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Authors: John R. Tunis
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the trouble immediately. Bob climbed up on the table and the Doc started gingerly to work. Soon the place was empty, save for Chiselbeak, the locker-room man, moving around and straightening things out after the players. He was talking to someone.
“Yeah, them lads is good. They’re both good. If they don’t make it with this bunch, they’ll make it somewhere else.”
“They’d make it here all right if they were handled properly.” From behind the curtain Bob recognized the voice of Hanson, the club secretary.
“They’ve been trained right. You’ll hear how important a big league manager is; what I always say, it’s a manager in the minors who’s important.”
Boy, you’re certainly correct, thought Bob, only half paying attention as he relaxed under the comfortable glow of the infra-red lamp on his sore muscles. Chisel, you’ve got something there; you really know your baseball. Then Hanson’s tone or his words suddenly made him pay attention closely.
“You said it, Chiselbeak. If they don’t get their fundamentals in baseball down there, they don’t ever get ’em up here. Why, anyone ought to be able to manage those two kids. This Baldwin can hit. He’s a free swinger, have you noticed? He holds his bat loose and away from his chest. And Hathaway’s a real pitcher. I see where a guy in the paper this morning calls him the rookie of the year.”
“I seen that. Wouldn’t surprise me none, an’ I been around plenty.”
“You and me both, Chisel. We been with this club a long while. Now you take me. I’ve been on the inside of major league ball for almost fifteen years. So what? So that hothead Jack MacManus goes haywire and makes this kid manager who’s only been three seasons or less in the majors.”
“Well, Bill, you know how Jack is....”
“Yeah, he goes off half-cocked more often than not. Well, you and me, Chisel, we’re old timers round here. Then this kid, this johnny-come-lately gets to be made manager. That’s how things are. ’Course I’m only talking to you, Chisel, y’unnerstand.”
“Oh, sure, I getcha, Bill.”
“Well, I’d better get out there. He’s gotta win this one today; he’s on the spot this afternoon. He’d better win this one.”
Hanson’s voice died away and his footsteps sounded outside the room. Chisel continued hanging up clothes, opening and shutting lockers.
Bob sat up. “Thanks, Doc. That feels much better. I’m glad I slipped in and let ya work on it, mighty glad.”
11
S PIKE LAY THERE YAWNING, his hands behind his head. The room was hot even at eight-thirty in the morning, betokening another steaming afternoon at Forbes Field. In the other bed Bob snorted and turned over. That boy, he can sleep all day and all night. Give him a chance and he’d just never wake up at all. It’s different when you’re running the team; when you’re the manager and responsible for things; when you’ve got everything on your neck. You wake up then fast enough. You wake up in the middle of the night and you can’t get back to sleep for thinking of this and that; or you wake up before daylight and lie there wondering who to pitch that day, or why you didn’t pull off the hit-and-run in an important moment the afternoon before. You go all over the things you must do, and think of all your problems. You got plenty of ’em, for you have twenty-four ballplayers and every single man is a problem and a new one. You get rid of one problem; you imagine you’re all set, and then bang! Up comes a different problem. A pitcher like this boy Hathaway who’s temperamental. Wouldn’t you think these kids would realize what a chance they have and tend to business!
Well, that’s how things are; one problem after another. When you get up there in second or third, when nerves become tighter as the season gets longer, the problems multiply. Still and all, we’ve done pretty well, if we lick these birds today, we’ll go home tied for second. That’s all right;
“Yeah, them lads is good. They’re both good. If they don’t make it with this bunch, they’ll make it somewhere else.”
“They’d make it here all right if they were handled properly.” From behind the curtain Bob recognized the voice of Hanson, the club secretary.
“They’ve been trained right. You’ll hear how important a big league manager is; what I always say, it’s a manager in the minors who’s important.”
Boy, you’re certainly correct, thought Bob, only half paying attention as he relaxed under the comfortable glow of the infra-red lamp on his sore muscles. Chisel, you’ve got something there; you really know your baseball. Then Hanson’s tone or his words suddenly made him pay attention closely.
“You said it, Chiselbeak. If they don’t get their fundamentals in baseball down there, they don’t ever get ’em up here. Why, anyone ought to be able to manage those two kids. This Baldwin can hit. He’s a free swinger, have you noticed? He holds his bat loose and away from his chest. And Hathaway’s a real pitcher. I see where a guy in the paper this morning calls him the rookie of the year.”
“I seen that. Wouldn’t surprise me none, an’ I been around plenty.”
“You and me both, Chisel. We been with this club a long while. Now you take me. I’ve been on the inside of major league ball for almost fifteen years. So what? So that hothead Jack MacManus goes haywire and makes this kid manager who’s only been three seasons or less in the majors.”
“Well, Bill, you know how Jack is....”
“Yeah, he goes off half-cocked more often than not. Well, you and me, Chisel, we’re old timers round here. Then this kid, this johnny-come-lately gets to be made manager. That’s how things are. ’Course I’m only talking to you, Chisel, y’unnerstand.”
“Oh, sure, I getcha, Bill.”
“Well, I’d better get out there. He’s gotta win this one today; he’s on the spot this afternoon. He’d better win this one.”
Hanson’s voice died away and his footsteps sounded outside the room. Chisel continued hanging up clothes, opening and shutting lockers.
Bob sat up. “Thanks, Doc. That feels much better. I’m glad I slipped in and let ya work on it, mighty glad.”
11
S PIKE LAY THERE YAWNING, his hands behind his head. The room was hot even at eight-thirty in the morning, betokening another steaming afternoon at Forbes Field. In the other bed Bob snorted and turned over. That boy, he can sleep all day and all night. Give him a chance and he’d just never wake up at all. It’s different when you’re running the team; when you’re the manager and responsible for things; when you’ve got everything on your neck. You wake up then fast enough. You wake up in the middle of the night and you can’t get back to sleep for thinking of this and that; or you wake up before daylight and lie there wondering who to pitch that day, or why you didn’t pull off the hit-and-run in an important moment the afternoon before. You go all over the things you must do, and think of all your problems. You got plenty of ’em, for you have twenty-four ballplayers and every single man is a problem and a new one. You get rid of one problem; you imagine you’re all set, and then bang! Up comes a different problem. A pitcher like this boy Hathaway who’s temperamental. Wouldn’t you think these kids would realize what a chance they have and tend to business!
Well, that’s how things are; one problem after another. When you get up there in second or third, when nerves become tighter as the season gets longer, the problems multiply. Still and all, we’ve done pretty well, if we lick these birds today, we’ll go home tied for second. That’s all right;
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