Read Online Rookie of the Year by John R. Tunis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John R. Tunis
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that’s as good as could be expected; that’s better than all right when you consider we were in sixth place when I took hold in July. Why, we could even beat those Redbirds. I mean, we gotta chance.
His brother stirred. Spike realized he had been muttering out loud. He jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom to shave. I must be going nuts, he thought, talking to myself like that!
That afternoon, in their last game on the western trip, the team threw away a golden chance. The Cubs were leading the Cards, and the Dodgers, watching the scoreboard, started to press. They wanted to win too badly. They made errors. Rog Stinson had one of the bad days that come to even the most experienced hurlers; a day when nothing went right, when he hadn’t a thing on the ball. In the second the Pirates scored three runs, filled the bases, and knocked him from the box. Spike was obliged to call on Elmer McCaffrey, who was lucky to put out the fire. This upset the pitching schedule, because he had counted on using McCaffrey in the doubleheader against the Giants the next afternoon in New York.
McCaffrey was in one serious difficulty after another, but partly through his own skill, partly because of the fine defense of the Dodger infield he sneaked out of every hole. Yet the team looked bad. In the seventh the Pirates loaded the bases again and got two more runs. The Cubs had scored four runs off a Card pitcher and knocked him from the box, so neither team seemed likely to lose ground to the leaders that afternoon.
Now then, thought Spike as they came in to the dugout, it’s the ninth and we’re five runs behind. But I’m not giving up yet, no siree; I’m not giving up. By golly, I’ll never give up on this club; nothing is impossible with this gang. Nothing.
“Uncross those bats, boy, uncross those bats there.” The noise ran up and down the bench; Razzle’s bark and Bob’s shrill-voiced pepper and Swanny’s deep-throated roar and Roy Tucker’s chatter.
“C’mon, gang, le’s get us some runs. Five runs! We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”
Jocko Klein, the first batter, hit a slow, bounding roller to the left of the pitcher and tore for first.
“Hurry, Jock! Get the lead outa yer pants! Hustle, kid... looka him go....”
He was safe. The Pirates protested but he was safe. McCaffrey was at bat, and the veteran pitcher was a good hitter. He waited for a full count, and then a shout rose from the bench as the man in the box lost him. It was evident the Dodgers weren’t the only ones to feel the coming of September in their tired bones.
“Whitehouse, number 18, running for McCaffrey.” Swanny next forced Klein at third on a bunt that was too deep. Shucks! One out and men still at first and second. Now then, Red, old kid, you can do it. Pick us up; you’ve picked us up more than once in a pinch like this. We sure need a hit; get us a hit and keep us going.
The veteran first baseman waited for the full count and then leaned into one and drove it hard to right center. He was perched on second and two runs were over when the ball got back to the infield.
Here’s Tuck! Roy Tucker came to the plate, the crowd yelling. Spike watched him as he touched all four corners of the platter for luck. One out, a man on second, and the enemy bullpen swinging furiously into action. You could never tell when the Dodgers were beaten; this might be a ballgame after all.
Roy swung off his heels and missed. The next pitch was low, inside. The hands of the umpire went to the left.
“Ball one.”
Then another ball. Then the center fielder laid down a perfect bunt, in the ideal spot halfway between the plate and third. The pitcher raced over, so did the third baseman, who charged in, got to the ball first, and threw.
If they catch that boy they’ll hustle, thought Spike. If they nip him they’ll move fast; Roy’s a speed merchant... safe! He’s safe!
An angry crowd of Pittsburgh players surrounded the umpire at first.
His brother stirred. Spike realized he had been muttering out loud. He jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom to shave. I must be going nuts, he thought, talking to myself like that!
That afternoon, in their last game on the western trip, the team threw away a golden chance. The Cubs were leading the Cards, and the Dodgers, watching the scoreboard, started to press. They wanted to win too badly. They made errors. Rog Stinson had one of the bad days that come to even the most experienced hurlers; a day when nothing went right, when he hadn’t a thing on the ball. In the second the Pirates scored three runs, filled the bases, and knocked him from the box. Spike was obliged to call on Elmer McCaffrey, who was lucky to put out the fire. This upset the pitching schedule, because he had counted on using McCaffrey in the doubleheader against the Giants the next afternoon in New York.
McCaffrey was in one serious difficulty after another, but partly through his own skill, partly because of the fine defense of the Dodger infield he sneaked out of every hole. Yet the team looked bad. In the seventh the Pirates loaded the bases again and got two more runs. The Cubs had scored four runs off a Card pitcher and knocked him from the box, so neither team seemed likely to lose ground to the leaders that afternoon.
Now then, thought Spike as they came in to the dugout, it’s the ninth and we’re five runs behind. But I’m not giving up yet, no siree; I’m not giving up. By golly, I’ll never give up on this club; nothing is impossible with this gang. Nothing.
“Uncross those bats, boy, uncross those bats there.” The noise ran up and down the bench; Razzle’s bark and Bob’s shrill-voiced pepper and Swanny’s deep-throated roar and Roy Tucker’s chatter.
“C’mon, gang, le’s get us some runs. Five runs! We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”
Jocko Klein, the first batter, hit a slow, bounding roller to the left of the pitcher and tore for first.
“Hurry, Jock! Get the lead outa yer pants! Hustle, kid... looka him go....”
He was safe. The Pirates protested but he was safe. McCaffrey was at bat, and the veteran pitcher was a good hitter. He waited for a full count, and then a shout rose from the bench as the man in the box lost him. It was evident the Dodgers weren’t the only ones to feel the coming of September in their tired bones.
“Whitehouse, number 18, running for McCaffrey.” Swanny next forced Klein at third on a bunt that was too deep. Shucks! One out and men still at first and second. Now then, Red, old kid, you can do it. Pick us up; you’ve picked us up more than once in a pinch like this. We sure need a hit; get us a hit and keep us going.
The veteran first baseman waited for the full count and then leaned into one and drove it hard to right center. He was perched on second and two runs were over when the ball got back to the infield.
Here’s Tuck! Roy Tucker came to the plate, the crowd yelling. Spike watched him as he touched all four corners of the platter for luck. One out, a man on second, and the enemy bullpen swinging furiously into action. You could never tell when the Dodgers were beaten; this might be a ballgame after all.
Roy swung off his heels and missed. The next pitch was low, inside. The hands of the umpire went to the left.
“Ball one.”
Then another ball. Then the center fielder laid down a perfect bunt, in the ideal spot halfway between the plate and third. The pitcher raced over, so did the third baseman, who charged in, got to the ball first, and threw.
If they catch that boy they’ll hustle, thought Spike. If they nip him they’ll move fast; Roy’s a speed merchant... safe! He’s safe!
An angry crowd of Pittsburgh players surrounded the umpire at first.
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