Judging by your play out there, I’d say you were worth considerable more next year. Guess you oughta double it, say fifteen. Split it anyway you like—or they do.”
But the contracts that arrived unsigned in Nashville shortly after Christmas called for a five thousand dollar salary to Spike and four to Bob. Somewhat to Bob’s distress, Spike insisted on returning them immediately, unsigned, with a polite letter. “There’s some guys think it’s fine to holler and curse the management, but I think we’d be smart to leave Ginger an out.”
“Yeah, an’ suppose they don’t take the out. Suppose they don’t come back at us.”
“They will,” Spike assured him. “They got to. They don’t expect you to sign the first contract; they just send it out in hopes, that’s all.”
He was correct. The contract was returned with a raise of a thousand dollars apiece, making eleven thousand in all. Once again Bob was worried. Not Spike.
“No, sir, we’re in a strong position. They need us bad out there round second base, and they know it. Besides, we got a leverage on ’em; we can make a living outside of baseball and they realize it. You got a good electrical job, haven’t you? O.K., and I can always work in the L. and N. freight house. We got something to bargain with, boy.”
“But we don’t want to do that; we don’t want to work here in Nashville. We wanna play baseball.”
“Sure we do. But we can if we hafta, see? Point is, they need us bad. Now just sit tight and wait and see.”
The contract went back unsigned.
Three days later a telephone call came for Spike in the Louisville and Nashville freight house where he was working. It caught him when the boss and three helpers were able to listen with interest. They only heard Spike’s answers but they got enough to understand the meaning of the conversation.
“Spike?” It was the taut, aggressive voice of Ginger Crane. “Spike, let’s get down to brass tacks. How much do you boys want anyhow?”
“We want fifteen, Ginger, split any way you folks like up there.”
“Wow! Boy, have you got a nerve! For a couple of rookies in the big leagues, you got your gall. When I broke in with the Senators in ’35...”
Spike knew that record. “Yeah? This boy Wakefield, the kid who signed with the Tigers, got forty-two five,” he answered in baseball terminology, hoping the railway men around wouldn’t get it.
“What say? I don’t believe it. Those are newspaper figures. At any rate, you boys haven’t proved a thing so far, not a thing...”
“Nothing except we made eighteen double-plays that last month.”
“What’s that mean? Now that Ed Davis’s arm is mended, I probably shan’t use your brother except as a utility infielder next season.”
“Well, Ginger, that’s what we feel we’re worth—fifteen.”
“O.K., Spike, you know your own business best. I’d be mighty sorry to see you go, but that’s how things are. So long, and good luck to you both.”
He hung up. The click of the telephone had an impressively decisive tone that was unpleasant to hear, and Spike turned back to the open-mouthed freight-hands feeling unusually foolish.
Three or four days later a telegram arrived informing them that the raises were revoked. This really bothered both boys. What did that mean? They decided that it meant that if they signed now they’d have to do so at the figures of their original contracts—five and four thousand respectively. With difficulty Spike withstood his brother’s pleas to write for a contract and sign immediately. A week later he was glad he hadn’t weakened. A letter came from the manager saying he had no authority to treat further with them, and that from now on negotiations were in the hands of Jack MacManus, the fiery-tempered owner of the Dodgers. The letter didn’t describe him that way, however.
No word came from that worthy, either, for almost ten days, and then late in January, when they were both worried and
But the contracts that arrived unsigned in Nashville shortly after Christmas called for a five thousand dollar salary to Spike and four to Bob. Somewhat to Bob’s distress, Spike insisted on returning them immediately, unsigned, with a polite letter. “There’s some guys think it’s fine to holler and curse the management, but I think we’d be smart to leave Ginger an out.”
“Yeah, an’ suppose they don’t take the out. Suppose they don’t come back at us.”
“They will,” Spike assured him. “They got to. They don’t expect you to sign the first contract; they just send it out in hopes, that’s all.”
He was correct. The contract was returned with a raise of a thousand dollars apiece, making eleven thousand in all. Once again Bob was worried. Not Spike.
“No, sir, we’re in a strong position. They need us bad out there round second base, and they know it. Besides, we got a leverage on ’em; we can make a living outside of baseball and they realize it. You got a good electrical job, haven’t you? O.K., and I can always work in the L. and N. freight house. We got something to bargain with, boy.”
“But we don’t want to do that; we don’t want to work here in Nashville. We wanna play baseball.”
“Sure we do. But we can if we hafta, see? Point is, they need us bad. Now just sit tight and wait and see.”
The contract went back unsigned.
Three days later a telephone call came for Spike in the Louisville and Nashville freight house where he was working. It caught him when the boss and three helpers were able to listen with interest. They only heard Spike’s answers but they got enough to understand the meaning of the conversation.
“Spike?” It was the taut, aggressive voice of Ginger Crane. “Spike, let’s get down to brass tacks. How much do you boys want anyhow?”
“We want fifteen, Ginger, split any way you folks like up there.”
“Wow! Boy, have you got a nerve! For a couple of rookies in the big leagues, you got your gall. When I broke in with the Senators in ’35...”
Spike knew that record. “Yeah? This boy Wakefield, the kid who signed with the Tigers, got forty-two five,” he answered in baseball terminology, hoping the railway men around wouldn’t get it.
“What say? I don’t believe it. Those are newspaper figures. At any rate, you boys haven’t proved a thing so far, not a thing...”
“Nothing except we made eighteen double-plays that last month.”
“What’s that mean? Now that Ed Davis’s arm is mended, I probably shan’t use your brother except as a utility infielder next season.”
“Well, Ginger, that’s what we feel we’re worth—fifteen.”
“O.K., Spike, you know your own business best. I’d be mighty sorry to see you go, but that’s how things are. So long, and good luck to you both.”
He hung up. The click of the telephone had an impressively decisive tone that was unpleasant to hear, and Spike turned back to the open-mouthed freight-hands feeling unusually foolish.
Three or four days later a telegram arrived informing them that the raises were revoked. This really bothered both boys. What did that mean? They decided that it meant that if they signed now they’d have to do so at the figures of their original contracts—five and four thousand respectively. With difficulty Spike withstood his brother’s pleas to write for a contract and sign immediately. A week later he was glad he hadn’t weakened. A letter came from the manager saying he had no authority to treat further with them, and that from now on negotiations were in the hands of Jack MacManus, the fiery-tempered owner of the Dodgers. The letter didn’t describe him that way, however.
No word came from that worthy, either, for almost ten days, and then late in January, when they were both worried and
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