Rookie of the Year Read Free Page A

did he fix, Raz?”
    “There’s a valve intake in the engine,” explained the big pitcher, “that had to be repaired. But doggone, he’s charging me for new parts, labor, and everything else ’cept the national debt. I think it’s too much.”
    Immediately everyone in the room started to talk. Half the club thought it too high, others felt it was about right. But everyone had an opinion. Spike stood there listening to the argument for a moment. Finally he jumped in, bellowing at the top of his lungs over the din.
    “QUIET! What the dickens has Raz’s busted auto got to do with our beating the Reds this afternoon?”
    Looking about the room, he perceived their grinning faces. Then a momentary feeling of annoyance surged upon him as he noticed in the rear the familiar red face of big Bill Hanson, the club secretary. Bill’s head was back, his huge frame shaking with laughter. Now Spike was angry at the older man. Hanson had no business snooping round at meetings for the team, and Spike started to say something. Then he suppressed his annoyance and decided to give Chiselbeak orders to keep Hanson out in the future. He collected himself, looked at the team, and being a smart manager, realized he was being taken for a mild sleighride. He threw his hands up.
    “Meeting dismissed.” He turned toward the door to the field amid a roar of laughter, shaking his head. Sure, they’d given him the bird, but just the same his heart was light. After all, they had as much right to ride him as Swanny or Rats or anyone else on the club. Wasn’t he one of them? Of course. He was there on the field, dishing it out to the other clubs, yes, and taking it, too, with the rest of the team. Therefore he ought to be able to take it like the others inside the clubhouse.
    He shook his head as they all clumped out the door, but secretly, in his heart of hearts, he was glad. Glad they felt they could ride him just the way they rode everyone else on the team.
    Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack, clackety-clack, they stomped out to the field, laughing, talking, loose and happy. Yet not a team to be taken lightly because of those shouts and laughter, either.

3
    O UT AROUND SECOND base, the pivot base, that’s the spot from which a ballclub can be sparked to life. Spike and Bob Russell, the Keystone Kids, were doing it, too, bringing fight and punch to the veterans flanking them, keeping everyone from getting sluggish. Age and youth, fire and experience; the combination was developing into a real infield, and the infield was fusing into a team. At first base was Red Allen, steady, dependable, always picking someone up with a brilliant stop or a catch of a wide throw. At second was Bob, a peppery wildcat through whom it was impossible to drive a ball; at third was Harry Street, a reliable veteran; at shortstop was Spike, hounding grounders like the lead dog in the sheriff’s pack. That hot afternoon in early August the club came into Philadelphia treading on the heels of the Cincinnati Reds in third place, raring to go.
    Spike could feel the looseness of his men by their gags and cracks as they warmed up around the dugout, while the home team took batting practice before the game. Familiar voices echoed about him. Over at one side three pitchers were warming up, Rats Doyle, young Hathaway, and old Fat Stuff Foster. Freddy Foster was too old to pitch often, so Spike seldom used him save for relief jobs or against the weaker clubs in the League. That afternoon he hoped to run him in, and stood there on the steps of the dugout watching the three men throw, wondering whether to spot his star youngster and make the game sure or save him for the tough Sunday doubleheader against the Cubs and take a chance with the veteran against the easier team. A decision hard to make; he put it off as long as possible. Guess right, and no one thinks anything about it; guess wrong, and you begin to lose the confidence of the management, the fans, and before