firing to their catchers. Just as well, for a base on balls was followed by a sacrifice and a two-bagger that sent Roy Tucker scurrying to the fence. One run over and a man on second. Big Elmer McCaffrey lumbered across the field and Rats, throwing his glove in disgust to the ground, walked off to the showers.
Elmer was ordered to pass the next man, a good hitter, and there were runners on first and second with only one out. The next batter hit a grounder past McCaffrey in the box, a slow roller which had to be picked up on the run with precious little time in which to do it. Spike was forced to “grab it by the handle” and let it go, for it was one of those plays in which half a step either way meant the decision.
Advancing for the ball, he knew it was impossible to make the long throw to first and, scooping it up, he tossed it underhand toward his brother who was racing in to second from his position on the grass. Bob came in a few steps ahead of the runner, caught the ball on the dead run just as he reached the bag and, without pausing, shot it to Harry Street on third. The whole thing was one movement done in an instant. The Cub runner from second had turned the corner at third and was several paces off the base before he saw what was coming. He dove for safety. Too late. A doubleplay and the side was out.
Now that Bob was on the team he felt completely sure of himself. He was the first man out for practice in the morning, the last man dressed in the afternoon, so tired he could hardly put his clothes on, so tired that after dinner he wanted only to lie down and sleep. For he was giving all the time, giving with strength and nervous energy, and his pep and chatter around second base were a tonic both the infield and the whole team badly needed.
The fans observed at once how the team snapped back. From fourth place they moved to third as the season drew to a close. The whole squad began making plays they hadn’t been making for weeks. That combination around second was a shot in the arm to every man on the club. The team noticed it; so did the bleachers; so did the sportswriters who followed them from day to day.
“These Russell boys,” wrote Jim Foster in the Times , “are as different as chalk and cheese. They’re both baseball rookies making their first appearance in the big leagues; they’re both good, and there the resemblance ends. Spike, the elder, is quiet and conscientious; Bob, the younger, is rowdy and raucous. Besides being Ginger Crane’s solution to the infield problem that has been bothering the little manager all season, both boys have the ability to make the tough ones look easy. They’re the cuffs on the trousers to the rooters, and this kid Bob is poison to left-handed lowball hitters. These Dodger freshmen may turn out to be one of the finest keystone combinations in baseball.”
8
W INTER. SNOW WAS FALLING that evening in mid-February when Spike got back after work to their room in Mrs. Hampton’s boarding-house on McGavock Street to find Bob triumphantly waving a telegram.
“It’s from him, from Jack MacManus! Says he’s passing through town next week and wants to see us about the contract. Gee, Spike, I sure hope we can fix things up. It looks like you were right after all.”
As the business manager of the pair, Spike had confidence in his dealings with the Dodger management that was not entirely shared by his brother. Before leaving Brooklyn last fall he had consulted Fat Stuff at some length as to what kind of a contract they should ask for the next season. The veteran’s opinion was that the Dodgers’ Keystone Kids deserved a substantial raise.
“What’d you boys knock down this year?”
“I was paid on a basis of three thousand five, and Bobby three straight,” answered Spike, talking baseball figures to the old pitcher.
He thought a while. “Well, let’s see. The team finished up in third place, and you boys both had more than a little to do with our standing.
Elmer was ordered to pass the next man, a good hitter, and there were runners on first and second with only one out. The next batter hit a grounder past McCaffrey in the box, a slow roller which had to be picked up on the run with precious little time in which to do it. Spike was forced to “grab it by the handle” and let it go, for it was one of those plays in which half a step either way meant the decision.
Advancing for the ball, he knew it was impossible to make the long throw to first and, scooping it up, he tossed it underhand toward his brother who was racing in to second from his position on the grass. Bob came in a few steps ahead of the runner, caught the ball on the dead run just as he reached the bag and, without pausing, shot it to Harry Street on third. The whole thing was one movement done in an instant. The Cub runner from second had turned the corner at third and was several paces off the base before he saw what was coming. He dove for safety. Too late. A doubleplay and the side was out.
Now that Bob was on the team he felt completely sure of himself. He was the first man out for practice in the morning, the last man dressed in the afternoon, so tired he could hardly put his clothes on, so tired that after dinner he wanted only to lie down and sleep. For he was giving all the time, giving with strength and nervous energy, and his pep and chatter around second base were a tonic both the infield and the whole team badly needed.
The fans observed at once how the team snapped back. From fourth place they moved to third as the season drew to a close. The whole squad began making plays they hadn’t been making for weeks. That combination around second was a shot in the arm to every man on the club. The team noticed it; so did the bleachers; so did the sportswriters who followed them from day to day.
“These Russell boys,” wrote Jim Foster in the Times , “are as different as chalk and cheese. They’re both baseball rookies making their first appearance in the big leagues; they’re both good, and there the resemblance ends. Spike, the elder, is quiet and conscientious; Bob, the younger, is rowdy and raucous. Besides being Ginger Crane’s solution to the infield problem that has been bothering the little manager all season, both boys have the ability to make the tough ones look easy. They’re the cuffs on the trousers to the rooters, and this kid Bob is poison to left-handed lowball hitters. These Dodger freshmen may turn out to be one of the finest keystone combinations in baseball.”
8
W INTER. SNOW WAS FALLING that evening in mid-February when Spike got back after work to their room in Mrs. Hampton’s boarding-house on McGavock Street to find Bob triumphantly waving a telegram.
“It’s from him, from Jack MacManus! Says he’s passing through town next week and wants to see us about the contract. Gee, Spike, I sure hope we can fix things up. It looks like you were right after all.”
As the business manager of the pair, Spike had confidence in his dealings with the Dodger management that was not entirely shared by his brother. Before leaving Brooklyn last fall he had consulted Fat Stuff at some length as to what kind of a contract they should ask for the next season. The veteran’s opinion was that the Dodgers’ Keystone Kids deserved a substantial raise.
“What’d you boys knock down this year?”
“I was paid on a basis of three thousand five, and Bobby three straight,” answered Spike, talking baseball figures to the old pitcher.
He thought a while. “Well, let’s see. The team finished up in third place, and you boys both had more than a little to do with our standing.
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