majority of the team trooped into the clubhouse to change wet shirts, rest a minute, and enjoy a coke sitting on the benches before their lockers. Near Spike a salesman was trying hard to sell the rookie, Baldwin, a fancy pair of sun glasses. One of the things that had most astonished Spike and Bob when they first came up into the majors was the number of people who hang around a team making money from the ballplayers. There were the merchants who made you a tailor-cut suit, the real silk hosiery people, the life insurance salesmen, the automobile salesmen, the man in each city who could get things for you cheaper than in any other town, no matter what it was you wanted. By this time the sun glass merchant was almost an old acquaintance.
“Now these green ones here, Mr. Baldwin, the ones you have in your right hand, they are specially ground. They’re for general all-round use. We call them the every-day pair. Then these polaroid glasses are for an afternoon of blinding glare, when the sun’s particularly strong. All the stars use ’em. And the yellow glasses are for a fielder, now, like picking a fly ball out of a blue sky. You know how ’tis, one miss and there you are, there goes your ballgame!
The same line, the same tune, same words he used on all the rookies. Then Razzle’s loud voice across the room broke into the salesman’s chatter. Raz was taking off his shirt and putting on a dry one, entertaining an admiring audience the while.
“... So Rats, he takes one bite, puts down the tools, and calls the waiter over. ‘I ordered breaded veal cutlet. Is this-here breaded veal cutlet?’ The waiter looked at the plate, then he looked at Rats. ‘Can’t you tell by the taste of it?’ he says. ‘No, I can’t,’ says Rats. ‘Well then, what difference does it make?’ ”
A burst of laughter greeted this. The team’s looser than when we were in St. Loo, thought Spike. Thank goodness, that tight feeling has gone. They’re really loose today; they’ll play ball this afternoon, I know.
Then Rats’ loud voice could be heard from his corner. “Yeah, an’ I remember when Raz and me was breaking in on the Waterloo team of the Three-Eye League. One day he ordered apple pie. ‘Yes, sir,’ says the waitress. ‘A la mode?’ Raz, he thought it over. Then he cracks: ‘Nope, never mind. Just put some ice cream on it!’ ”
Laughter again. The laughter sounded pleasant in the ears of the manager. Then the voice of the astonished rookie behind came to his ears. “Six bucks! Six bucks for a pair of sun glasses! Why, I usta get ’em at the Five and Ten!”
“Talk about eats!” Old Fat Stuffs voice was low, but when he spoke everyone on the club listened with respect. “Years ago, when I made my first trip as a rookie with the Giants, we came north doing our tour with the Yanks, and Babe Ruth was along, his last season. Boy, could he stow the food away! When he got through with a roast chicken, it looked like an old catcher’s mask.”
The boys started to go out. Razzle’s voice could be heard long after its owner had disappeared. “... I was playing then with Hartford in the Eastern... boy by the name o’ Wright... always had a wad of gum on the button of his cap, and if two strikes were called on him at the plate he’d take that wad off and chew it like hell. You’da died laughing the day we sprinkled it with red pepper... he jumped like somebody give him a double hotfoot.”
Bob, almost the only player in the room, walked across to the rubbing table, hidden by a curtain at the side, for a last minute rubdown by Doc Masters. Stealing second the previous day he had strained a muscle in his leg. He let down the trousers of his monkey suit, took off his sliding pads, and showed the sore spot to the Doc who felt it gently.
“Ya got about ten minutes, Doc, just a few minutes. If you’d give this the once-over, please.” The Doc leaned over and looked at it intently, his practiced fingers diagnosing
“Now these green ones here, Mr. Baldwin, the ones you have in your right hand, they are specially ground. They’re for general all-round use. We call them the every-day pair. Then these polaroid glasses are for an afternoon of blinding glare, when the sun’s particularly strong. All the stars use ’em. And the yellow glasses are for a fielder, now, like picking a fly ball out of a blue sky. You know how ’tis, one miss and there you are, there goes your ballgame!
The same line, the same tune, same words he used on all the rookies. Then Razzle’s loud voice across the room broke into the salesman’s chatter. Raz was taking off his shirt and putting on a dry one, entertaining an admiring audience the while.
“... So Rats, he takes one bite, puts down the tools, and calls the waiter over. ‘I ordered breaded veal cutlet. Is this-here breaded veal cutlet?’ The waiter looked at the plate, then he looked at Rats. ‘Can’t you tell by the taste of it?’ he says. ‘No, I can’t,’ says Rats. ‘Well then, what difference does it make?’ ”
A burst of laughter greeted this. The team’s looser than when we were in St. Loo, thought Spike. Thank goodness, that tight feeling has gone. They’re really loose today; they’ll play ball this afternoon, I know.
Then Rats’ loud voice could be heard from his corner. “Yeah, an’ I remember when Raz and me was breaking in on the Waterloo team of the Three-Eye League. One day he ordered apple pie. ‘Yes, sir,’ says the waitress. ‘A la mode?’ Raz, he thought it over. Then he cracks: ‘Nope, never mind. Just put some ice cream on it!’ ”
Laughter again. The laughter sounded pleasant in the ears of the manager. Then the voice of the astonished rookie behind came to his ears. “Six bucks! Six bucks for a pair of sun glasses! Why, I usta get ’em at the Five and Ten!”
“Talk about eats!” Old Fat Stuffs voice was low, but when he spoke everyone on the club listened with respect. “Years ago, when I made my first trip as a rookie with the Giants, we came north doing our tour with the Yanks, and Babe Ruth was along, his last season. Boy, could he stow the food away! When he got through with a roast chicken, it looked like an old catcher’s mask.”
The boys started to go out. Razzle’s voice could be heard long after its owner had disappeared. “... I was playing then with Hartford in the Eastern... boy by the name o’ Wright... always had a wad of gum on the button of his cap, and if two strikes were called on him at the plate he’d take that wad off and chew it like hell. You’da died laughing the day we sprinkled it with red pepper... he jumped like somebody give him a double hotfoot.”
Bob, almost the only player in the room, walked across to the rubbing table, hidden by a curtain at the side, for a last minute rubdown by Doc Masters. Stealing second the previous day he had strained a muscle in his leg. He let down the trousers of his monkey suit, took off his sliding pads, and showed the sore spot to the Doc who felt it gently.
“Ya got about ten minutes, Doc, just a few minutes. If you’d give this the once-over, please.” The Doc leaned over and looked at it intently, his practiced fingers diagnosing
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