Rookie of the Year by John R. Tunis

corridor.
    Spike stepped out and started after them, then realized he had nothing on but the trousers of his pajamas. Turning, he saw a man and a woman coming toward him from the other end of the hall. He ducked back, closed the door, and stood thinking. Somewhere in the distance the sounds of singing died away. He went quickly into the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked at his watch to be sure of the time. Three-thirty.
    He was back now and had the telephone.
    “Give me Mr. Hathaway’s room,” he said quietly. “That’s right... J. B.” The delay was interminable while the operator finally got the right room number. Then Spike could hear the phone ringing. It rang and rang. Finally a voice answered.
    “Hullo?”
    “This you, Bones?”
    “Naw. It’s Baldwin.”
    “This is Spike Russell, Clyde. Is Bonesy there?”
    A second of silence intervened before the other replied. “Why, yeah, he’s here. He’s asleep. Want him? What’s the matter?”
    Spike was stumped. Clyde might be telling the truth. If he was, to wake up a boy who had gone through that three hour grueling on the field would be wicked. He probably wasn’t asleep, to be sure. But he just might be. A guy could make mistakes.
    “Nope. I’ll see him tomorrow. O.K.” He put back the receiver slowly. This being a manager was really no fun at all.

9
    T HEY SAT ON THE edge of the seat in Spike’s drawing-room on the train. Their faces were worried and tight. So was that of the young manager. He sat by the window looking out and talking all the while as if he were addressing the scenery. Both the rookies were speaking together when he interrupted.
    “Look here, I don’t care. I don’t care for all that. I don’t care where it was or how it happened. I don’t care who started it. I don’t care if it was only beer. This is a ballclub, not a reform school, and a man has to look out for himself. Now, Bones, and you, too, Clyde, this is the last time. Get me, the last time.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Yes, Skipper.”
    “You both remember what I said the other day in that meeting, don’t you?”
    They both nodded solemnly.
    “O.K. That was last week. And you forgot it. In less than one week you go out and get high....”
    Their tones were a mixture of denial and hurt feelings. “Oh, no, Spike.”
    “Why, looka, Skipper, we only had a few beers.”
    “How many times do I hafta tell you it makes no difference if you only smelt a beer if you come roaring down the hall at three in the morning? And I don’t care which one of you it was; all I care about is winning that pennant. Anything that interferes with that is out. Now, Bones, whad’ I say in meeting last week?”
    “Skipper, you said you’d fine us fifty bucks the first time.”
    “O.K. I kept my word, didn’t I?”
    “Yes, Skipper.”
    “An’ what else did I say, Clyde?”
    “Why, Spike, you said you’d fine a man a hundred bucks the second time.”
    “I’m gonna keep my word on that, too, even if it is hard on one of you. I don’t care, I want you to learn this lesson right now. If you must learn it this way, that’s tough. Both you boys’ll be short a hundred bucks on your next salary check. Get me?”
    He paused, waiting. They both nodded. He knew he had struck home, because if one of them hadn’t been drinking the previous night, they would have protested with heat. As neither of them spoke, he continued. “Now, Bones, whad’ I say about the third time?”
    Bonesy’s voice was hardly audible above the rumble of the swaying pullman. “You said there wouldn’t be any third time,” said the young pitcher, looking at the floor.
    Spike turned toward them. “Remember who I told that to? To Raz Nugent, my best hurler. And I mean it, believe me. This goes for him and for both of you boys and everyone on this club. Even if it costs me the pennant. Get it?”
    They nodded, seriously. “All right. See you don’t forget it in the future, ’cause I really mean business. Now