Rookie of the Year

Rookie of the Year

John R. Tunis

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1

THE SUN ON THE back of Spike’s neck burned hotter than ever as he pawed restlessly at the dirt in the basepath and, leaning over, picked up a pebble nervously and tossed it behind him. Hands on knees, he glanced over his left shoulder at the row of goose eggs on the scoreboard. This was the thing that made being a manager no fun. One of the things. You gamble on a kid pitcher in a tight spot. If he wins, he’s a hero; if he loses, it’s your fault.

Lots depending on that game, too. Not just beating the Cards, not trampling on the league leaders; but much more, the confidence necessary to make a rookie a regular, to give him the stuff to go on to other triumphs. Most of all, it meant the unity of the club, the team that was moving at last and only needed this victory to prove it to themselves. There they were, locked in a pitchers’ battle, a scoreless tie going into the ninth, with no one out, two men on bases and the boy in the box showing signs of weakening for the first time.

Take him out or let him ride? This was surely one moment when being a manager wasn’t fun.

Alla time, Bones, alla time, Bonesy-boy... From Spike’s left came the sharp, shrill cry of his brother on second, and around and behind him familiar tones shouted reassuringly. It was a bad moment for the young pitcher, supported as he was by a rookie catcher. So much could happen and so quickly; one mistake in judgment, one ball where the hitter wanted it and bang! There goes the ballgame!

Bones Hathaway, the star rookie, straightened out the pitching holes before the rubber, shook off his catcher nonchalantly and, finally nodding, checked the men on bases, and threw. A roar went up over the field. The batter turned, tossed away his bat, and started down toward first. The bases were filled and the next Card batter stalked briskly up to the plate. Spike, the young manager at shortstop, instantly realized the necessity for delaying things, for upsetting the batter’s tempo and saying a word to his pitcher. From the corner of his eye he saw Rats Doyle and old Fat Stuff, his relief pitchers, working furiously in the bullpen. Yet the boy stood off the rubber, calmly rubbing up the ball with his bare hands as if it were a practice game in Florida.

When a manager goes out to the pitcher in a tight game, he’s usually playing for time, and invariably asks the same questions. How you feel? How’s the arm?

But Spike really wanted to know how the boy’s finger was holding up. Early in the year this kid, who had come up from the minor leagues with a good record, had injured a finger on his pitching hand and lost the nail. That kept him out of play for weeks, and this was the first game he had pitched since that injury.

Your finger O.K.? Lemme see. Spike inspected the boy’s finger. Any pain? All right, we’ll get this one for you. He walked slowly back to his place. I’m gonna stay with him, he decided. I’m gonna stay with him. I believe the kid has what it takes.

Undisturbed by the noise round the park, the boy stood motionless on the mound. He checked the runners, took the sign from the catcher, and shook his head. The crouching man behind the plate gave another signal; again the youngster in the box shook him off. Finally the catcher stood up. He came out to the mound and said something to his pitcher. Then he turned and came back again to the plate, while the runners danced off bases, the coaches yelled through cupped hands, and the crowd above roared.

Hang it all, Bonesy, throw him your hook, Spike thought. That baby is tough for a catcher to handle, no mistake. He’s good, he knows he’s good, but he wants his own way. And he can’t be any fun to catch, either.

The batter swung on the first pitch. It was a comforting pop-up foul near first. Here’s one of them anyway; there’s a dead pigeon, thought Spike, as he watched the ball descend into Red Allen’s mitt. That guy is sound; he’s sure something to have around out there. Now for number two. I’m gonna stay with this kid.

The batter came to the plate, tapped it with his bat, touched his cap, glanced at his manager behind third for the hit or take sign. Would he bunt or hit away? The Dodgers were expecting a squeeze play, and as the arm of the pitcher went up Red Allen and Harry Street charged in from first and third. But the batter crossed them beautifully, hitting out and drilling a grasscutter past Red’s outstretched glove.

From his place at second Spike watched anxiously as his brother Bob, the second baseman, dived for it, speared it, and pivoted all in one motion. Tense as he was, with the baserunner crashing down on him, he was stunned with admiration for the ease with which Bob made the play. No one else in the League could have pivoted that way or made that stop. The ball came to him low but hard; the man was out. One run was over, but there were two down.

He spit into his glove, leaned over and tossed some dirt behind him. Well, I was right to stick with this kid; he’s a cool customer. What’s more, he has a three-hitter now, and he deserves to win no matter what happens.

The batter waited while the boy on the mound arranged the dirt before the rubber, smoothed up the ball, looked round the bases, and did all the things a pitcher does in a tight place. It made the man at the plate nervous. He stepped from the batter’s box, knocked the dirt from his spikes, and finally resumed his stance. From across the diamond came the confident chatter of the team behind their rookie hurler.

Alla time, Bones. Alla time... Let him see it, Bonesy-boy, let him see your fast one....

Still throwing curves, the youngster, bearing down and coolly confident with two out, was soon ahead at two and one. At two and two the man hit. It was a blooper back of third. Spike started with the sound of the bat.

Mine... mine... mine, Harry... He had the angle, he had it, he caught it for the final out. Now they were running in together for the last of the ninth, one run behind.

Everyone was moving around the dugout, far too nervous to sit still; Swanny reaching for a towel to wipe his hands, Jocko Klein going over to the bat rack for his war club, Roy Tucker stepping up to the water-cooler. No one could sit quietly. They were standing, holding to the roof of the dugout, or kneeling on the step, or weaving in and out, talking to each other.

Now, Jocko, put us back in there, kid.... Hey, Swanny, save me a rap.... C’mon, gang, le’s go; le’s get us some runs....

Spike heard the roar of the stands above. The crowds had been riding this rookie catcher until lately, and he wasn’t sure what those cries above meant. He put one arm over the damp, heaving shoulder of his catcher.

Never mind those wolves, Jocko. Never mind those wolves up there. You’re my catcher. Go get us a hit. The dark-eyed boy nodded and stepped from the dugout to that trip to the plate.

He hit hard on the first pitch, a blow that had authority behind it, a blow that brought the whole dugout to the steps. But the Card center fielder, racing back, made a beautiful running catch over his left shoulder. Klein had rounded first and was well down toward second base when the fielder grabbed the ball off the fence.

Shoot! Shoot! Five feet one way or the other, and that would have been a ticket for third base. Hard luck, Jocko; tha’s hard luck; tha’s really tough, kid. Now, Alan, keep us alive. Keep us alive in there.

Alan Whitehouse, a pinch hitter, responded by getting a clean single into right field. Immediately activity began out in the Cardinal bullpen. The Cards wanted the game, too. Swanson waited a couple of pitches and then hit a furious drive down the right field foul line, directly into the first baseman’s mitt. Shucks, how’s that for luck! Two blows that would both have been good for extra bases. If only that big boy hadn’t been covering, Swanny would have made second standing up. Shoot, we can’t seem to win anyhow!

Two out and a man on first. The activity in the St. Louis bullpen died away; quiet descended on the stands. But Red Allen was always a dangerous man, and the pitcher finally lost him. He trotted down to first and Roy Tucker, another bad actor with his bat, came to the plate.

Spike watched anxiously from the dugout step. We can do it; doggone, we can do it, we can still do it.

The pitcher was keeping the ball low, throwing to Roy’s weakness. On the third pitch, the man at the plate dribbled a short, slow grounder toward short. He was off like a flash and so were the other two men on the bases. The throw was late, and now the bags were full.

Clyde Baldwin, a novice fielder, strode up. Two out, the bases full, and a freshman at bat! In the bullpen in deep left the St. Louis pitcher burned in a couple of last minute throws, and then came striding swiftly across the grass. The noise was tremendous now, the fans were all on their feet, so was the whole Brooklyn dugout. Even old Chiselbeak, who usually listened to the game over the Doc’s radio in the lockers, was out there with a towel over his shoulders, calling for a hit, pleading with Clyde at the plate.

The Card third baseman came over and handed the ball to the incoming hurler. He stepped to the rubber, threw in a few warm-up pitches, and nodded to his manager. The three white-clad runners stood poised on base, the tying run on third, the winning run on second. Clyde tapped the platter twice, significantly. The Card shortstop turned, looked at the fielders, and waved them back. He knew Clyde as a long-ball hitter. When he leaned his hundred and eighty pounds behind a ball, it traveled.

The man in the box went carefully to work. The first pitch was low. Ball one. The crowd yelled. Clyde fouled the second into the stands. The third was low again. More shouts from the crowd. Only 180 feet from the plate, 180 feet from victory now; the winning run was perched there out on second base.

C’mon, Clyde, c’mon, kid. Le’s have the old stuff. The big one left, boy, the big one left, shouted Bob at Spike’s elbow. The entire dugout was yelling; no one heard, no one listened, the uproar around the field was continuous, the mob on its feet yelling for a run. Over the fence, Clyde, park one out there, they shrieked, while the pitcher, trying to take his time, stood astride the rubber taking the sign. He looked around the bases. Then he threw.

The pitch was low, just where Clyde wanted it, and he dumped a perfect bunt along the line and about a quarter of the way toward third, equidistant from the catcher, the pitcher, and the man covering the bag; the bunt, the smallest play in baseball, yet often the winning play.

Back deep on the grass the third baseman, caught by surprise, looked over at the pitcher and watched the ball trickle along. Right in that spot a bunt was the last thing he expected. It