Rookie of the Year Read Free Page B

long of your own men.
    He stood on the step, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Then he heard the voice of Charlie Draper, one of the coaches, talking to a Philadelphia sportswriter.
    “... Yessir, that kid really has what it takes. He’s a cool customer. Y’know, only the other day over at St. Loo, the Cards got three men on in the ninth, and Danaher comes up with two out. Jocko Klein gives Bonesy the sign for a fast ball. The kid shakes him off. So Jocko gives him the sign for a hook, and the boy shakes him off again. Jocko, he walks out to the box. ‘What’s the matter, young fella?’ he says. ‘Don’t you want to pitch?’ ”
    The reporter laughed. Suddenly he observed Spike standing alone on the dugout step, eyeing his pitchers in the act of warming up. The newshawk walked across. “Hullo, Spike, how’s tricks?”
    “Fine.” Spike kept his gaze on the three men throwing to the catchers. He always remembered what Grouchy Devine, the manager of the Volunteers when he and Bob had been in the Southern League, used to say. “When you don’t talk, you don’t never have to eat your own words.”
    “Say, this kid Hathaway looks good. He oughta beat some clubs in this League with that sinker.”
    “Yeah. He’s gonna help us plenty.”
    “That win over the Cards last week won’t hurt. I understand he pitched real ball.”
    “He’ll do better next time.”
    “He must have been hot the other day, though. The Cards were here the next afternoon; they said they couldn’t see his fast one.”
    “Yeah. Well, he’ll improve.”
    “Those Cards said his fast one has a mean hop to it.”
    “If all you can throw is fast balls, it’s murder,” said Spike succinctly.
    “Yeah? Oh, yeah, of course. But he’s got a hook, too, a major league curve, and a big time pitching delivery. But that fast ball... funny. I was just out there watching him. He’s not a big boy; why, he’s almost slender.”
    “Yes, but he’s got a good chest and he gets his shoulders behind the ball. See... see there....” Silence for a moment, while they stood side by side watching the youngster pour it in.
    “Uhuh. He breaks his stuff low.”
    Bill Hanson’s voice broke in. “He’ll be a swell pitcher all right, if only he’ll lay off the beer.”
    Spike turned. Hanson again! Now who asked him to give out with his two cents’ worth? The young manager had the soldier’s half-expressed contempt for the non-combatant. He turned his back on the club secretary and addressed the sportswriter directly.
    “Lemme tell you something. That kid’s arm went bad last year; he wasn’t even taken down to spring training camp. So whad’ he do? He goes to Montreal, played the outfield, developed into quite a pinch hitter in a short while, too. Was batting around two ninety. ‘I won’t quit,’ he told Buz Farrell up there. ‘Nope, I won’t quit baseball ’cause I love it. They may chuck me out; but I won’t quit.’ So Buz stayed with him, and after a while the boy tried pitching again. His arm came back and he won six straight games, so we called him down about a month ago from Montreal. First game he stopped a liner with his meat hand and lost the nail of one finger. That set him back quite some time, ’bout two-three weeks. But now he’s coming along. He’s a pitcher, now.”
    Spike Russell seldom talked as much as that to outsiders. For a moment he forgot he was addressing a sportswriter. Then he turned away as the umpires gathered around home plate.
    Ten minutes later he was sitting beside Fat Stuff while the Dodgers were taking their raps. Whenever possible the young manager sat beside his old hurler, never failing to learn something valuable. The old timer had a knuckle ball, a screw-ball, control, the whole tempered with aggressiveness. Best of all, he had a thorough knowledge of the hitters. Together, manager and pitcher discussed Danny Lee, the home-run slugger of the last place Phils.
    “If only we can