sportswriter, and above all, Casey, wrong. Easy enough to stand off and criticize. When you had the responsibility for the club, a responsibility to the stockholders too, well, it was different.
But Casey had heard it before. He was in a serious mood. With one hand he flipped open the scorebook he carried and shoved it at the other man. “Listen, Mac, you lucky bum, you know how many balls this kid has pitched in five innings? Twenty-six, that’s all.”
“Twenty-six called balls?”
“Twenty-six, only twenty-six, I counted ’em.” He turned and went back to the press box, while MacManus shouted, “Where’s MacDonald? Hey, Red, twenty-six balls he’s pitched, only twenty-six....”
Leonard was the first man up. He stood swinging his bat at the plate, while MacDonald, watching from left field, reminisced.
“Old Dave. Still a pretty good catcher, that old fella. I remember him back in the Series against the Tigers in ’34....”
“Yeah,” the other interrupted. “That was in ’34. A long while ago. He’s old now, too old. We want youngsters, and speed, see. Speed, that’s gonna be the keynote of this team. A hustling ballclub. Like that kid coming to bat now.”
Leonard had flied out, and Harry Street came to the plate. With a base on balls and two hits behind him, he caught the first ball pitched for a clean single to right center. MacManus poked his neighbor in the side.
“How’s ’at, Red, three for three, and his first big-league game. Say, if that kid was only with the Giants, can you imagine what they’d say?” He tossed his cigarette onto the grass with a gesture indicating his opinion of sportswriters, as he sat down again on one of the empty chairs. MacDonald came over and took another chair. Arms folded, silent but keen, the other man sat watching while MacManus twitched and crossed his legs. “Jack, I don’t care, I’d just as leave make an offer for that boy if you’d care to listen.”
“Which boy? Street? The lad on first?”
“Nope, that pitcher.”
“Nosir. Nosir.” He leaned over, tapped MacDonald on the arm and chest. “That kid has got something. Lemme tell you, Mac, the other night after we played the Tigers I found I’d left my reading glasses in the clubhouse. I was almost at the hotel, but I turned the car round and came back to get ’em. Doggone if it wasn’t after six. The place was deserted except for this kid and old Fat Stuff Foster, you know, the old-timer. Fat was in there dishing ’em up to this boy, place almost getting dark, mind you. So I went up to him and says, ‘Hey, you, what’s the idea?’ I says to this boy at the plate, ‘I thought you were supposed to be a pitcher. What’s the idea?’ Know what he answers? ‘Yessir, but I like to hit ’em too, and I’m weak on low balls. Besides I’m learning a new grip.’ Whaddya think of that, hey? A pitcher and he likes to hit the ball!”
The batter hit a fast grounder to shortstop and the boy at first was well on his way to second. It was plain only an exceptionally fast throw would catch him, and MacManus half rose in his chair. “They’ll have to be fast, they’ll have to be fast...” he shouted exuberantly. “They’ll have to be fast to catch that kid.... There... I told you... I told you...” as Street slid safely into second. “Whad’I say? He’s a leaping kangaroo, that’s what he is. Man on second, one out, winning run at the plate. Now, Kid, let’s see what you can do; let’s see you win your own game.”
From deep left field they watched the tall, gangling boy shuffle up to the plate. He knocked the dirt from his spikes nervously, gripped his bat well up the handle, and stood legs apart on the edge of the box. “Makes you think kinda of Ted Williams, doesn’t he?” said someone on the porch. From the dugout came the rattle and chatter of the Dodgers, and on the coaching lines calls and shouts reached the ears of the boy at the plate. “Attaboy, Tuck, take a cut at
But Casey had heard it before. He was in a serious mood. With one hand he flipped open the scorebook he carried and shoved it at the other man. “Listen, Mac, you lucky bum, you know how many balls this kid has pitched in five innings? Twenty-six, that’s all.”
“Twenty-six called balls?”
“Twenty-six, only twenty-six, I counted ’em.” He turned and went back to the press box, while MacManus shouted, “Where’s MacDonald? Hey, Red, twenty-six balls he’s pitched, only twenty-six....”
Leonard was the first man up. He stood swinging his bat at the plate, while MacDonald, watching from left field, reminisced.
“Old Dave. Still a pretty good catcher, that old fella. I remember him back in the Series against the Tigers in ’34....”
“Yeah,” the other interrupted. “That was in ’34. A long while ago. He’s old now, too old. We want youngsters, and speed, see. Speed, that’s gonna be the keynote of this team. A hustling ballclub. Like that kid coming to bat now.”
Leonard had flied out, and Harry Street came to the plate. With a base on balls and two hits behind him, he caught the first ball pitched for a clean single to right center. MacManus poked his neighbor in the side.
“How’s ’at, Red, three for three, and his first big-league game. Say, if that kid was only with the Giants, can you imagine what they’d say?” He tossed his cigarette onto the grass with a gesture indicating his opinion of sportswriters, as he sat down again on one of the empty chairs. MacDonald came over and took another chair. Arms folded, silent but keen, the other man sat watching while MacManus twitched and crossed his legs. “Jack, I don’t care, I’d just as leave make an offer for that boy if you’d care to listen.”
“Which boy? Street? The lad on first?”
“Nope, that pitcher.”
“Nosir. Nosir.” He leaned over, tapped MacDonald on the arm and chest. “That kid has got something. Lemme tell you, Mac, the other night after we played the Tigers I found I’d left my reading glasses in the clubhouse. I was almost at the hotel, but I turned the car round and came back to get ’em. Doggone if it wasn’t after six. The place was deserted except for this kid and old Fat Stuff Foster, you know, the old-timer. Fat was in there dishing ’em up to this boy, place almost getting dark, mind you. So I went up to him and says, ‘Hey, you, what’s the idea?’ I says to this boy at the plate, ‘I thought you were supposed to be a pitcher. What’s the idea?’ Know what he answers? ‘Yessir, but I like to hit ’em too, and I’m weak on low balls. Besides I’m learning a new grip.’ Whaddya think of that, hey? A pitcher and he likes to hit the ball!”
The batter hit a fast grounder to shortstop and the boy at first was well on his way to second. It was plain only an exceptionally fast throw would catch him, and MacManus half rose in his chair. “They’ll have to be fast, they’ll have to be fast...” he shouted exuberantly. “They’ll have to be fast to catch that kid.... There... I told you... I told you...” as Street slid safely into second. “Whad’I say? He’s a leaping kangaroo, that’s what he is. Man on second, one out, winning run at the plate. Now, Kid, let’s see what you can do; let’s see you win your own game.”
From deep left field they watched the tall, gangling boy shuffle up to the plate. He knocked the dirt from his spikes nervously, gripped his bat well up the handle, and stood legs apart on the edge of the box. “Makes you think kinda of Ted Williams, doesn’t he?” said someone on the porch. From the dugout came the rattle and chatter of the Dodgers, and on the coaching lines calls and shouts reached the ears of the boy at the plate. “Attaboy, Tuck, take a cut at
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