man’s out, the fans do. We can get a run, three-four runs. We need five, but we’ll settle for four. Give us a single, Red, just a single.
The stands rose. At the plate the batter leaned hard into the ball, struck it cleanly, and started for first. A deep one, far back, back; but the fielder was moving swiftly with the crack of the bat and was under it as it fell. One more routine catch. And another game gone. The Kid hit the ground hard with his bat, slung it away, and started toward the player’s entrance.
Across the ballpark the Indians scuttled hastily for the clubhouse as the fans poured down upon them. No one poured down on the Dodgers, nobody mobbed them or pestered them for autographs. They were a beaten team. A few curiosity seekers trudged along, but mostly they were left to themselves. Silently save for their pants and grunts they trooped inside. Even Charlie Draper, holding the big leather ball bag, carried it at a disconsolate angle.
Shucks, thought the Kid. Why didn’t he save me a rap? I shouldn’t be kicking though; I didn’t do much to help today myself. Muffed a bad chance in the field and went four times without a hit. Four horse collars. Maybe I swung too hard. It couldn’t be that shadow there, I been hitting in shadow all season. Yes, sir, that bird Miller is all the old scout said he was. Now I wish I’d paid more attention to him that morning. You gotta hand it to Miller though; he’s plenty pitcher, that baby.
Within the locker room was Razzle, all dressed, astride a corner bench. His usual after-game cigar was in his mouth, but it was not at his usual jaunty angle. Everyone felt the defeat badly. They trooped in, slumped down on the stools before their lockers, speechless. A few called for Cokes. The majority shook their heads and sat silently. In the dressing room of the manager, Dave and the coaches were taking off their clothes. Before Dave had got far he was surrounded by reporters. He sat on a chair, pulling off his socks, his pants.
“Good Lord, what you birds want? You should be over there talking to Baker.”
“We were. Got anything to say, Dave?”
“What is there to say? Those babies hit everything we threw up to the plate. Hammy swung on a pitch that was six inches inside and knocked it into right for that single that scored their first run.”
“How ’bout Stansworth? Any chance of his playing? Are you satisfied with West?”
“I gotta be satisfied with him, haven’t I? Who’ve I got to take his place? Lost my relief catcher last month, and then Babe Stansworth splits his thumb wide open last week. You can’t expect a man to catch when he has a split down the side of his bare thumb, can you?” The usually mild Dave glared at the questioner. He was tired and discouraged and in all the crowd he was the one who couldn’t show discouragement.
“Care to name your starter tomorrow?”
“What’s that? Nope, I dunno who’ll pitch tomorrow’s game. Your guess is as good as mine.” He turned his back and threw wet clothes to the bench. In a minute he left them and went to the showers. The reporters came into the big room and mingled among the players, now recovering and starting to talk.
“Whatsa matter, Razzle? Tired out from three innings?”
“Nope. Not now.” The big fellow uncoiled his long legs. “I just didn’t have my stuff today. My curve ball hung there and I couldn’t get my fast one by ’em. They hit everything I threw up.”
“Say...was Miller using a lot of trick stuff, Swanny?” asked Casey, a pencil and a pad in his hand.
“Trick stuff! With that four run lead. Why, he could ha’ thrown anything.”
“You sure can’t win if you don’t hit and score runs,” said someone across the room.
“Shoot,” came back the answer. “We never once got a break. Those Indians had all the breaks. Tomorrow they’ll need ’em and they won’t get ’em. Wait and see.”
“Jes’ so Miller don’t pitch tomorrow, that’s all I ask,”
The stands rose. At the plate the batter leaned hard into the ball, struck it cleanly, and started for first. A deep one, far back, back; but the fielder was moving swiftly with the crack of the bat and was under it as it fell. One more routine catch. And another game gone. The Kid hit the ground hard with his bat, slung it away, and started toward the player’s entrance.
Across the ballpark the Indians scuttled hastily for the clubhouse as the fans poured down upon them. No one poured down on the Dodgers, nobody mobbed them or pestered them for autographs. They were a beaten team. A few curiosity seekers trudged along, but mostly they were left to themselves. Silently save for their pants and grunts they trooped inside. Even Charlie Draper, holding the big leather ball bag, carried it at a disconsolate angle.
Shucks, thought the Kid. Why didn’t he save me a rap? I shouldn’t be kicking though; I didn’t do much to help today myself. Muffed a bad chance in the field and went four times without a hit. Four horse collars. Maybe I swung too hard. It couldn’t be that shadow there, I been hitting in shadow all season. Yes, sir, that bird Miller is all the old scout said he was. Now I wish I’d paid more attention to him that morning. You gotta hand it to Miller though; he’s plenty pitcher, that baby.
Within the locker room was Razzle, all dressed, astride a corner bench. His usual after-game cigar was in his mouth, but it was not at his usual jaunty angle. Everyone felt the defeat badly. They trooped in, slumped down on the stools before their lockers, speechless. A few called for Cokes. The majority shook their heads and sat silently. In the dressing room of the manager, Dave and the coaches were taking off their clothes. Before Dave had got far he was surrounded by reporters. He sat on a chair, pulling off his socks, his pants.
“Good Lord, what you birds want? You should be over there talking to Baker.”
“We were. Got anything to say, Dave?”
“What is there to say? Those babies hit everything we threw up to the plate. Hammy swung on a pitch that was six inches inside and knocked it into right for that single that scored their first run.”
“How ’bout Stansworth? Any chance of his playing? Are you satisfied with West?”
“I gotta be satisfied with him, haven’t I? Who’ve I got to take his place? Lost my relief catcher last month, and then Babe Stansworth splits his thumb wide open last week. You can’t expect a man to catch when he has a split down the side of his bare thumb, can you?” The usually mild Dave glared at the questioner. He was tired and discouraged and in all the crowd he was the one who couldn’t show discouragement.
“Care to name your starter tomorrow?”
“What’s that? Nope, I dunno who’ll pitch tomorrow’s game. Your guess is as good as mine.” He turned his back and threw wet clothes to the bench. In a minute he left them and went to the showers. The reporters came into the big room and mingled among the players, now recovering and starting to talk.
“Whatsa matter, Razzle? Tired out from three innings?”
“Nope. Not now.” The big fellow uncoiled his long legs. “I just didn’t have my stuff today. My curve ball hung there and I couldn’t get my fast one by ’em. They hit everything I threw up.”
“Say...was Miller using a lot of trick stuff, Swanny?” asked Casey, a pencil and a pad in his hand.
“Trick stuff! With that four run lead. Why, he could ha’ thrown anything.”
“You sure can’t win if you don’t hit and score runs,” said someone across the room.
“Shoot,” came back the answer. “We never once got a break. Those Indians had all the breaks. Tomorrow they’ll need ’em and they won’t get ’em. Wait and see.”
“Jes’ so Miller don’t pitch tomorrow, that’s all I ask,”
Similar Books
