Bang The Drum Slowly Page 10

  “No,” said Coker. “He stole.”

  “He stole,” I said.

  “Without no sign,” said Coker.

  “Without no sign,” said I.

  “God save his skin,” said Coker.

  I looked at Dutch and he looked at me. Then he looked away. “Glee,” he said, “go run for Pearson,” and Harry Glee jumped up off the bench, his first big-time ball game, and Bruce come trotting in until when he was in front of the dugout he suddenly seen Dutch and changed his mind and circled around, down in the dugout at the far end, near the bubbler, and he kept right on trotting through the door and down the alley. The boys all laughed, and even Dutch laughed a little. George tried to punch one through the right side, but no go, and he was tossed out at first, but Glee went on to third and come home a couple pitches later when Perry lifted a long fly that Aleck Olson gathered in on the run and dug and spun and made the try on Glee but never had a chance. Keith Crane blanked Boston in the ninth and we took it, 3–2, our fourth win in 5 starts.

  He was in the shower singing—

  Yes, we have no bananas,

  We have no bananas today.

  “Bananas ain’t all he is not libel to have pretty soon,” said Perry. He begun to sing, Perry did, and we got the quartet going, and when we cleared out from the shower Bruce. was still in there. Dutch come out of his office and stood on the scale and waited. Nobody could weigh theirself with him on the scale, though I guess nobody wished to. “Who is still in the shower?” said Dutch, and from the shower come Bruce’s voice. “Nobody,” it said, and he come out then, and everybody shoved over and left him a wide place to sit.

  “Now boys,” said Dutch, “every once in awhile there must be a certain amount of going back over things which people forgot in the meantime, such as the 2 things which are going to cost people money if they do not remember them and obey.” He then listed them off. How many times in my life did I hear them I There are 2 things you will get eat out for. The eating out is worse than the money—

  Missing your sign.

  Not obeying orders.

  Number One is mostly what you get eat out for, since if you do Number 2 you always claim Number One anyhow.

  “Now Pearson,” he said, “will you please tell me how come you missed your sign? What is the runner’s sign for stealing?”

  ”Walloping your toe with the fat of the bat,” said Bruce.

  “Very good,” said Dutch. “Did you see me walloping my toe?”

  “No sir,” said Bruce.

  “Probably he thought he seen you,” said I.

  “No sir,” said Bruce. “I just stole.”

  “Probably somebody else in along there on the bench was playing around with a bat was what Pearson thought he seen,” said Sid.

  “Probably I might of been playing around with a bat myself,” said Vincent.

  “No sir,” said Bruce. “I only figured this murder was easy to steal off.”

  “Whatwhat?” said Dutch. “Whatwhat?”

  “I was watching murder all Tuesday and seen how you might steal off him,” said Bruce.

  Dutch looked at me. “Author,” he said, “can you make heads or tails out of this?”

  “He means Murtha,” said I.

  “What about him?” said Dutch.

  “I was watching him all Tuesday,” said Bruce. “He looks at the runner. If the runner is leaning forward on his forward leg murder thinks you are bluffing him and pays you no mind. If the runner is leaning backwards on the other leg he holds you close.”

  “Is that so?” said Dutch. “Who told you this? It is the most thinking you figured out since Hector was a coon. Roberto, put it in Spanish for George.”

  “Yes sir, Mister,” said Diego Roberto or Roberto Diego, whatever his name was, “George says pardon she for spoking but one stupid thing was never such hot-stuff baseball sending Pearson to stole a base.”

  ”Tell George this is the same subject we are now discussing,” said Dutch.

  Roberto spoke in Spanish to George, and they laughed, and then George said it back to Roberto, and Roberto said it back in English to Dutch, which is how Dutch keeps a check on George. I actually believe George could speak English if he wished to by now, but I guess he does not.

  Dutch was lost for words. I never heard a ballplayer tell him before that he done Number 2. Ugly says in more than 10 years under Dutch he never seen it neither. Dutch finally said, “It will cost you $100, Pearson,” not loud nor mad but very mild like a fellow just trying to talk after somebody belted him in the stomach.

  “Yes sir,” said Bruce.

  “I am sorry if it hurts,” said Dutch, “but things that do you good have got to hurt.”

  “That is all right,” said Bruce. “It does not hurt.”

  “Does not hurt?” said Dutch. “It is 5 trips to Katie’s down a rat-hole. If it does not hurt I will make it 200.”

  “What he means,” said I, “is it does not hurt much.”

  “What I will also do,” said Dutch, “is kick you back 50 of it for the smart way you kept your eye on Murtha. I hope you will appreciate that. Do you appreciate that?”

  “Yes sir,” said I. “He does.”

  “I am not asking you,” said Dutch. “I am asking him. Can he not speak for himself? Is that a lesson? If it is not a lesson my breath is wasted.”

  “No sir,” said Bruce.

  “It is not a lesson?” said Dutch.

  “He means no you are not wasting your breath,” said I, “but yes it is a lesson. I can tell you the 50 will hurt him plenty.”

  “I hope so,” said Dutch, and he give Bruce one last look and turned and went back in his office, and in the end he kicked Bruce back the other 50, too, for we stole Boston blind when Murtha worked, though Bruce never missed the 50 when he lost it nor was glad to see it when it come back nor would not of cared if it been 100, nor 200. He did not think too damn much about money all year.

  Sunday we split 2 with Boston. Sid busted up the first game with a home run, and Washington come to town on Monday after a happy week spent whaling Boston and Brooklyn, sitting on top of the league, which anybody could do easy enough if that was all that stood in their way. On paper Washington was no ball club and still isn’t and never will as far as I can see, and Herb Macy beat them Monday and we moved up in a tie, and everybody now figured Washington had all the view they were libel to have all year of the top spot.

  Around 10 the next morning the bellboy banged on the door with a note sealed in an envelope from Katie saying could she see me strictly alone in this certain restaurant, and I put on my pants and went. It was warming up, and the sun was hot in front of the hotel. The cabbie said, “Well, it sure looks good to see us up on top where we belong.” I said it did. “Goldman sure been hitting,” he said. “He is 4 ahead of Babe Ruth according to the paper.” I said he was. “You pitching today?” he said. I said no. “Washington can not last,” he said.

  Nobody was there but Katie and the bartender and a colored fellow mopping the floor, the first time I seen her since 53 when me and Holly had this place on 66 Street, and she looked the same, and I said so. “You are looking extremely lovely as usual,” I said. She was drinking a beer with one glove on and one off. On her meat hand she wore a wedding ring.

  “Have a beer,” she said.

  “No thanks,” I said, “but I think I could go for a bite of breakfast.”

  “Order up,” she said, and I done so. “I was out the park Saturday,” she said. “I thought I might see Goldman connect. I was glad to see Bruce in there for once. He done fine, did he not?”

  “Yes he did,” I said.

  “How much did you finally sign for?”

  “25,000,” I said.

  “How much does Bruce draw?” she said.

  “15,425,” I said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Katie,” I said, “state your business. What is up?”

  The man brung me my breakfast and she whipped a 20 off the s
tack. We carried my dishes over to a table, for she thought the bartender was looking too curious. She does not trust anybody much. She spoke very low. “What is wrong with Bruce?” she said.

  “Who says anything is?” I said.

  “He says,” she said.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He only said he was up in Minnesota, and then he clammed up. He says marry him and cash in on a big surprise.”

  “He is nutty,” I said. “You get that way sitting on the bench too many years. He had pneumonia.”

  “What would you go all the way up to Minnesota with pneumonia for?” she said.

  “Whatever it is it is not catching,” I said, “so forget it. Do you think I would risk rooming with him if it was anything serious?”

  “Rooming with him is one thing,” she said.

  “It is not catching,” I said.

  “Is not?” she said.

  “Was not,” said I.

  “He sure thinks the world of you,” she said. “He thinks you are the best friend a man could ever have. His idea of Heaven is me and you and him rooming together.”

  “That does not appeal to me,” I said. “One of us has got to go.”

  “Why do you not ever drop up?” she said.

  “I am a married man with 2/3 of a family on the way,” said I. “Why not get married, Katie, and raise yourself some exemptions?”

  “To who?” she said. “And for what? Why do you not play baseball for free, Author? Why should a girl go amateur when she has got the stuff to be professional? I do not see why you can not tell me what he had. You know, he is a nice boy, but a fool. I see myself in Bainbridge, Georgia, hanging up the wash and singing in the church, where maybe if I am a good girl he will leave me dig in the fields if the horse gives out and get up early and milk the cow.”

  “Fresh milk tastes good early in the morning,” I said.

  “Leave the milkman taste it,” she said. “Can I drop you?”

  “At the park,” I said, and we hopped in a cab.

  “To the Stadium,” she said, and while we drove the cabbie looked at me a long time in the mirror until he finally told me who I was and started through the details of the present situation, Washington would fold and Goldman was 4 ahead of Babe Ruth and he was glad to see McGonigle back out of the army, and she said to me, “How many thousands of clucks do you think there are to the square mile?” I said I did not know. “If I was to marry,” she said, “I would marry a man of over 80 in rocky health with a wad as thick as a mattress.”

  I begun singing “Mother,” singing “M is for the million things you give me, O is for your only growing old,” and she laughed. “But I am far from marrying,” she said, “though the offers roll in every day. I have 100 men on the line that draw down a good bit more than a third-string catcher.”

  “I believe you,” I said, which I had no reason not to. She is a professional, and good, or so I hear, and I hopped out, saying “Thanks for the lift,” and she blew me a kiss and said “Good luck,” and I said “See you around,” which is what you say to people you hope you seen the last of.

  We beat Washington that day, which was getaway day, Blondie Biggs going most of the distance but needing help from F.D.R. in the ninth, and we went down to Washington on the same train in first place, no strings attached.

  A little ways out of New York Joe come up the isle and said to me, “Quick, Author, while Pearson is dozing off,” and we went back a couple cars where Washington was. We begun dealing, straight Casino for maybe 15 minutes until along come this freckle-face boy name of Sampson Opper, an outfielder, his first year up from the farms, a good ballplayer. I believe he can get rid of the ball faster than anybody in the business except maybe Vincent Carucci, very young and very ashamed of it and very proud of being up. If he could of wore a sign saying I am a big-time ballplayer now in 3 different colors he would of done so, and had it tattooed across his head. He stood behind Joe with his hands in his belt and watched and finally said, “Casino?”

  Joe finished the hand and turned around and give Opper a quick look. “Hello son,” he said. “You traveling all by yourself?”

  Then we played another hand, and Opper moved down beside the table so Joe could see him better. But we never looked up, only played Casino again, and Opper said, “I do not suppose you would mind a third person.”

  “No,” said Joe, “go see if one of the ballplayers wishes to sit in.”

  “I am a ballplayer,” said Opper.

  “Is that so?” said Joe, still never looking up. “Good luck to you, son. Do not drink nor smoke nor gamble for money and you will make the grade. Do not go professional before you are ready.”

  “I am Sampson Opper,” said he, and he sat, but we did not deal him in. Instead we went into Tegwar now, no rules a-tall, and Opper was kind of glad he did not put his cash on the table. But we went back to Casino then, and he pulled his cash out of his pocket, and we played one hand of Casino and one of Tegwar, first one and then the other, and he kept tapping his fingers on his money, deciding if he should leave it on the table or put it back and get up and out, and the boys begun to gather, not only Washington but many of the Mammoths down from our own car, standing in a crowd behind us like a crowd around an accident, some of the boys standing on the seats to see until all of a sudden we dealed him in, and he was in if he liked it or not, and he said, “What in hell we playing?”

  “More of the same,” said Joe.

  “I am not sure if I am clear on some of the new rules,” said Opper.

  “What new rules?” said Joe. “There ain’t been a rule changed since the Black Sox scandal. Big League Tegwar is Big League Tegwar, known to every big-time ballplayer from Boston to Kansas City,” and he went on and on, how it was first played among ballplayers in the days of the underhand pitch, and passed along from club to club and father to son until there was nobody that did not know it, not the lowest punk on the lowest cellar club, and yet it was known to ballplayers, and ballplayers only, once they made the grade, and we kept dealing and saying, “That will be 14 cents to Joe and 12 cents to Author,” and Opper kept shoving the money at us, and everybody was beginning to bust, yet silent, everybody there now, both clubs, and I would of begun busting myself except I seen Bruce amongst the crowd, and he said nothing to me, though yet he said, “That was a fine thing, Arthur, to run off and play Tegwar when I was dozing,” and I said to Joe, “I think Bruce Pearson wishes to play.”

  “3 is enough,” said Joe.

  “Then leave him sit in for me,” I said.

  “No!” said Joe. “No! No! What are you 2 anyway? Are you Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Then I must quit,” said I, and I turned my cards over and rose up and pushed back through the crowd.

  “I will make you sorry for this,” said Joe, and he called me a couple dirty names again, and Romeo and Juliet, and he also later made me sorry.

  But I do not know what else I could of done. I was sorry to quit but would of been sorrier still if I stood and played, one of those cockeyed deals where you are wrong if you do and wrong if you don’t, like the old-time riddle where the fellow says, “Suppose you were up to your neck in a barrel of shit and a fellow was tossing baseballs at you. What do you do? Do you duck?”

  CHAPTER 9

  WE BEAT Washington Wednesday night, our first night game, and Thursday afternoon, which meant we now beat them 4 times in 4 starts. We beat them 16 times in 22 starts all summer, leaving no doubt in my mind which was the best ball club. The reason they stood up there all year was they fatted up on the second division. They beat Boston 17 times and Brooklyn 18 and Chicago 20, though we had no idea in the very beginning but kept looking over our shoulder at Cleveland and Pittsburgh and even St. Louis and wondering who we had to beat, never figuring it would be Washington.

  I beat Brooklyn Sunday, 6–4, not the best ball game I ever pitched if I do say so myself. Sid made me a gift of it with 2 home runs, 7 on his belt now, 4 up on Babe Ruth. He
was pretty sick and tired hearing about Babe Ruth. “I am Sid Goldman and not Babe Ruth,” he said, “and I would appreciate everybody keeping their trap shut in the matter,” which we done, though of course the paper done no such a thing but hauled out the records every time Sid connected. Holly says there might be a few people do not know who Babe Ruth was. Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs in 1927, before I was even born, the most home runs anybody ever hit.

  I seen in the paper where Dutch was worried about Jonah Brooks not getting a base hit since the seventh inning Tuesday, April 19, though if he was it did not show. Jonah caught all through April until the second game of a Sunday doubleheader with Pittsburgh, which Bruce caught, the first complete game he caught since Thursday, July 9, 1954, according to the paper.

  He done well. I pitched and won. The sun was low, and the lower it gets the faster I look. He missed a couple signs but he banged out 2 hits, one a double, and was now batting 500 on the year, 6 for 3, his name at the top of the Sunday averages. It was the fourth game I won with the year nowheres even begun practically. I was beginning to get the sniff of that old bonus clause. However, Jonah was back in the lineup Tuesday night against Chicago, and then we wound up the home stand beating Washington 2 out of 3 over Friday and the weekend. Sid hit Number 9 and 10 and we went west 3½ games on top. He was still 4 up on Babe Ruth.

  Why shouldn’t Dutch of kept Jonah playing, though the paper kept crying “Weak stick, weak stick” and writing long articles about it if Sid didn’t happen to hit a home run for them to quick drag out Babe Ruth all over again instead? The power was on and the pitching was steady and it would of made no sense benching Jonah.

  Dutch kept tinkering all right, but not with Jonah. He kept juggling the order, and when that didn’t work he kept juggling the bench, now yanking Canada and playing McGonigle, now Lawyer Longabucco, once even playing McGonigle in left though I know he would almost rather die than use a left-hander there, now yanking Coker and Perry and playing Ugly at short and Tyler or Wash Washburn at second, seeing what I seen and what the boys would of also seen if they cut out the horseshit long enough and what the paper would of seen if they ever stopped looking up Babe Ruth. It was not pulling like a club. It was 2½ and 3 and 3½ on top all through the west, but it should of been 4½ or 5 by now. It was firing along because me and Sid and Pasquale and Van Gundy and Herb Macy were turning in the work, but you cannot go all the way on a few bats or a few arms. The summer was still very young. The club was not a club, which I personally blame on Joe Jaros to begin with and Goose and Horse and the 4 colored boys and everybody else that couldn’t get in the act quick enough, thinking they had the flag in their pocket in May and looking around for amusement, thinking it was amusement when what it was was horseshit pure and simple.