Rookie of the Year Read Online Free Page A

One and two. Again the old chap was ahead of the man at the plate.
    Then something made Spike turn to glance at the scoreboard, and he saw the figures on the game in Cincinnati; Chicago, 3, Cinci, 1. The Dodgers would be in third place! One more pitch, one more good pitch and we’re in third, and we won’t look back, either. C’mon now, Fat Stuff. One more pitch. “Lay it in there, boy; O.K., now.... Let him see it, Fat Stuff... old kid, old boy... alla time now, alla time....”
    Without any wind-up the veteran threw. It was low, outside, and would certainly have been called a ball had the home-run hitter of the Phils not swung at it, swung well over it for the third strike. High, inside; high, outside; low, inside; low, outside. Three strikes and the game was over!
    The Dodgers were in third place. Their highest standing of the season. Triumphantly they rushed for the showers, jubilant at having won and pulled up from sixth to third. Now the team was moving at last. Spike found himself trudging along beside Charlie Draper, the coach, his jacket slung over his shoulder, the leather ball-bag in one hand. The coach knew baseball. He shook his head in admiration at the veteran’s canny pitching.
    “Yessir, he really has what it takes, that man Foster, he really has. Y’know, Spike, this would be quite a ballclub if everyone hustled same as old Fat Stuff.”
    Spike looked quickly around. He hoped some of the young pitchers heard that crack.
    “It sure would,” he agreed.

4
    A WEEK LATER S PIKE was seated in a taxi in Chicago on the way from the hotel to Wrigley Field with Bill Hanson, the club secretary, and Charlie Draper, the coach. Spike went back to the game of the previous afternoon. “Shoot! We never should have lost that one yesterday. Made me mad!”
    “Me, too. It was a tough one for Bones Hathaway to lose,” rejoined Charlie. “He pitched first-class ball. Why, he was flipping little peas to those Cub batters. His fast ball was right pert.”
    “Yeah,” said Spike, “the kid has it. He has the know-how of pitching. What I like about him is his stance after he’s thrown, both feet planted firmly before him in perfect fielding position.”
    “He’s one of the best fielding pitchers I’ve ever seen,” said Hanson sagely. “The best since Snicker Doane of the Yanks.” Hanson had been around baseball for years, and always harked back to an era in the game no one else could remember. Consequently no one could ever contradict him. “He’s gonna help this club plenty, if he’ll only let the liquor alone.”
    “He’d better,” replied the young manager firmly. “He’d better unless he wants some thin salary checks coming up. What time’s the train for St. Loo leave tonight, Bill?”
    “Six-thirty. Don’t go into extra innings. Shall we give the boys dinner money?”
    “Uhuh. Give ’em dinner money.” Spike went back again to the game of the previous afternoon. “So help me, Charlie, we should never have dropped that one.”
    Although he addressed the remark to Charlie on his left, it was Hanson, somewhat to Spike’s annoyance, who answered. “Nope. Here we are in the second week in August. Doesn’t look too good, does it?”
    Now Spike really was annoyed. Sometimes he wondered whether Hanson was for him or against him. But he knew that all club secretaries thought they knew more baseball than any of the players, so he controlled himself and answered courteously. “Bill, I’m afraid you don’t know your baseball history. D’ja ever hear of the 1921 Giants winning after being seven and a half games behind in late August? Or the Yanks blowing a 13-game lead in 1928, and just barely limping home? Or the 1935 Cubs staging a 21-game, late-season winning streak? Or the Pirates building a World Series press box in 1938 that was never used? Or the Cards catching the Dodgers from ten games back in August, 1942, and...”
    “Maybe you got something there, Spike, maybe you got something there.