Boys understand baseball; we’ll have something in common, he felt. Actually, Highpockets’ knowledge of metropolitan youth was confined mostly to the kids who pestered him for autographs, who lined up along the wire netting outside the runway from the dugout to the clubhouse at Ebbets Field, kids who knew the batting averages and records of every player on the club. They, and their counterparts in other cities of the league, were the kind of youngsters he pictured as American boys. To his amazement, Dean Kennedy was another type. Certainly if he was agitated at entertaining a man who had hit thirty homers, he failed to show it.
In fact, conversation between the ballplayer and the boy was not exactly spontaneous. The athlete sat on a stiff chair beside the bed. The kid lay motionless, his blue eyes fixed solemnly on his visitor, a sort of tent of bedclothes over his injured leg, which, so the nurses said, was healing nicely. They had already suggested to Highpockets that the patient might be home in a few days. After ascertaining that the youngster felt all right and had no pain or internal injuries, Highpockets launched into the only subject except farming that he himself knew well. That was his profession.
The American as against the National League, ever a favorite subject of discussion for sport fans, drew no comment whatever from the lad. The pennant race in the National, a red hot affair in which seven and a half games separated the tail-enders and leaders, failed to produce a spark. Even the chances of the Dodgers left the boy unmoved. Highpockets was working hard now, talking far more than ever he talked to the most pertinacious newshound. There was little response. The boy replied with a yes or no.
“Look,” Highpockets asked in despair, “who’s yer favorite team in the National?”
“I d’know.”
“Well, I mean, haven’t you got a favorite team? Mebbe you’re an American Leaguer?’
“Nope,” said the boy. He apparently wasn’t interested in either league.
“See here,” said the ballplayer, somewhat exasperated, “d’ you mean to tell me you aren’t a ball fan?”
The boy in the bed shook his mane of yellow hair. He seemed to feel no special regret for his ignorance, or shame because he lived in Brooklyn and had no affection for the Dodgers. Highpockets was rocked. He had heard of such youngsters, and he presumed there must be some kids who didn’t really care for big league baseball; but he had never met them. He was astonished and a little upset, too. Pursued by boys and girls through every hotel lobby in every town in the circuit, assaulted as he left every ballpark by a bevy of kids with pencils in their outstretched hands, he assumed all right-thinking American boys read the Sporting News and collected small cards several inches square with photographs of ballplayers and their names underneath.
C ECIL “H IGHPOCKETS ” M C D ADE
Right Field, Brooklyn, N.L.
To find one who didn’t, and in Brooklyn, of all places! For a minute he hardly knew how to proceed.
“You mean to tell me you aren’t interested in baseball? That’s strange. How come?”
“I d’know,” said the boy calmly. He wasn’t interested. That was that and he felt no shame about it.
The silence in the room lengthened. As a rule Highpockets enjoyed these pauses in conversation immensely. He liked them especially when he found himself cornered on the bench before the game, because these silences meant his tormentor was running out of stupid questions and getting near the end of the interview. This silence was different. Now he was on the receiving end, instead of the other way round.
A boy who doesn’t like baseball! Imagine that! Highpockets observed that the books and games he had carefully selected to be sent to the lad were piled up on a side table, apparently unopened and untouched. Even the life story of the new strike-out hero of the American League had failed to interest this unusual
In fact, conversation between the ballplayer and the boy was not exactly spontaneous. The athlete sat on a stiff chair beside the bed. The kid lay motionless, his blue eyes fixed solemnly on his visitor, a sort of tent of bedclothes over his injured leg, which, so the nurses said, was healing nicely. They had already suggested to Highpockets that the patient might be home in a few days. After ascertaining that the youngster felt all right and had no pain or internal injuries, Highpockets launched into the only subject except farming that he himself knew well. That was his profession.
The American as against the National League, ever a favorite subject of discussion for sport fans, drew no comment whatever from the lad. The pennant race in the National, a red hot affair in which seven and a half games separated the tail-enders and leaders, failed to produce a spark. Even the chances of the Dodgers left the boy unmoved. Highpockets was working hard now, talking far more than ever he talked to the most pertinacious newshound. There was little response. The boy replied with a yes or no.
“Look,” Highpockets asked in despair, “who’s yer favorite team in the National?”
“I d’know.”
“Well, I mean, haven’t you got a favorite team? Mebbe you’re an American Leaguer?’
“Nope,” said the boy. He apparently wasn’t interested in either league.
“See here,” said the ballplayer, somewhat exasperated, “d’ you mean to tell me you aren’t a ball fan?”
The boy in the bed shook his mane of yellow hair. He seemed to feel no special regret for his ignorance, or shame because he lived in Brooklyn and had no affection for the Dodgers. Highpockets was rocked. He had heard of such youngsters, and he presumed there must be some kids who didn’t really care for big league baseball; but he had never met them. He was astonished and a little upset, too. Pursued by boys and girls through every hotel lobby in every town in the circuit, assaulted as he left every ballpark by a bevy of kids with pencils in their outstretched hands, he assumed all right-thinking American boys read the Sporting News and collected small cards several inches square with photographs of ballplayers and their names underneath.
C ECIL “H IGHPOCKETS ” M C D ADE
Right Field, Brooklyn, N.L.
To find one who didn’t, and in Brooklyn, of all places! For a minute he hardly knew how to proceed.
“You mean to tell me you aren’t interested in baseball? That’s strange. How come?”
“I d’know,” said the boy calmly. He wasn’t interested. That was that and he felt no shame about it.
The silence in the room lengthened. As a rule Highpockets enjoyed these pauses in conversation immensely. He liked them especially when he found himself cornered on the bench before the game, because these silences meant his tormentor was running out of stupid questions and getting near the end of the interview. This silence was different. Now he was on the receiving end, instead of the other way round.
A boy who doesn’t like baseball! Imagine that! Highpockets observed that the books and games he had carefully selected to be sent to the lad were piled up on a side table, apparently unopened and untouched. Even the life story of the new strike-out hero of the American League had failed to interest this unusual
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