Rookie of the Year Read Free

getting fatter every day and running a club from the dugout. He does what he asks them to do; he’s out there giving everything he has, same as the others. That’s why they’ll take it from Spike.
    “Now we’ve got a vital three-game series with the Reds coming up. In my opinion, this Cincinnati team has no license to be ahead of us. They’re just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill ball-club. Their new center fielder, Hutchings, is a pull hitter; watch that, Harry. They’re not a fast club, so hurry them all you can. ’S I say, I want hustle and more hustle from every man on this team. They tell me when old John McGraw looked at a rookie he first asked him to run a hundred yards, then to bat, and last of all to throw. That’s how important he considered speed.” He hesitated a moment, and then started to name names.
    “Clyde, the other day on that single there of Marshall’s you didn’t really hustle, you didn’t give all you had, you didn’t run hard enough. I don’t want that to happen again....”
    “But, Spike, look-at,” protested the fielder. “Look-at, there wasn’t anyone on base at the time, and I fielded the ball clean on the third hop and held him to first. Didn’t I?”
    “Sure you did. You fielded it on the third hop instead of the second. If you’d run all out, you could easily have nabbed that ball on the second bounce. That might cost us a run some time, an important run; ever think of that? You’re in the big time now, Clyde; keep your thinker oiled up every minute. And hustle. That’s the chief fault, I b’lieve, in baseball — laxness in trying hard. Winning is the effect of nine men giving their best over a hundred and fifty-four games. In extra effort it means ten or fifteen games over the season. That’s what I want, a team that plays heads-up ball every second. Bones, you’re a good fielding pitcher; but you take too much for granted. Don’t push your luck too far; some time you’re gonna be sorry if you do. You other guys also. Now yesterday in the seventh, Swanny, you nabbed that foul out in deep right and the man scored from third. Nope... I’m not blaming you. I blame the boys in the bullpen ’cause nobody there called out. What’s the matter, Rats? What’s the matter with you and the rest of the boys in the bullpen? You’re all part of the team; why weren’t you hollering to Swanny on that play? Huh? Well... I guess that’s about all. For now. This isn’t any second division club, and I know if you’ll hustle for me the way you can, we’ll go places. Any questions?”
    Raz Nugent raised one hand. Razzle, the big, brash pitcher who thought nothing of sneaking into the enemy clubhouse and listening in at their meetings, was just as bad in his own quarters.
    “May I speak?” he asked politely.
    The young manager beamed. He liked to have the men take part in the meetings. “Go ahead, Raz.”
    Razzle uncoiled his six feet two inches, and shuffled awkwardly to the front of the room. He yanked a sheet of white paper covered with figures from his back pocket. The room sat up with interest. The paper was evidently a list of the Cincinnati hitters and their weaknesses. They waited for Raz’s comments, which they knew would be pungent, with interest.
    Raz was a show-off. He stood looking around, feeling his audience with him.
    “Now here’s something that really has me stumped, Spike.” He scratched his head, pushed his cap back on his brow, and glanced down at the paper in his hand. “The man at the garage soaked me $34.75 for fixing up my car the other day, and I think the bill is too darned high.”
    Spike gazed at him in stunned silence. Before he could intervene, a voice came from the group below. It was Rats Doyle, Raz’s roommate and also a jokester.
    “Naw... I don’t hardly think that’s overcharging, Razzle.”
    Raz nonchalantly shifted a huge lump of chewing tobacco in his mouth, and before he could adjust it to speak another voice chimed in.
    “What