anyone save poor old Dave. Things looked tough for Dave unless they could pick up another game. Even so, MacManus would not likely bring him back the next season. MacManus had no use for losers. He strung along with winners. If only they could get another game. That was the reason for their meeting tonight; a good stiff fight talk and a change in the batting order. Maybe Dave would have to yank him from the line-up. He glanced at one of the newspapers full of pictures of the Cleveland players scoring runs, making catches in the field, running wild on the bases. Underneath he read the captions. Then he turned to Grantland Rice’s column.
“Good pitching will always beat good hitting, and the Indians have the pitchers.” Shoot, we haven’t been hitting. We haven’t hit like we can hit.
Another writer compared the two managers. Interested, the Kid looked over his remarks about Dave Leonard. “Leonard’s secret of success in running the Dodgers this season has been in not over-managering. He has a club composed mainly of former players with whom he buddied as a player. He understands that too much bossing would be resented. So he ups with a system that gives his men latitude without too much rein. This has developed initiative to a greater degree than any other major league club.”
“Here! Get a load of this.” Harry, sitting on the side of his bed, unfolded a newspaper. “Casey says, he says...here...about Lanahan. Lanahan plays ground balls now like a member of the married men’s team in an office field day. Ha, ha.” Casey could invariably be depended upon for a chuckle. He was always funny. About the other team, anyway. The telephone rang.
“I hope they located my blue shirt. I like that blue shirt.” Harry picked up the receiver. His newspaper fell to the bed and the Kid, leaning over, picked it up. He looked at Casey’s column.
“It’s the old pitch-punch show. As always, good pitching has the call. But the fact is the Dodgers are paralyzed. For the first time they’re up against something new; American League fast-ball pitching. Moreover, they’re dead on their feet. While the Indians coasted in to the pennant through September, the Dodgers had to fight right down to the last day of the season to outscuffle the Giants. The Dodger pitching staff is worn and weary. The Gowanus Gang is washed up.”
He felt his face redden. That wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all. Washed up! We are, are we? He read along. “The Dodgers one-two punch, with Babe Stansworth out, has failed miserably. Swanson has been a soft touch for all the Cleveland hurlers. Tucker is probably in worse shape from his beaning than anyone suspects. He gets dizzy out there in the sun and finds it difficult at times to hear out of his right ear.”
Yes, there it was! “...and finds it difficult to hear out of his right ear.”
“Hey, Harry! Just listen to this, Casey says I can’t hear out of my right ear. Where does he get that stuff?”
“Aw, that bird! Last May he said I was sick with the flu and wouldn’t be back in the line-up for two weeks. Gee, was I mad! My mother sent me the clipping from home. That same day I’d written her saying I was feeling fine and everything was dandy. She thought it was a lie and came hustling down to Chicago to find out. I like to paste Casey when I seen him in the dugout before the game that day.”
“Yeah, but saying I’m deaf in one ear. And suppose the Dodgers let me out? Suppose I get that pink slip one of these days? What then? What chance have I got with any other club? Who wants a deaf mute around? Say, who do you guess told him that?”
“Nobody. He just made it up.”
“Made it up?”
“Why, sure. He’s too busy playing poker and gobbling his laughing soup at night to chase round and check on all the rumors floating about.”
The Kid shook his head. He was sore and no mistake. Leaning back, he shook the paper and read on.
“In the eighth this afternoon Andy Painter
“Good pitching will always beat good hitting, and the Indians have the pitchers.” Shoot, we haven’t been hitting. We haven’t hit like we can hit.
Another writer compared the two managers. Interested, the Kid looked over his remarks about Dave Leonard. “Leonard’s secret of success in running the Dodgers this season has been in not over-managering. He has a club composed mainly of former players with whom he buddied as a player. He understands that too much bossing would be resented. So he ups with a system that gives his men latitude without too much rein. This has developed initiative to a greater degree than any other major league club.”
“Here! Get a load of this.” Harry, sitting on the side of his bed, unfolded a newspaper. “Casey says, he says...here...about Lanahan. Lanahan plays ground balls now like a member of the married men’s team in an office field day. Ha, ha.” Casey could invariably be depended upon for a chuckle. He was always funny. About the other team, anyway. The telephone rang.
“I hope they located my blue shirt. I like that blue shirt.” Harry picked up the receiver. His newspaper fell to the bed and the Kid, leaning over, picked it up. He looked at Casey’s column.
“It’s the old pitch-punch show. As always, good pitching has the call. But the fact is the Dodgers are paralyzed. For the first time they’re up against something new; American League fast-ball pitching. Moreover, they’re dead on their feet. While the Indians coasted in to the pennant through September, the Dodgers had to fight right down to the last day of the season to outscuffle the Giants. The Dodger pitching staff is worn and weary. The Gowanus Gang is washed up.”
He felt his face redden. That wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all. Washed up! We are, are we? He read along. “The Dodgers one-two punch, with Babe Stansworth out, has failed miserably. Swanson has been a soft touch for all the Cleveland hurlers. Tucker is probably in worse shape from his beaning than anyone suspects. He gets dizzy out there in the sun and finds it difficult at times to hear out of his right ear.”
Yes, there it was! “...and finds it difficult to hear out of his right ear.”
“Hey, Harry! Just listen to this, Casey says I can’t hear out of my right ear. Where does he get that stuff?”
“Aw, that bird! Last May he said I was sick with the flu and wouldn’t be back in the line-up for two weeks. Gee, was I mad! My mother sent me the clipping from home. That same day I’d written her saying I was feeling fine and everything was dandy. She thought it was a lie and came hustling down to Chicago to find out. I like to paste Casey when I seen him in the dugout before the game that day.”
“Yeah, but saying I’m deaf in one ear. And suppose the Dodgers let me out? Suppose I get that pink slip one of these days? What then? What chance have I got with any other club? Who wants a deaf mute around? Say, who do you guess told him that?”
“Nobody. He just made it up.”
“Made it up?”
“Why, sure. He’s too busy playing poker and gobbling his laughing soup at night to chase round and check on all the rumors floating about.”
The Kid shook his head. He was sore and no mistake. Leaning back, he shook the paper and read on.
“In the eighth this afternoon Andy Painter
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