nuts.” And he rose and walked out into left field.
“Say, Jack, this boy looks pretty good to me. Why hasn’t he been pitched before?”
“He was. They tried him out in a practice game once anyhow, and he didn’t seem to have much. Fact we were about to give him his release last week, but Dave Leonard persuaded us to hang on to him, and then last night the kid talked Gabby into letting him go out there for a few innings this afternoon. They really wanted to see what Nugent would do, so he decided to let him try a couple of innings. I guess Leonard is making him out there.”
“Maybe. He isn’t making those fast balls though. Have you seen his stuff from behind the plate? You should see him from back there. Got control, too. Where’d you get him?”
He pulled his hat down over his eyes and flipped another half-smoked cigarette into the grass. “Up in Waterbury, a tank-town in Connecticut. I went to see Simpson, their shortstop, and this boy was pitching an exhibition game against the Cuban Giants. Seems he was some local boy from near there who was getting a try-out. He held ’em to one hit, and I said to Spike Davis, the manager, I said, ‘Look here; I’ll give you just exactly two thousand smackers for that son of a gun right here and now.’ And he says, ‘Well, two thousand’s a lotta dough, but that boy has an awful big possibility,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, and so has two thousand in the bank....’ There she goes... there goes your ball game, Harry....”
The batter hit a terrific drive into center. Scudder, the left fielder, was nearest the ball and went after it, running back and back. He came up against the fence as the ball descended. From the stands it looked over, but the fielder turned, leaped up, and literally pulled it down from the upper boards. It was a courageous catch and the whole crowd in the stands rose to him.
“Yessir, he’s getting support all right.” He lit another cigarette. “Some catch, boy,” as Scudder trotted past. “Well, here we go, last of the ninth, no... that’s only two out, isn’t it? Who’s up? Rogers? Say, what do you think of that? He has a chance of shutting these bums out without a hit.” Once more he found it impossible to stand the strain, and pulling down his hat over his face, walked over to the clubhouse porch.
The batter with one strike and a ball stood waiting at the plate. He was looking for a fast one, but it was a curve and he swung well over the ball. His bat slipped from his hand, the ball rolling in the dirt toward third. Like a flash he was off while both the pitcher and the third baseman ran in for it; the pitcher, getting to it, stumbled momentarily, picked it up and threw it to first, a fraction of a second late to catch the runner. Hit number one for the Indians.
“Shoot,” said MacManus. “I hoped the Kid would hold ’em down. Do those big bums good. And a scratch hit like that, too. Hang it, that would have done the boy a lot of good; given him all kinds of confidence.” The catcher went down the line to the box and tossed the ball. There was silence on the diamond. Was this another ninth inning Indian rally? From the infield came the chatter of the team. “All right now, Roy, old kid, right in the slot.... Pretty lucky, that was, Roy. Give him both barrels, Roy.... Then the voice of the umpire.
“Strike ONE ....”
“Thassa way to throw that old tomato, Tuck old boy.... That’s pitching, that is....” And a minute later the man on first started for second. Leonard’s throw was perfect and the side was out, the Dodgers coming up for the last half of the ninth. Leaning against a post on the clubhouse porch, MacManus, with his left hand in his pocket and a cigarette in his other hand, walked nervously from side to side, coming back to his post as Casey ran across from the press box.
“Now what? Whad’I tell you, Jim? That kid has the makings.” MacManus was pleased but he was especially pleased when he could prove a
“Say, Jack, this boy looks pretty good to me. Why hasn’t he been pitched before?”
“He was. They tried him out in a practice game once anyhow, and he didn’t seem to have much. Fact we were about to give him his release last week, but Dave Leonard persuaded us to hang on to him, and then last night the kid talked Gabby into letting him go out there for a few innings this afternoon. They really wanted to see what Nugent would do, so he decided to let him try a couple of innings. I guess Leonard is making him out there.”
“Maybe. He isn’t making those fast balls though. Have you seen his stuff from behind the plate? You should see him from back there. Got control, too. Where’d you get him?”
He pulled his hat down over his eyes and flipped another half-smoked cigarette into the grass. “Up in Waterbury, a tank-town in Connecticut. I went to see Simpson, their shortstop, and this boy was pitching an exhibition game against the Cuban Giants. Seems he was some local boy from near there who was getting a try-out. He held ’em to one hit, and I said to Spike Davis, the manager, I said, ‘Look here; I’ll give you just exactly two thousand smackers for that son of a gun right here and now.’ And he says, ‘Well, two thousand’s a lotta dough, but that boy has an awful big possibility,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, and so has two thousand in the bank....’ There she goes... there goes your ball game, Harry....”
The batter hit a terrific drive into center. Scudder, the left fielder, was nearest the ball and went after it, running back and back. He came up against the fence as the ball descended. From the stands it looked over, but the fielder turned, leaped up, and literally pulled it down from the upper boards. It was a courageous catch and the whole crowd in the stands rose to him.
“Yessir, he’s getting support all right.” He lit another cigarette. “Some catch, boy,” as Scudder trotted past. “Well, here we go, last of the ninth, no... that’s only two out, isn’t it? Who’s up? Rogers? Say, what do you think of that? He has a chance of shutting these bums out without a hit.” Once more he found it impossible to stand the strain, and pulling down his hat over his face, walked over to the clubhouse porch.
The batter with one strike and a ball stood waiting at the plate. He was looking for a fast one, but it was a curve and he swung well over the ball. His bat slipped from his hand, the ball rolling in the dirt toward third. Like a flash he was off while both the pitcher and the third baseman ran in for it; the pitcher, getting to it, stumbled momentarily, picked it up and threw it to first, a fraction of a second late to catch the runner. Hit number one for the Indians.
“Shoot,” said MacManus. “I hoped the Kid would hold ’em down. Do those big bums good. And a scratch hit like that, too. Hang it, that would have done the boy a lot of good; given him all kinds of confidence.” The catcher went down the line to the box and tossed the ball. There was silence on the diamond. Was this another ninth inning Indian rally? From the infield came the chatter of the team. “All right now, Roy, old kid, right in the slot.... Pretty lucky, that was, Roy. Give him both barrels, Roy.... Then the voice of the umpire.
“Strike ONE ....”
“Thassa way to throw that old tomato, Tuck old boy.... That’s pitching, that is....” And a minute later the man on first started for second. Leonard’s throw was perfect and the side was out, the Dodgers coming up for the last half of the ninth. Leaning against a post on the clubhouse porch, MacManus, with his left hand in his pocket and a cigarette in his other hand, walked nervously from side to side, coming back to his post as Casey ran across from the press box.
“Now what? Whad’I tell you, Jim? That kid has the makings.” MacManus was pleased but he was especially pleased when he could prove a
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