they’ll be trying it on somewhere else. There’s nothing wrong with our attitude. Look round and see for yourself!’ ”
Holy smoke, thought Spike, I must stop this sort of thing. Why, I’m getting to be a pop-off guy. Old Grouchy was dead right; when you don’t say anything you don’t ever have to eat your own words. Yessir, he was dead right. Some sportswriter over in St. Loo the other day asked him how Dusty Miller was making out at first. “He can play first,” says Grouchy. That’s all. And see how I popped off; talked three minutes to that reporter and he blew it up into a column and a half. I sure must be more careful.
Meanwhile up in Room 2516 the secretary sat at a desk covered with letters, telegrams, papers, clippings, railroad tickets, and various other things. His briefcase on a chair was smothered in more papers. His opened satchel also contained club documents. Sitting before the desk, he picked up the telephone and continued working as he talked.
“Hey there, sweetheart... how ’bout that call I put in for Brooklyn.... Triangle 5-2500... Hanson, W. H.... John J. MacManus... this is 2516... do I hafta go into all that again?... O.K.... yep, I’ll hang on.”
With the telephone in a vise made by hunching his shoulder and pushing it against his ear, Bill with two hands free continued working. He sorted out papers, scribbled short notes on letters, tossed telegrams over to the chair where his briefcase reposed, arranged clippings in small piles.
Suddenly he dropped the pencil and his left hand grabbed the receiver. “Yeah... yeah... O.K., go ahead... hello... hello... Jack! That you, Jack?... This Bill.” A silence followed while he listened with a growing frown on his face. What he was hearing he evidently did not like. Finally he broke in.
“Sure... sure... sure everyone knew we needed that game the worst way... sure it was tough to lose... why, he slipped, that’s all... he just slipped and fell... yes, he is... yes, he is a good fielding pitcher... well, yes, I have a theory... only I kinda don’t like... O.K., if you want my honest opinion, Jack, looks to me as if Spike disliked the boy... well, he’s been riding him pretty hard, and you know how a rookie is. I think the kid’s maybe lost confidence.” Again there was a long silence save for the punctuations caused by Hanson’s assents. “Yeah... uhuh... yep... I will, yeah... I’ll keep my eyes open... yeah, I’ll report.... I getcha.
“What’s that? What story? Oh... that! Yes, I saw it. Well, Jack, you know what these sportswriters are; they hafta fill up the papers, don’t they? Why, no, I wouldn’t go so far as to say the piece is wrong; the spirit on the club ain’t bad... well, O.K., maybe it’s better’n that. Certainly the boys are trying, they’re trying hard... but he’s kinda a hothead... he gets all steamed up and rides ’em hard. I know for a fact he gave Hathaway and Baldwin a lacing in his room on the train coming over from St. Loo last night. Threatened to suspend ’em both. What for? Why, just for getting loose over a couple of beers after that long night game. How do I know it was only a couple? Well, I happen to know because I was in the grill of the Coronado with ’em myself... no, not at another table, at their table. I saw what they were both drinking, I saw the whole thing.
That’s how I know. Yep, I will... uhuh.... O.K., Jack, I will... yep... g’by.”
He rang off. He pushed the chair back and stood up. He wiped his forehead. Then he walked across the room, returned, sat down at the desk again, and finally took up the telephone.
“Hey there, sweetheart, this is Bill Hanson in 2516. I want the Post-Gazette. That’s right. And look, see if you can get me Bill Smith, the sports editor, and tell him Hanson, the secretary of the Dodgers, wants him, will ya, please?”
10
I T WAS WARM that afternoon in the sun at Forbes Field, terribly warm, and after batting and fielding practice the
Holy smoke, thought Spike, I must stop this sort of thing. Why, I’m getting to be a pop-off guy. Old Grouchy was dead right; when you don’t say anything you don’t ever have to eat your own words. Yessir, he was dead right. Some sportswriter over in St. Loo the other day asked him how Dusty Miller was making out at first. “He can play first,” says Grouchy. That’s all. And see how I popped off; talked three minutes to that reporter and he blew it up into a column and a half. I sure must be more careful.
Meanwhile up in Room 2516 the secretary sat at a desk covered with letters, telegrams, papers, clippings, railroad tickets, and various other things. His briefcase on a chair was smothered in more papers. His opened satchel also contained club documents. Sitting before the desk, he picked up the telephone and continued working as he talked.
“Hey there, sweetheart... how ’bout that call I put in for Brooklyn.... Triangle 5-2500... Hanson, W. H.... John J. MacManus... this is 2516... do I hafta go into all that again?... O.K.... yep, I’ll hang on.”
With the telephone in a vise made by hunching his shoulder and pushing it against his ear, Bill with two hands free continued working. He sorted out papers, scribbled short notes on letters, tossed telegrams over to the chair where his briefcase reposed, arranged clippings in small piles.
Suddenly he dropped the pencil and his left hand grabbed the receiver. “Yeah... yeah... O.K., go ahead... hello... hello... Jack! That you, Jack?... This Bill.” A silence followed while he listened with a growing frown on his face. What he was hearing he evidently did not like. Finally he broke in.
“Sure... sure... sure everyone knew we needed that game the worst way... sure it was tough to lose... why, he slipped, that’s all... he just slipped and fell... yes, he is... yes, he is a good fielding pitcher... well, yes, I have a theory... only I kinda don’t like... O.K., if you want my honest opinion, Jack, looks to me as if Spike disliked the boy... well, he’s been riding him pretty hard, and you know how a rookie is. I think the kid’s maybe lost confidence.” Again there was a long silence save for the punctuations caused by Hanson’s assents. “Yeah... uhuh... yep... I will, yeah... I’ll keep my eyes open... yeah, I’ll report.... I getcha.
“What’s that? What story? Oh... that! Yes, I saw it. Well, Jack, you know what these sportswriters are; they hafta fill up the papers, don’t they? Why, no, I wouldn’t go so far as to say the piece is wrong; the spirit on the club ain’t bad... well, O.K., maybe it’s better’n that. Certainly the boys are trying, they’re trying hard... but he’s kinda a hothead... he gets all steamed up and rides ’em hard. I know for a fact he gave Hathaway and Baldwin a lacing in his room on the train coming over from St. Loo last night. Threatened to suspend ’em both. What for? Why, just for getting loose over a couple of beers after that long night game. How do I know it was only a couple? Well, I happen to know because I was in the grill of the Coronado with ’em myself... no, not at another table, at their table. I saw what they were both drinking, I saw the whole thing.
That’s how I know. Yep, I will... uhuh.... O.K., Jack, I will... yep... g’by.”
He rang off. He pushed the chair back and stood up. He wiped his forehead. Then he walked across the room, returned, sat down at the desk again, and finally took up the telephone.
“Hey there, sweetheart, this is Bill Hanson in 2516. I want the Post-Gazette. That’s right. And look, see if you can get me Bill Smith, the sports editor, and tell him Hanson, the secretary of the Dodgers, wants him, will ya, please?”
10
I T WAS WARM that afternoon in the sun at Forbes Field, terribly warm, and after batting and fielding practice the
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