Hathaway... J.B. in... in... Jefferson City, Tennessee.... I don’t know if it is in his name or not... anyhow get him... that’s right... that’s it... this is fourteen sixty-six.”

There was a knock at the door. Bob went over to open it and found his brother. The older Russell was by far the more astonished of the two.

Jack MacManus banged down the phone and jumped from his seat, puffing clouds of smoke as he rose. He came across the sitting room of his suite and, grabbing his young manager by the arm, led him to the big davenport.

“Spike! I wanted you to know firsthand from me the whole story on this. Your brother Bob has uncovered a mighty dangerous situation. There’s been dirty work going on in this club right under my eyes, and that rat Hanson almost got away with it. First of all, I want to say to you I’m ashamed of myself the way I talked to you at the clubhouse this morning. I didn’t know the facts. I’m sorry I acted the way I did; please forget the whole thing.”

Spike Russell was just about the most puzzled man in Brooklyn. A call from the operator had ordered him to report to MacManus’ suite. He came up as the manager of a beaten team, a team that had just dropped a critical game because he himself had lost his presence of mind. He came also as a discharged ballplayer; he came up bewildered and sore and disappointed. To find his brother with Jack MacManus.

It wasn’t the MacManus he had left that morning, either; red, angry, loud. It was a MacManus in a rare mood; subdued and apologetic.

“Spike, I’m ashamed I lost my temper. You handled this thing swell; you played by the book and you were dead right. Only you were up against the biggest double-crosser in baseball!”

Still Spike Russell was confused. He knew things had changed, that he was not fired; but he couldn’t quite understand what had happened.

“As for Hanson,” continued MacManus, “he’s through. He’s out. He’s out of baseball forever. I’ll take good care of that. Your brother Bob here has saved us all. That is, if we can get Bonesy back. And we will, if we have to charter a special plane. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself for carrying on the way I did to a guy who’s been taking it as you have ever since the middle of July. I want you to know I’m for you all the way; win, lose or draw.”

“Gee... that helps, Jack, that really helps.”

“And don’t think I don’t mean what I say. Those aren’t just words, Spike. You come up to the office before that game tomorrow, and you can sign a three-year contract with a ten grand raise. You’ve done a swell job for us this season.” The telephone jangled. MacManus was over and on it with two jumps.

“Yeah... yeah... uhuh... put him on, put him on, will ya? Uhuh.” The cigar waggled furiously in his mouth. “Bonesy! That you, Bones?” he shouted. “That you, Bonesy? Listen now, we want you back. Never mind that... oh, we straightened that out O.K. You grab yourself the first plane you can from Knoxville tonight... no, not tomorrow... tonight, d’ya hear me?... tonight... tonight... tonight....”

H
E WAITED
while they settled themselves around him as he stood, one knee on the bench before him. The thought suddenly wrenched his heart that this could be the last meeting of the year; but he put it quickly away and looked at them all, the boys in the back, the friendly faces in the rear and down front, at Fat Stuff with his arm around Jocko Klein, his former roomie. The old pitcher’s World Series ring caught Spike’s attention. It was gold, with a red border and a diamond triangle in the center. A gleam of light caught the diamond and made it sparkle.

“Close that door, Chisel. O.K., boys. Seems like a mistake has been made. By this time you all prob’ly know what’s happened. One player was unjustly penalized for something he didn’t do. O.K., this has been taken care of; the suspension on Bones Hathaway has been lifted. He left Knoxville last night by plane. The weather’s sort of settling in, but we hope to have him out there on the mound by game time.

“Now this thing has been squared off; it’s gone now, it’s over, forget it. Forget it, every one of you. Le’s us all go out there and fight. Remember, Grouchy plays the percentages. He never goes overboard being too smart. No need to discuss their hitters again. Just don’t forget that Mac Ennis is an opposite field hitter, and a difficult man to throw to. Danaher likes a ball he can pull; give him one and sure as shooting he’ll hit it where you ain’t. Stan Frankel is deceptive. He’s a clumsy batter; he can’t get out of the way of the ball high inside. We like to pitch tight to him, but we’re afraid to because the ball hits him. O.K.... any questions? All right... every man play his position up to the hilt — and beyond. Le’s go!”

Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack, clackety-clack... the team turned, poured out the door to take the field. As they came out into the bright sunshine, the mass of blue shirts and white shirts in the sunny bleachers was a speckled blotch of popcorn to their eyes. And round and above was the hum of the thousands filling the stands, while from every side came the sounds of baseball. Especially those metallic voices to be heard in every park in every city in the league.

“... Score card... score card... can’t tell the players without a score card... fresh roasted peanuts... get ’em ice cold... ice cold soda... you can’t tell the players without a score card... anyone else here wanna score card....”

As Spike passed the St. Louis dugout he observed Grouchy talking to a sportswriter. The old man’s familiar voice could be heard, the same contemptuous tone he always used on sportswriters.

“The hot corner! The hot corner! What’s hot about it? I could play it with my legs crossed. A third baseman stands all afternoon in the shade; maybe he handles two-three chances if he’s busy. Why, anyone can play third base.”

Spike glanced at Harry Street beside him. Harry shook his head. “Guess Grouchy thinks third base is a wart that oughta be removed. Well, maybe. I only wish he had to stand up to some of those drives of Danaher’s, though.”

“Aw, Grouchy, he’s always like that. He doesn’t mean anything; it’s his line.”

Before long they were taking the field. There was tension all over the park. No wonder, for every ball that afternoon had a price tag attached. On that tag was the cash difference between winning and losing the pennant, between the Series and a chance at six thousand dollars or second place and a few hundred. No wonder the Dodgers were nervous as they warmed up; no wonder they watched the entrance to the dugout for signs of Bones Hathaway. Game time drew near. A thick blanket of cloud hung low over the field, and it was apparent to everyone he wouldn’t start. As the umpires stepped to the plate, the team was still without their star pitcher, so Elmer McCaffrey took the mound.

He might come, though, any minute, in time to relieve Elmer. But Elmer pitched steady ball. In the third Splinter Danaher hit an easy rolling grounder toward Spike. He was charging in when, to his horror, Elmer dashed over from the box and deflected the ball away from him. Like all good infielders, Spike timed his stride, and this interception meant he had to change his timing. When he reached the ball the runner was steaming into first and a throw was useless. Through no one’s fault an easy out was turned into a scratchy safety.

Mac Ennis, the Card slugger, came swinging his war club to the plate. Elmer stepped off the mound and stood rubbing up the ball with his hands. He appeared to be looking toward the bench, but he was really looking where every man on the team was looking, to see if Bonesy was there. Then he stuffed his shirt into his trousers, throwing up his arms above his head to give himself clearance in the most uncomfortable costume ever devised by man, and stepped into the box. He took Klein’s signal, glanced over toward the runner on first, and threw.

“Ball one.”

Again he looked round, checked the runner and pitched. Ennis gave it everything he had, and the ball rifled through the box. Then from nowhere came Spike Russell, gloved hand outstretched in a dizzy dive. Somehow he reached the ball as it sizzled back of second, knocked it down and stabbed it in the dirt. He was off balance, but not content with having stopped it from going through, he made a desperate backhand flip to his brother waiting on second. Bob stood there, feet braced, knees apart, waiting to get the ball.

Ninety feet. Thirty yards from base to base. Thirty yards, which a fast man can do in a little over three seconds. Three seconds from the moment in which the ball is struck to beat the batter to first. Bob caught the ball the only possible way, spearing it in mid-air, then leaping those dangerous spikes as they flashed in, and shooting it with every ounce of strength behind his tough, young arm. The umpire near first threw one hand behind his head. A doubleplay, and a rally nipped at the start.

The game went on, the clouds descended lower and lower, and still Bonesy didn’t show up. Yet Elmer was pitching good ball; he was ahead of the hitters, and for the most part the Cards could do nothing with him. However the Card pitcher was throwing shut-out ball also. The Dodgers weren’t hitting, either. They were tight at the plate. But speed came to their rescue. Leslie Stevens, one of the best catchers in the business, found he couldn’t afford to wait the fraction of a second for the umpire’s call on a fourth ball. If he did and it was a strike, the runner on first had a start no throw on earth could beat.

In the seventh, with the game still a scoreless tie, Clyde Baldwin came to bat. Once again speed helped, speed that in sport is first cousin to daring. There was one man out when Clyde smashed a long clothesline into the gap between right and center field. The diamond dissolved into motion. Clyde took his turn around first, tore into second and, getting the sign from Draper, came roaring into third as the Cardinal fielder reached the ball in deep center. For the first time the Dodgers had a man in scoring position.