retorted Case.
“Yeah. He sure pitched a darn fine game. But what in blazes, we’ve only made eight hits the last two games. We’re better’n that. We’re due for a change.”
“Say, I don’t mind going hitless myself so long as we can win.”
“Well, we won the hard way all season. We came from behind to grab off the pennant; we’ll pull out the Series, wait and see.”
“Anyhow, you’ll split eighty-two thousand. That’s the take they gave out this afternoon for the first four games,” said Casey. “And eighty-two thousand isn’t hay.”
A chorus of rebuffs rose all over the room.
“I wanna win.”
“So do I.”
“Me, too.”
“That’s right. We gotta win this-here Series. We haven’t played our game yet, least except that first one.”
“Yessir, we’re better than anything we showed so far.”
Roy said nothing. He pulled off his wet clothes, tired, unhappy. Bong-bong-bong-bong went the bell in his head. So tense had he been he’d hardly noticed it out there in the field. He noticed it now, all right. Climbing out of his sticky undershirt he went across into the soothing warmth of the showers. The hot spray beat on his aching legs and back. Ah...that was something like. No shouts, yells, or laughter came across the partitions. The others too were beaten and exhausted. Funny, he thought to himself, how much more tired a man is when he’s played in a losing game.
Slowly he put on his clothes. After finishing he went over to Chiselbeak and handed him the key to his locker in the valuables trunk. Recovering his watch and money he went toward the door. There was a notice on the bulletin board:
THE TEAM WILL REPORT AT SUITE 977 IN THE HOTEL CLEVELAND TONIGHT AT SIX THIRTY. THIS MEANS THE WHOLE SQUAD.
A bawling-out. Dave was going to tell them off for their playing. Well, they certainly had it coming.
6
T HE BIG BUS with the words BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB over the driver in front drew up at the hotel. A small crowd immediately collected on the sidewalk, making an open path through which the players had to pass into the lobby. It was a home-town crowd and therefore apathetic because they were waiting for their heroes, the Indians. The Kid heard one or two remark in disappointed tones, “It’s only the Dodgers.” A few picked out Razzle, conspicuously elegant in his green suit, and big Babe Stansworth with his thumb bound up in plaster and tape.
The lobby was jammed as usual. He went to the newsstand, bought several papers, and took the elevator to his room, listening to the comments in the crowded car. “Yeah, they’re all washed up now.” “The National League never was a first class league, not since...” “Why, Leonard had horseshoes to win the pennant with that bunch of boys.” He stopped at his floor, glad to escape. Harry Street with whom he roomed on the road was already there counting his laundry.
“Nuts! They didn’t send back my blue shirt.” He picked up the telephone. “Hey there, sweetmeat, gimme room service.”
Tired, discouraged, the Kid sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes. When a team lost it sure made a man feel tired. You were tired all right when you won, but not the same way. No, not the same way. He picked up the Series program which happened to be on the night stand beside the bed. Leaning back, he arranged the pillow and thumbed over the pages. How old was that bird Miller, anyhow? He came to his own photograph, and for the first time read the lines underneath the picture.
Roy (Kid) Tucker
Outfielder. A manager’s dream. Great competitor, great fellow. Started back in 1939 as a pitcher with the Dodgers, hurt his arm, and like Johnny Cooney of the Braves made himself into an outfielder. Was a substitute last season until Tommy Scudder was traded to the Phillies for Elmer McCaffrey. Bats left. Throws right. Unmarried. Lives in Tomkinsville, Connecticut. Nickname: Bad News.
He threw the program on the floor. He hadn’t been bad news for
“Yeah. He sure pitched a darn fine game. But what in blazes, we’ve only made eight hits the last two games. We’re better’n that. We’re due for a change.”
“Say, I don’t mind going hitless myself so long as we can win.”
“Well, we won the hard way all season. We came from behind to grab off the pennant; we’ll pull out the Series, wait and see.”
“Anyhow, you’ll split eighty-two thousand. That’s the take they gave out this afternoon for the first four games,” said Casey. “And eighty-two thousand isn’t hay.”
A chorus of rebuffs rose all over the room.
“I wanna win.”
“So do I.”
“Me, too.”
“That’s right. We gotta win this-here Series. We haven’t played our game yet, least except that first one.”
“Yessir, we’re better than anything we showed so far.”
Roy said nothing. He pulled off his wet clothes, tired, unhappy. Bong-bong-bong-bong went the bell in his head. So tense had he been he’d hardly noticed it out there in the field. He noticed it now, all right. Climbing out of his sticky undershirt he went across into the soothing warmth of the showers. The hot spray beat on his aching legs and back. Ah...that was something like. No shouts, yells, or laughter came across the partitions. The others too were beaten and exhausted. Funny, he thought to himself, how much more tired a man is when he’s played in a losing game.
Slowly he put on his clothes. After finishing he went over to Chiselbeak and handed him the key to his locker in the valuables trunk. Recovering his watch and money he went toward the door. There was a notice on the bulletin board:
THE TEAM WILL REPORT AT SUITE 977 IN THE HOTEL CLEVELAND TONIGHT AT SIX THIRTY. THIS MEANS THE WHOLE SQUAD.
A bawling-out. Dave was going to tell them off for their playing. Well, they certainly had it coming.
6
T HE BIG BUS with the words BROOKLYN BASEBALL CLUB over the driver in front drew up at the hotel. A small crowd immediately collected on the sidewalk, making an open path through which the players had to pass into the lobby. It was a home-town crowd and therefore apathetic because they were waiting for their heroes, the Indians. The Kid heard one or two remark in disappointed tones, “It’s only the Dodgers.” A few picked out Razzle, conspicuously elegant in his green suit, and big Babe Stansworth with his thumb bound up in plaster and tape.
The lobby was jammed as usual. He went to the newsstand, bought several papers, and took the elevator to his room, listening to the comments in the crowded car. “Yeah, they’re all washed up now.” “The National League never was a first class league, not since...” “Why, Leonard had horseshoes to win the pennant with that bunch of boys.” He stopped at his floor, glad to escape. Harry Street with whom he roomed on the road was already there counting his laundry.
“Nuts! They didn’t send back my blue shirt.” He picked up the telephone. “Hey there, sweetmeat, gimme room service.”
Tired, discouraged, the Kid sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes. When a team lost it sure made a man feel tired. You were tired all right when you won, but not the same way. No, not the same way. He picked up the Series program which happened to be on the night stand beside the bed. Leaning back, he arranged the pillow and thumbed over the pages. How old was that bird Miller, anyhow? He came to his own photograph, and for the first time read the lines underneath the picture.
Roy (Kid) Tucker
Outfielder. A manager’s dream. Great competitor, great fellow. Started back in 1939 as a pitcher with the Dodgers, hurt his arm, and like Johnny Cooney of the Braves made himself into an outfielder. Was a substitute last season until Tommy Scudder was traded to the Phillies for Elmer McCaffrey. Bats left. Throws right. Unmarried. Lives in Tomkinsville, Connecticut. Nickname: Bad News.
He threw the program on the floor. He hadn’t been bad news for
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