Kid from Tomkinsville (3 page)

“TUCKER, NO. 56.”

There was his uniform with the word “
DODGERS
” in blue across the front and the number 56 on the back of the shirt. Already he had discovered there were twelve pitchers trying for half a dozen places, most of them with some experience, several like Kennedy and Foster and Rats Doyle with years in the League behind them. So what chance did a rookie have? But that blue cap and the shirt with the word “
DODGERS
” he could take home to prove that once he had trained with a big-league team.

The crowd dressed noisily, shouting and yelling across the little clubhouse. Finally when they were all dressed the door shut with a bang and a small, active little man with thinning yellow hair rasped out a few sentences. The Kid knew him immediately. It was Gus Spencer; “Gabby Gus” as everyone called him, the new manager, the best fielding shortstop in the League, once of the famous Gas House Gang, terror of opposing baserunners, the pet hate of all umpires and the kind of a fighting ballplayer who would rather scrap than eat. The squad grouped around and listened, some with grave and serious faces, others with a faint smile as if it were an old story. They sat on the benches before the lockers, they knelt on chairs or stood behind, peering over shoulders, while he talked in a voice that commanded the situation, that compelled them to listen whether they wanted to or not, as with his cap now off, now slung nervously on the back of his head, he gesticulated with his hands.

“... and only one practice a day; only one practice, so put everything you got into it. Remember I wanna hustling ball team. They’s some fellas can’t do anything but play ball and they’re too gosh-darned lazy to do that. We don’t want ’em down here. Now get out and le’s see some pepper, pepper, y’unnerstand....”

Only one practice a day! One practice a day wasn’t so bad, thought the Kid as the door flew open and they swarmed onto the field. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack their spikes sounded on the concrete floor of the porch.

“One squad on the mats, the other at the wands.” At first he didn’t know what was meant until he saw they were divided into two groups and his was to take exercise first on a string of mats laid out in a line on the ground. Gosh, the sun was bright. It blinded him as he looked up. Then he lay on the mat and, at the command of a short man in white trousers and a white undershirt, began the exercises. “One-two, one-two, up... down... up... down... one-two, one-two...” The leader had an unpleasant way of yanking your legs sharply into position or pushing them back if you didn’t do the exercise properly or weren’t keeping in time, and he kept walking around watching everyone, seeing that each man got into each exercise. These were not ordinary exercises, either. They were movements that brought to life new muscles, that took hold of you in queer places, exercises the like of which the Kid had never done before. The squad lay on their backs, bending their torsos up and down, kicking the right leg sideways, the left leg sideways, turning almost completely over, coming back, fast, faster, as the little man shouted his commands. Above the hot sun of Florida began the process of conditioning. Sweat poured down their faces, grunts and gasps became louder and louder, yet that demon in the undershirt and white pants kept them going steadily. No letup.

“One-two, one-two, twist, turn, one-two, one-two...”

Half an hour of this torture and then they rose for another thirty minutes of drill with wands. The first exercises they had taken on their backs, but this one they did upright. Holding long wands by each end they slipped them over the back of their necks, and knelt, turned, twisted, and bent to the orders of another leader, a tall, dark-haired man who also knew his business. He too was pitiless, he also roared his commands without giving them a moment to breathe between exercises.

“Dip, bend, dip, bend, dip, left, right, get together there, you men in the last row... dip, bend, left, right...”

The sun beat upon them. The sun sank into their necks and faces. It was warmer at eleven-thirty than at ten-thirty, and so were they. One fat man collapsed completely and slunk into the clubhouse to the sound of jeers. Others coughed, wheezed, and puffed through the exercises, somehow, anyhow. The Kid wondered whether he could last. He wanted terribly to stop, felt like throwing it all up, like going home, but yet he held on. The torture never seemed to end, always that eternal “One-two, one-two, now up, down...” until at last the welcome words: “All right, you men. Coupla brisk laps and you’ll be ready for practice.”

Ready for practice! The Kid was ready to quit.

Following the two laps came a pepper game. Behind home plate and lined up against the backstop of the grandstand the squad spread out in two lines some thirty feet apart. Now the Kid had often taken part in pepper games, so-called, but this was different. This was the real thing and no mistake. One line was armed with bats. The other line threw the ball and the batters smacked it back at them with all their force. You had to be quick to avoid that deluge of balls coming at you from a distance of thirty feet. They came smack at your face, over your head so you had to leap for them, at your toes, the ball taking a wicked bound as you got down to it, and as soon as you had thrown it, there it was back at you. Moreover, balls of the men on either side came your way and often you were catching one ball and dodging another. It was speed, speed, speed. No wonder a player was through in a few years.

In ten minutes the Kid ached all over. Never before had he realized the difference between big-league ball and the bush league variety. If you lived through six weeks of this sort of thing you were a ballplayer.

It was several days before he really got a chance to warm up. His catcher was a brown-eyed, older man with a nice face who smiled agreeably as they started tossing the ball back and forth. The Kid threw a few easily, but the exercises had stiffened him up, for there was a slight twinge in his arm above the elbow. Or was it merely the fact that those muscles had not been used since the previous fall? He pushed the ball and glove automatically under his left armpit and began rubbing his right arm vigorously.

Instantly the catcher walked quickly toward him. “Arm sore?”

“Not sore exactly, seems a little weak....”

“All right. That’s not such a bad sign the first few days. Throw some from here.” He was standing about half the regulation distance of sixty feet, and the Kid tossed him the ball. This was easier. He threw another, and another at the short range. Before long the twinge was gone. His arm felt looser the more he pitched, and inside of ten minutes he was able to put a little steam into it. The catcher motioned him. “Now try it from here again.” And he went back the regulation distance to the plate sunk into the ground. “But be sure and take it easy.”

The longer distance didn’t bother him at all, for his arm was warm now and the muscles limbered up. He felt easier the more he pitched, but he realized that the first few weeks he’d have to go slow. Pretty soon the catcher came up, the ball in his mitt. There were men pitching on both sides and the Kid presumed he had done something wrong and was going to be called. But the brown-eyed man smiled.

“Show me how you hold that ball.”

The Kid showed him. “All right. That’s fine if it’s comfortable and you’re used to it. But just try it this way a few times. You’ll soon find you get lots more stuff this way.” He held the ball with his two forefingers over the top seam. “Try this now, and see how it goes.”

Yes, to his surprise he had more stuff. His control was better. The catcher grinned approvingly. “See how it helps? You can do things with a ball that way.” He walked halfway to the box, then turned. “Hope you don’t mind my telling you. My name’s Leonard. I’ve been catching in this League almost twenty years.”

The Kid felt embarrassed. His mouth was hot and dry and his voice broke as he answered. Mind? This certainly wasn’t his idea of the big leagues, a veteran catcher being considerate with a young rookie, taking all that trouble with a pitcher who might last a few weeks in training camp. “Mind? No... I sh’ld say not. I’m much obliged. It’s better, that grip.” The catcher nodded and tossed him the ball. For twenty minutes more they continued until stopped by a fierce whistle from the dugout.

“That’s enough out there... you pitchers... c’mon in and get some batting practice.”

“Try that again tomorrow,” said the catcher. “See, when you get that twist over the seam you’re able to put more stuff on the ball, understand? Throw it at his knees.”

The Kid thanked him and went for his bat. His own beloved bat. He found it and stood behind the screen waiting his turn at the plate. Pitching he liked, but batting he loved. He loved the sensation of outguessing another man in the box, of catching a fast one cleanly on the nose and cracking through a hole in the infield, loved even the hearty swing when he missed a curve. He took his place in the batter’s box. The pitcher wound up, he swung... and missed....

There was a low outside ball and then he got a good, full smack and sent it screaming into deep right center. The next he caught on the nose too, a deep fly, a deep ball to right... no... a couple of fielders were backing up... over the fence. Short, that fence, only 275 feet. But over nevertheless.

The pitcher rubbed up another ball. He was a tall, rangy, powerful fellow, a fresh rookie, anxious to show something. He looked at the plate a few seconds, nodded to the catcher, wound up... and... it came at the Kid’s head. He swung back and away, tripped clumsily over his bat and fell sprawling on the ground. Someone behind the cage said something, and there was laughter. So they thought he was scared? Well, he was. He picked himself up, got his bat from the ground where it had rolled, then, flushed and hot, stood up again at the plate. The ball came high once more, and he caught it cleanly. Back it went, back... back... and over the center field fence, the farthest from the plate.

The little blond-haired man came up to him. He barked, but it was a friendly bark.

“Howsa arm?...”

“Okay.”

“All right. You better get in now. Take a coupla laps.”

The Kid jogged twice round the edge of the field and ended up in a walk near the clubhouse in left. It was well after one o’clock, but even with three hours of solid practice men were still stopping grounders in the infield, chasing flies near the fence, batting or catching the ball, all running at full tilt. Three hours of speed, speed, speed. He wondered how they could stand it, because he himself was almost all in. A few didn’t. Here and there stragglers were coming in loudly demanding a Coke, others were undressing inside as he completed the circuit of the park and came onto the porch of the clubhouse. Standing there was a tall fellow with shoulders like a taxi, negligently leaning against a post and talking to a couple of men in civilian clothes. Someone just behind the Kid mumbled a name. Nugent. Of course, Nugent! He recognized him by the pictures in the papers. Razzle-Dazzle Nugent, the great Brooklyn pitcher who was a hold-out.

Carelessly exchanging jokes with his companions, the great man stood at his ease, a poem in gray. He wore a gray double-breasted sports suit belted in the back, a gray felt hat tilted over one eye, a gray silk sports shirt open at the neck, and gray suede shoes. The Kid’s heart sank as he passed close behind him and, seeing the powerful shoulders, realized the strength of his muscles. Razzle-Dazzle who had won fifteen games with a last place club, and was holding out for a ten-thousand-dollar raise.

The Kid passed inside and started pulling off his steaming clothes. “Well, boy,” said the gray-haired man, “I seen you take a coupla belts at that old apple. Whatcha tryin’ for?”

“Pitcher,” he grunted in reply, so tired it was an effort even to grunt.

“Pitcher!” The man looked at the sign on top of the locker. “Tucker? Oh, you’re that Kid from Tomkinsville, ain’t you? Yeah, well, you got a good easy swing at the plate for a pitcher, all right. Get into that-there shower now.”

Under the hot relaxing shower full of sweating men, and then out to dress slowly. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, the rest of the gang came pouring in from the field. Now the room reeked with the smell of sweaty clothes and odor of ointments from the rubbing tables at the side. The old man was writing on the wall as he came out of the shower.

“EVERYONE REPORT IN UNIFORM AT 10:30 TOMORROW.”

The Kid dressed slowly and came out on the porch to wait for the bus to take them back to the hotel. One practice a day. One practice a day didn’t sound so much when you said it fast at ten-thirty in the morning, but now he couldn’t have walked a hundred yards. It was the continual speed which cooked a guy. That afternoon he would take things easy, go out to the beach and stretch out in the sand.

Others did the same thing. Meanwhile a conference was going on in room 805. There was the great man himself with his feet on a table, there was the little man who gave the exercises, and the manager, all three reddened by the tropical sun of the morning.

“By the way, Gus, you happen to notice that rookie whale some of those balls this morning?”

The blond man barked back, “Yeah, I seen ’em, but that don’t mean nothing. Not a thing. Pitchers ain’t putting anything on the ball yet. You know how ’tis. First few days...”

“Sure I know. I know jes’ as well as you do. But his swing, I mean. The way he leaned into that second homer. D’ja notice that?”

While some of the squad, after a late lunch, went to the beach and while that conference was going on in room 805, the veteran catcher who had shown the Kid how to hold the ball, took the elevator straight to his room on the fifth floor, locked himself in and, taking off his clothes, got into bed. He stretched out, tired and lame in every joint. Ah... that was good. Thirty-eight and almost twenty years in the League. Now he felt his age. Baseball was a game of speed. The slight confidence he had before practice had vanished, wiped out by those three hours of exercise in the burning sunshine. He was exhausted. Couldn’t fool himself. Only one practice a day. But another practice at 10:30 tomorrow.