The Southpaw (43 page)

George clubbed 1 in the dirt, a weakly little bounder. But it bounced the long bounce towards short, and Cogswell brung the play home, and Perry actually
beat
the throw to the plate, Coker and Bruce moving up 1 base apiece, the bags still jammed. Coker scored a minute later when Canada hoisted a long fly to left, and 1 thin run now stood between us and a tie ball game, Dutch fuming and swearing because Bruce had not took third on the play and sending out Herb Macy to run for Bruce, something I never seen before—a pinch-runner running for a pinch-runner—and Bruce slinking off down along the fence to the bullpen again. Vincent Carucci singled, scoring Herb, and it was 4-4.

Sid run the count out and then fouled off a couple. There was points while Sid was at bat where I thought my heart would absolutely give out from the suspense and excitement. I would not of been Sid for I don’t know what. He kept rubbing his hands with the resin, they was sweating so, and finally he got what he was looking for and punched it into right, and George roared in from third and give a leap like a broad jumper and come down on the plate with both feet with the tally that busted the tie, and we met him in front of the dugout, all of us, every goddam 1 of us, up on our feet, and he was grinning and blabbering away in Espanyol (Spanish). You would of thought the flag was clinched right then and there. The relief from the tension was almost more then a fellow could bear.

That was the end of the scoring. Knuckles pitched 2 perfect innings and we squeaked through 5-4 and then dashed back in the clubhouse and listened in complete and absolute silence to the last inning of the nightcap in Brooklyn, won by Brooklyn. The cushion was 11/2 when we boarded the train out of Washington.

So we settled for an even split on 4 in Washington, and we done the same in Brooklyn on Tuesday and Wednesday and the Thursday doubleheader, almost the whole staff working but me and Sam and Keith Crane, and Boston took 2 out of 3 from Washington, chipping another half a game off of what was left of the cushion. There was just that 1 game between us when Boston moved in at the Stadium.

Homer B. Lester, in the Sid Yule story books, could not of set it up so neat if he tried.

We was favored in the betting. We had 3 lefthanders rested and ready to go, Henry Wiggen with an ailing back, a tired old man called Sad Sam Yale that had not won a start in 2 weeks, plus a AA ballplayer name of Keith Crane. I do not know who figured the odds. I doubt that much was bet.

STANDINGS OF THE CLUBS

Friday Morning, September 26

Won

Lost

Pct.

Games Behind

New York

95

56

.629

—

Boston

94

57

.623

1

Games to Play

New York: With Boston, 3

Boston: With New York,3 

Chapter 35

I set down the first 7 men in a row in the Friday game, including the fanning of Casey Sharpe to open the Boston half of the second that brung a great ovation from the people, a louder noise then I ever heard before. I could feel the ground shiver beneath my feet.

You could not of brung your pet cat to the park. In the beginning it was a quiet crowd, considering the size, opening up once when I fanned Casey Sharpe, then quiet again until Toomy Richardson singled with 1 down in the third, the first Boston hit. Horse and Piss and Gil and Herb all went to work in the bullpen. There was no such thing no more as saving the staff. What would you be saving them for?

I got set to pitch to Fred Nance when there was a commotion behind our dugout, and I stepped off the rubber and 2 umpires went over towards the dugout to see what was up. It seemed that Sam Yale got up for a drink at the water spout and somebody potted him with a peach or a pear and the crowd become very abusive towards Sam.

Zinke talked over the top of the dugout at the crowd, and they hooted and jeered until finally Zinke got a hold of some cops and ordered them up in the stands in the section behind the Mammoths. They insulted Sam all day, ignorant farmers from Brooklyn and Boston mostly I suppose, though probably some from New York as well that thought we should of clinched it weeks ago and lit on Sam as the main cause of the slump.

Nance bunted, not a good bunt, too much towards the box, and I pounced on it and made the play at second, the long throw that Ugly took, forcing Toomy Richardson and putting Nance on first. It was a gamble but I tried it, hoping to keep Nance on his feet, not to mention keeping Richardson from being in scoring position. Dutch said he believed we would get to Nance if we worked him hard.

Sid played wide of the bag, and Nance led off long. Then Sid cut back in and Nance had no choice but follow. Sid done this twice until Nance finally stood resting with his foot on the bag and never led a-tall, and I went to work on Black. With a 2-2 count Black caught a hold of 1 and drilled it in the hole between Sid and Gene. Sid dived and missed, and Gene come over fast and took it deep in the hole and fired to me, covering at first, the kind of a play you seldom see, and the throw beat Black by a half a step and the crowd come to its feet applauding, for they had saw good baseball that inning, and they knowed it for once, which they so seldom do, and Dutch said “Good boy” to me when I come in the dugout, referring both to the play on Black and the quick thinking on Nance’s bunt.

I believe we tired Nance at that. Red opened our third with a cannonball blow that Tubs Blodgett leaped for at third. It nicked his glove and skittered over in foul territory, a fair ball, however, on account of Tubs making contact with it, and Red went clear to second.

I tried like hell to hit, but the best I could do was a fly to short left that Heinz took on the run, holding Red at second.

Nance kept throwing low to George. I don’t know why most clubs have got the idea that George ain’t a low-ball hitter. Boston and Brooklyn both try to low-ball George and never seem to get wise to theirselves.

The second pitch George walloped to the opposite field, a real drive that climbed up the bullpen awning, good for 2 bases, and Red scored and the ice was broke.

Neither Canada nor Vincent could bring George home.

I struck out Casey Sharpe for the second time to end the Boston fourth.

I also struck out Heinz to open their fifth, but Chickering followed with their second hit, a sharp blow that got past Ugly by inches, and I lost Tubs Blodgett, passing him and getting in hot water for the first time that day, having previously give up only 1 hit. Tubs grinned at me with that Santa Claus face on his way down the line to first, and then he said 2 words to me.

I will tell you exactly what he said to me, for folks have asked me many times since. “Thank you,” he said, but Chickering, jogging down the line from first to second, must of thought something different passed between us, and he shouted at me—no need to repeat it. Ugly was over behind me, moving in for a conference at the hill, and he glared at Chickering and said the same thing back. Ugly was never much on thinking up original remarks. Then Chickering come sauntering towards Ugly, and I merely stepped over and tagged him out. He did not seem to care. He kept walking towards Ugly, and they stood head to head for several seconds, never a word passing between them, and Ugly slid his glove off his hand and begun to swing. But Chickering swang first, just once, and he busted Ugly’s jaw in 2 places.

I moved out of it quick. I shouted at Perry, “Grab a glove,” and we stood in front of the dugout throwing back and forth to keep warm whilst the players and the umpires and a whole hoard of cops moved out on the field, and the Commissioner come down out of his box, for he was there that day, and I stood warm, just throwing. The noise was almost too much to bear. The crowd comes for the ball game, but give them a busted jaw besides and they feel like they doubled their money.

They led Ugly off with his face in his hand, his jaw broke at last and later re-set in the natural way, Coker going in at short, taking up a great burden at a most strenuous time, and the game commenced again. Chickering was thumbed out. He was later fined and suspended. I pitched 2 pitches to Toomy Richardson, Tubs then trying to steal second and getting throwed out, Traphagen to Roguski.

In the sixth the wind shifted. It blowed in from center and washed against the back, and the back tightened, and in the seventh I throwed 1 very bad ball to Granby to open the inning that he went flat on the ground to get out of the way of. He turned and said something to Frank Porter, and Porter said something to Red, telling Red to warn me there was to be no monkey business, and Red shouted out something that seemed to satisfy Porter and squatted quick, hustling me now, knowing that if I could keep warm we would get through the day on the long end, and we pitched high and fast to Granby, fast because it was cloudy and high because we did not care if they lifted them in the wind because the wind was in strong from center now.

There is a factory not far from the park belonging to the Mendenhall Nut & Bolt Works that you can see the smokestack standing on the dugout step, and Red always watches it, for it blows smoke every day but Sunday and Red can tell from the drift of the smoke which way the wind will hit the park, and Granby poled 1 high that the wind took and played with and dropped it where Pasquale was standing and waiting.

We worked with the greatest care on Fielding. Except for Casey Sharpe he is the only first-class power hitter in the Boston line-up, and we finally got him on a roller to Gene Park, and Casey Sharpe himself come up. “Leave us get him,” said Red, “and then maybe not face him again today,” and we mapped the strategy, and then Red went back and settled down in his crouch. We did not work long on old Casey.

He is not usually a first-ball hitter, but he went after it now, and he caught it good with the fat of his bat—a high, fast curve—and it went towards the sky, and far, and Pasquale and Canada moved backwards and forwards under it, according to the ways of the wind, and then Canada called and lunged, for when it dropped down out of the wind it come fast, and he took it, and it seemed like the worst was over, 6 men to get and the lower end of the order coming up. The crowd stood for the stretch.

Only Horse Byrd was warming now. Dutch moved Canada to first in the top of the eighth, Scotty Burns going to center with full instructions concerning the wind, the crowd silent again, the back aching in a dull way. But I was sure it was good for the 2 more innings. Dutch asked me, and I said I was sure.

Heinz opened the eighth with what seemed to be orders to tire me if he could. He did not take his bat off his shoulder until the count was 2 and 2, and then I struck him out with the screw. Plainfield, playing second now in place of Chickering, went down in the same way on 4 pitches, coming full around on the last and throwing himself to the ground by the power of his own swing, and he swore a mighty oath and hurled the bat clear to the screen behind home.

Tubs Blodgett come up, hitting with a heavier stick now, the only time I ever seen him use anything but the black bat, hoping maybe to beat the wind with extra drive. We played him straight away, Vincent Pasquale maybe a few steps more towards left then usual, but never more then a few, Tubs a cool and veteran customer, the crowd still very quiet, or at least as quiet as 87,572 people can be in 1 place, nobody budging nor moving for an exit, the loudest sound being a couple jet planes overhead that come and was gone before you could glimpse them. I looked up, and there was 1 plane writing in the sky. Then I looked up again, holding my head that way because it seemed to rest the back where it hurt at the knob of the neck, and I went to work on Tubs, full speed and screws, twice speed that he swang at and missed though my heart give a tumble each time he come round with that overweight bat, and then 1 screw, and he nicked the screw and it popped in Red’s mitt, and then out, and up, and Red went after it with his bare hand and juggled it like a chunk of slippery soap and then clapped the big mitt over the hand, and that was all for Tubs, and the crowd give out with a thunderous din. For an instant I did not know why the ovation had a certain extra energy to it, and then it occurred to me that I had fanned the side.

There was 3 men to go to clinch the tie.

We went down in order in our half of the eighth. “3 to go,” said Perry when I got up and slipped out of my jacket, and I said “Yes, 3 men to go,” and the hill looked far away, and high, a long climb up, and I strolled out, knowing that 1 way or another in the next 10 or 15 minutes the pressure would be off for good—off
me
at least—and that was something to look forward to.

The wind whipped in from center, and it was dark. The lights went on.

A speck of dust blowed in my eye, and I called time and worked around in my eye with my finger, but I could not get it out. Red looked in my eye and seen it and yelled for Doc Loftus, and Frank Porter come down and looked in the eye and said there was no speck. He said it was all a stall. I said I was every bit as anxious as him to be out of the park, and the crowd howled for action, all in a hurry to get it over with, and finally Doc come with cotton sticks and a little bottle and dabbed in the eye and got hold of the speck once or twice but could not draw it out. His hands shook, for the howling of the mob made him nervous, and finally he hooked it, and I held my head back and he poured the bottle in my eye. “Good luck, Wiggen,” he said, and off he run like he was glad to get out of sight again.

Alf Keeler had sent Hampden up to hit for Toomy Richardson.

Hampden is a young kid, barely 20, and he was up there with a good deal riding on what he might do, tight and tense and anxious. He is a righthanded pull hitter, and we played him pretty much to the left side, throwing close. The count leveled at 2 and 2 and then we gambled with the jughandle curve. He did not swing, and it nipped the corner, and it was good and he knowed it was good and he turned in a fury on Porter and opened his mouth and never said a word, just closed it again and walked off, trailing his bat behind. That was the fourth straight man I fanned.