Kid from Tomkinsville (5 page)

There was the usual warm-up, the pepper practice, and after that he took a few swings at the plate. Then the whistle blew. The two teams started the game and once more the Kid found himself in the bullpen, eagerly watching each move, waiting for the call. It came in the third inning when Gabby pulled out Rats Doyle, who was puffing and blowing in the hot sun, and shouted out from the coaching lines,

“Hey there... Tucker.” The Kid jumped. Thump-thump went his heart. Here was his chance at last. He knew Razzle would be sent in for the regulars and already he could see the headlines in the next morning’s sports pages. “Razzle Nugent Beats Rookie Pitcher.” However, he was starting with a three to one lead in his favor, so he walked out to the box, hoping that he wouldn’t disgrace himself in his first try.

Unfortunately pitching to these men was different. They had an annoying habit of standing there motionless, their bats on their shoulders, refusing to bite at anything wide, just waiting, waiting... and then when a good one came, smacking it. Fast fielding saved him in the first inning he pitched. But when he finally came out after three innings, the score was eight to three for the regulars. His roommate put the finishing touch by cracking him for a double to score two men, and then, dancing off second, stole third under the Kid’s eyes. It was his fault, entirely his fault and not the catcher’s. He longed for the confidence of that brown-eyed boy jumping off third.

“Watch yourself there... watch yourself,” shouted the coach back of third as the youngster hopped up and down the basepath, arms outstretched.

“Yeah,” retorted the brash rookie. “Well, I got here on my own and I’ll get home on my own too.” A titter went round the diamond at the expense of Charlie Draper, the third base coach. In the box the Kid heard the retort and winced. That was the kind of temperament to have. Meanwhile Allen, the big burly first baseman, apparently afraid of nothing, known for his ability to hit any sort of ball, stood menacingly at the plate. In desperation the Kid put everything he had into his pitch. He wound up, the batter met the ball, the fielders backed up... it was over the fence. He heard the call from the first base coaching line.

“Norman, le’s see what you can do out there.” The Kid came back slowly, stuffed his glove into his hip pocket, put on his jacket, and walked round back of the plate to the clubhouse. He knew what they were saying in the dugout as he went past. Seven runs, three bases on balls, and Heaven knows how many hits. In three innings. A knot of men on the clubhouse porch were watching the game and talking. They paid no attention as he passed and he heard someone say,

“Jes’ the same, if Gabby wasn’t a fixture at short I’d say it would be hard to keep that fresh busher off the team.” They were talking about Harry, his roommate. As he went inside to the showers, typewriters were clattering merrily in the press box beside the clubhouse. The press, anxious to be off fishing, and unanimously bored, were writing the leads to their daily stories without waiting for the end of the game. In fact some of them had completed their chore, and Casey was shoving in his last sheet.

“The biggest disappointment of the day’s play was that peerless leader, Manager Gabby Gus Spencer, at shortstop. If his play today was a sample, MacManus ought to ship him to Tulsa in the Texas League. Had Gabby only been a little better, he’d have been lousy. An eighteen-year-old busher named Harry Street on the rookies showed the old man up both in the field and at the bat.

“I’ve always had a suspicion that Gabby talks a better game of ball than he plays. Now I know it. Wonder where he wants that wheel-chair sent? You can have my share of Gabby if you give me young Street, and I’ll throw in Tony Galento and One-eyed Connolly too. With this bunch of sapadillos, Gabby will be lucky not to end up by the Fourth of July in the International League. He had three pitchers in there this morning throwing the ball all over the park except at the plate, and young Tucker, the sensational Kid who was to pitch the team into the World Series, tried his luck for the first time and delivered up seven runs in three innings.

“However, there’s one thing about our Dodgers. I’d rather watch them run past each other on the base line and go to sleep on the sacks than watch the Yanks win a doubleheader without a run scored against them. When the Yanks play you know what’ll happen. With the Dodgers anything can happen. And usually does.”

W
HEN THE
K
ID
reached the hotel tired and discouraged, there was a big pile of mail waiting for him. Seemed as if everyone in Tomkinsville was writing. Everyone at home, they said, was interested in him, even old Mr. Haskins, the president of the First National Bank, who had told him he’d be unwise to leave his job at MacKenzie’s because he shouldn’t associate with ballplayers; yes, even Mr. Haskins was reading the sports pages in hopes of seeing his name.... Everyone was following his progress. Did he think Brooklyn would win the pennant? What about Razzle Nugent, the holdout? Would he sign up? When was the Kid going to start a game and show those birds up? There were a dozen foolish questions in every letter. He wished they hadn’t written at that particular minute. One after the other, he opened and read them; each one hurt. Up to a lunch which he couldn’t eat, and then to the beach alone. He returned early to dinner so he wouldn’t have to face the other players. It was after eight and he was sitting alone in the dark room when a knock sounded at the door. He leaned over quickly and put on the light.

“C’mon in....”

The door opened and Leonard, a toothpick in his mouth, entered. He saw a solemn-faced boy hunched up in a chair by the window overlooking the front porch and the cars swarming past on the main street of Clearwater below.

“Hullo there. Thought I’d drop in a minute.” He closed the door carefully and came inside.

“Uhuh. Sit down, won’t yuh?” Ordinarily he would have been delighted to have seen the old catcher, but not that night. That night he wanted to be entirely alone.

“Well, things didn’t go so good out there for you this morning, did they?”

The Kid didn’t want to talk about it, or even to think about it, but all of a sudden he discovered that he did want to talk. “No, sir. They sure didn’t. I don’t know what it was; I didn’t have any control.”

The older man nodded and the toothpick did a little dance. “I know. That’s often how it is. Well, it’s not the first time you been belted I guess, nor the last time either. Pitching against real hitters is tough, especially at first. You’ll get used to them. I think I might have helped you if I’d been in there, once or twice... that time you grooved that ball for Allen.”

He nodded his head. That was a bad mistake. “Yeah, thought I’d fool him.”

“These boys are smart. But that’s how it is.” There was a pause, an awkward silence as the toothpick flipped across his mouth. Suddenly the old catcher leaned forward. “You feel right sorry for yourself sitting here all alone in the dark, don’t you, son?” Now how on earth did he know that? How did he know the lights were off? No, the Kid certainly wasn’t happy, flopping in his first chance in the big leagues, his only chance, maybe. The visitor leaned back in his chair and the toothpick did another fascinating little dance across his mouth. “Well, I’m gonna tell you something. An’ I mean it. You got the making of a good player. You can hit, and I think you can pitch. Only one thing. It’s up to you.”

“Up to me?”

“Yep.... Like this, now. A fella gets out of baseball just what he puts into it, unnerstand? Any boy with arms, legs, and a good heart can break into the big leagues. I think... ah... now I think you’ve got them. Maybe I’m wrong.”

Arms. Legs. A good heart.

“But I don’t believe I am wrong. I’m not wrong on rookies very often. Lemme tell you something. Unless a kid has awful tough breaks, like he has a sprained ankle or a bum leg, or there’s some star in the position he’s after, see... this boy Street is trying for the manager’s job at short... well, unless there’s something like that, any youngster who’s fast and can throw and can stand up to the plate should make the grade. If he has one thing. Y’know, I’ve seen lots of ballplayers, lots that had everything except courage. They just didn’t have it. And they wouldn’t work. Pink Benton, for instance, back when I was with the Senators, remember him? One of the best rookies ever I hope to see. Young. Strong as an ox. A good hitter, but no dash, no speed. Lead in his tail. Everyone had the tag on him. Just another ballplayer.” There was a significant pause again. Then he said dryly, “He’s with Fort Worth now.”

The Kid began to understand. Before he could answer, the catcher went on. “Take Gabby, right here on this club. Gabby...”

This was too much. The Kid had been watching Gabby closely for two weeks, and, despite his poor play that morning, he had respect for the manager’s ability. “Say, that guy’s one swell ballplayer; he’s a Fancy Dan out there in the field.”

“Sure he is. Why? How’d he get to be manager. Never hit .300 in his life. Not too hot in the field. But he’s been in the big leagues over ten years now and going stronger than ever. The answer’s easy. Gabby has what it takes. Something, well, maybe something inside, if you get me. He isn’t a great ballplayer, but he’s full of pepper all the time, and salt too, and vinegar, yes, sir, plenty of it. Fancy Dan? Say, Fancy Dans are a dime a dozen out there round short. Gabby has something else. Fight, get me? He’s scrapped more than the rest of this squad put together. Why, that guy has gone further with less in baseball than any player in either league.”

Gradually the Kid began to understand. To understand baseball, what it really was, what it took. Here he was sitting in the dark, feeling sorry for himself and thinking about Grandma and the farm, when all the time he ought to be forgetting what had happened and getting ready for another day. Now he began to have an appreciation of the game, of what it was all about, of how players made themselves stars despite physical handicaps, some weakness in the field or at bat, despite drawbacks of various sorts. The toothpick continued its eternal dance as the older man leaned toward him.

“Look at Maranville. The Rabbit... never heard of him, hey? You have? Well, there was a little fellow about as big as a peanut, couldn’t hit with a tennis racket, yet he was twenty years in the leagues. And old John McGraw... What made him a great player? Same thing, fight. And Frank Chance. Why, he used to do everything but walk out there and punch his own team on the nose to pep ’em up. Take Joe McCarthy. Never good enough to be a big leaguer himself. Just a scrub he was, once, yet when he finished everyone wanted to be on his team. And where are the great names of Joe’s time, where are they now, hey?”

The Kid had followed baseball all his life, loved the game, played it, yet for the first time he realized that more important than fielding or hitting, more important than anything, was that funny inner quality called courage. “Now take those pitchers out there chasing flies.” The catcher tipped back his chair. “Take those catchers. I can always tell which ones are real ballplayers just by the way they run. That’s why I got confidence in you. I watched you. You go all out every time, whether you nab that old apple or not. I watched you running that race every day; you get there first or pretty darn near it. That’s the only reason I’m wasting my time here tonight....

“Know what happened to you this morning? Well... I’ll tell you. You was choking up. The essence of pitching is one thing: co-ordination. You didn’t have any. Naturally you didn’t have stuff either. You were pressing, going too far back. I watched you carefully; you was throwing with your shoulder so far back it got in the way of your view. See? Listen, boy, I been through all this the same as you. Sure I’ve been through it; I remember when I broke in there was never anyone to tell me these things, though. No one ever told me my faults. I sat alone in a hotel room in the dark one night and saw myself with

Utica on my shirt, the same as you. I had plenty of stumbles and tumbles. Only I kep’ on a-plugging. I didn’t quit, see; I didn’t stop fighting. Look here, has a kid got it; that’s all I wanna know. No scout can crack open a kid’s head and find out, has he got guts. If he could, baseball would be a cinch. Every team would be the Yanks. So buck up, son. Forget this afternoon. Tomorrow’s another day; get out there and play ball.”

He walked toward the door, that toothpick still doing its everlasting turning and twisting in his mouth. Hand on the doorknob, he turned round.

“Son, an old umpire once give me some dope when I was a kid breaking in like you. Oh, yeah, I thought I was hot stuff, but they soon showed me I didn’t have an idea what it was all about. Just when I got convinced I was a flop and waiting for that pink slip in the mail box, this old fella took me aside in the lobby of the hotel one night. Old George Connors, I never forgot. So I pass it along to you and don’t you forget it either. ‘Courage,’ says this old-timer, ‘courage is all life. Courage is all baseball. And baseball is all life; that’s why it gets under your skin.’

“Good night!” The door slammed.

“Good night.” The Kid jumped up from his chair. Tomorrow he’d show them. Tomorrow. He walked up and down the little room, the words of the older man in his ears. Of course, it was easier for old Leonard because he was a star, he was a fixture on the team, he wasn’t just a cub trying to break into big-league ball. But still... to get discouraged, to get disheartened over one bad inning, that was foolish... that was...

How had the old catcher put it? Baseball is all courage... courage is all life... yep, that’s right. Tomorrow. Tomorrow’s another day.

I
T WAS THE LAST
game of the pre-season workouts and the team was playing the Indians. After that, one more day of practice and then the whole squad was to break camp at Clearwater and start the long, slow journey north, playing the Yanks every day in a different city and arriving in Brooklyn three days before the season began. As usual during games MacManus, his sunglasses shielding his eyes, his Panama carelessly placed on the back of his head, sat on a small wooden chair near the clubhouse porch back of the left field foul line. There was an empty chair on each side of him and from time to time some old player or one of the sportswriters from the press box behind third drifted over and sat down for a few minutes.