Rookie of the Year Read Online Free

handcuff that guy, this team is a pushover, Fat Stuff.”
    The old fellow nodded. “Yeah. You know he strikes out prob’ly more than anyone in the National League; but he’s a darn dangerous man in a tight spot. And he’s bad medicine for the lefties; glad I pitch right-handed.”
    “Yeah, he really owns the lefties, doesn’t he? How you plan to throw to him, Freddy?”
    “Well, he’s a loosey-goosey at the plate. Thing to do is to avoid giving him that letter-high fast ball across the middle. He hits that one out of sight. Two years ago in the All-Star game in the Yankee Stadium, I seen him belt one of Royal Davis’ pitches clean out into the bullpen in deep center. Boy, that’s a good bit over four hundred and fifty feet. Yessir, he can paste it. Well now, you can throw to Danny Lee four ways to get him out. The spots to pitch to him are: high, inside; high, outside; low, inside; low, outside. Oh... say... looka that catch! Roy was robbed that time. That’s tough, Roy.” Fat Stuff picked up his glove, shifted his wad in his mouth, hitched at his pants, and went out to the mound to go to work.
    The game was close from the start. Few men got on base; those who did died there. The Brooks were hitting hard but right at the fielders, hits that didn’t mean a thing. The Phillie pitcher was stingy, and as the game progressed they kept returning scoreless to the bench after each inning.
    “Say... aren’t you boys going to get me any markers?” complained the old pitcher. “Hey there, what’s the matter with you guys?”
    Spike became almost ashamed, watching the veteran pitch his heart out, putting the opposing side down in short order at the plate, yet still without a run to win. Finally, in the eighth, they managed to squeeze across one tally. Fat Stuff squelched a rally in the last of the eighth himself, with a beautiful stop of a hard hit ball to the left of the box. Finally they came into the last half of the ninth, still clinging to that precarious lead. Two men went down in routine fashion. The Brooks peppered the ball around the infield, chattering at Fat Stuff, everyone thinking of those cooling showers, of dinner, and the end of a hard, hot day. Then the third batter hit a long, lazy single.
    The sparse crowd, scattered throughout the huge stadium at Shibe Park, now paused at the exits and began to come to life. Fat Stuff went to work on the next batter. He’s careful now, thought Spike, he’s throwing careful to get this man. Actually, the veteran pitched far too carefully and lost him, giving up his first base on balls of the game. Plain to see the old pitcher was tiring. The next batter topped a slow ball toward third and beat out Harry Street’s throw by a foot. Three on, last of the ninth, and Danny Lee, the club’s heavy hitter, strode to the plate while the home crowd yelled. This was the big moment.
    Spike looked anxiously at the bullpen where Rats Doyle and Rog Stinson were burning in their throws. Then he glanced back at old Fat Stuff, standing quietly on the mound in that din of noise and clap-clapping from the stands. Shall I yank him? No, siree! I’m gonna stay with him. He’s pitched one swell game, and he’s the foxiest man I’ve got in a spot such as this. Besides, it’ll show the kids like Hathaway that I stay with my pitchers; it’ll build up that lad’s confidence in himself....
    The first ball was high, inside, and Danny Lee swung under it a foot, so hard he swung right off his feet. The swing checked the noise in the stands abruptly. The next pitch was high, outside. The batter looked at it, and now the count was even at one and one.
    The roar over the half-empty ballpark resumed. From his position in deep short, playing for a force-out at second, Spike watched Jocko Klein’s signal. The veteran shook the kid off. He took the next signal and nodded. The ball was going low; low, inside. The batter took his cut, only got hold of a piece of it, and fouled it into the stands.