Bang The Drum Slowly Page 8

  I suppose he might of used him more if he wasn’t such a bother, even with the power on, for Dutch can always use more power no matter how much he already got. But Bruce in the lineup was always a bother to Dutch. Dutch sits and shakes and says, “I wonder did the sign get through to Pearson,” and everybody says, “Sure, Dutch,” but maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. The sign goes from the dugout to Perry or Coker and they then flash it home, but Bruce is not always sure where they are coming from, or when, and he often crouched there looking at Coker for his sign when it was coming from Perry, or the other way around, now one and then the other, or Perry might flash a phony sign, or Coker the same, to keep the opposition from swiping it, though what it sometimes amounts to is Bruce himself is the only person fooled. He is too ashamed to call time or come out for a conference, and he sometimes flashes the first sign he sees, and there is hell to pay afterwards, Dutch saying, “How come a curve ball to Williger? He eats curves.”

  “Pearson signed for a curve,” says the pitcher.

  “You signed for a curve?” says Dutch.

  “Yes sir,” says Bruce. “I must of missed my sign.”

  “I seen Roguski flashing it to you as plain as the nose on your face,” says Dutch.

  “I was looking at Simpson.”

  “Why?” says Dutch. “Is he more beautiful to look at? Was it not an odd-number inning?”

  “Yes sir,” says Bruce, “but I thought it was an even-number inning.”

  “What in hell do you think they build scoreboards for?” says Dutch. “Count by odds.”

  “1, 3, 5, 7, 9,” says Bruce.

  It never happened when I was pitching, for I picked up the sign myself off the bench, or off Coker or Perry, and I talked some of the pitchers into doing the same. But you can not ask a pitcher to be looking 4 ways for their sign. They have got enough to think about without protecting their catcher. Dutch looked at me funny a couple times, staring at me, his face saying, “Author, what is the secret locked in your head?”

  But then again Bruce had good days. In Atlanta he hit a home run one night off a right-hand pitcher name of Hrabak, now with Detroit, that probably went 475 feet in the air. It was a cold night, not much of a crowd, and you heard it go “Ping!” in the street beyond, and hit left-handers, too, which Jonah Brooks don’t even hit as much as he hits right-handers, which is hardly any to begin with, and begun hitting the same boys over again, even though Philly kept a book on him now, leaning in more, his jaw working, saying over and over to himself, “This son of a bitch is only a country boy like me, or else a country boy from the city,” looking fiercer, a big chew in his cheek and his bat gripped tight, though later Pasquale told him loosen up, and a smart thing, too.

  One day in Knoxville against Philly he seen how they played him deep down the left side, and he bunted, probably the first time in his life he ever hit not only with his bat but also with his head, and he beat it out easy. Philly never played him too deep any more after that, and more than one hit he blasted through third that the third baseman might of handled if he been deeper but was afraid to play too deep for fear Bruce would bunt again. It did not need a genius to think this up, but for Bruce it was unusual, and maybe Dutch said to himself, “Is it possible that Pearson is waking up at last from his sleep of years?” I don’t know. I mean I don’t know if that is what Dutch said or not. All I know is this kind of a thing probably kept him from getting too goddam upset over keeping Bruce. He never jumped up in the air and kicked his heels, I suppose, nor ever said a good word to Bruce, nor ever spoke to him when he seen him around. But he carried him along. To him Bruce was a spare part rattling in the trunk that you hardly even remember is there between looks.

  It was very cold up towards New York. We played one exhibition in Philly, though it was not on the schedule, and the boys all told me bring it up at the winter meetings, and I said I would, for an open date is supposed to be an open date, and I will, too, if I ever get to the winter meetings. But I must finish this cockeyed book first. I swore up and down to myself I would finish it or die trying, though to tell you the truth it is impossible to write around the house between the baby and the telephone ringing. It rings a lot these days, ringing all winter after a good year, and what I wind up doing is writing at night, and if the baby cries I snuggle her in bed with Holly, and she feeds her, and I go back and write some more, or sometimes write with one hand and the baby in the other until she dozes forward and I slide her back in the sack. Luckily I am a fast writer. Also, I do my own writing, though I been getting calls ever since October 7th from writers saying, “Author, why not go and relax somewheres and leave me polish off your book for you?” and sometimes the temptation gets me down. But they would louse it up, not meaning to but only pounding it out between the half of a football game or on the corner of a bar, and it must not be loused like that.

  We hit Philly on a Friday morning, Good Friday, and pulled out that night. I pitched 7 innings, my last turn before the Opener. Canada played first base because Sid went home for the beginning of Passover, and Reed McGonigle took over in center field, joining us not 2 hours before game time, still in his army suit but officially sprung. Everybody was glad to see him, Dutch especially, for it meant we could carry 26, and he was in shape, for he played ball all spring, and Dutch started him, and Piney Woods was cut loose the same day, headed back to the QC Cowboys with his airplane ticket sticking up out of his pocket and stopping at my locker the last thing and saying, “Author, give Coker back the other 20,” and I said I would, though actually Coker never give it to me, and I said, “Piney, I have a feeling you will be up in a year or 2 as soon as Mike learns you to keep your mind on business and not on motorcycles and such foolishness as that.”

  “I love motorcycles,” he said.

  “You are 19,” I said. “You will get over it,” and he stood up and looked brave and said, “Well, maybe somebody will drop dead soon and open up a slot for me.”

  “Leave us hope so,” I said, and he went out the door.

  Jonah caught, and it was a pleasure pitching to him. Now and then I looked out towards the bullpen, and I seen Bruce there, and I thought how impossible it was, though sometimes I shook my mind off it, saying, “Well, Bruce now and all the rest of us later, so what the hell difference does it really make?” though I could never really convince myself any way you look at it. Dying old is in the cards, and you figure on it, and it happens to everybody, and you are willing to swallow it. But why should it happen young to Bruce?

  It made me mad. I went my full 7 with never a hitch, and Dutch sat on the bench, leaning back on his hands and smiling. I sweated something awful, still weighing heavy, and this kid fanned me between innings, Diego Roberto or Roberto Diego, whatever his name was, the kid we carried for George. “Mister,” he said, “you pitch tight baseball like hot stuff.” He went back to Cuba when Red come back, for Red can speak Spanish with George. Diego could throw with both hands, though not too hard with either one, and he sometimes threw batting practice. I liked it when he did, for I could hit him.

  We wound up the weekend and the spring with 2 with Philly at home, and Sunday night me and Joe sat around about an hour dealing Tegwar without even a nibble. There was too much excitement in the air, the lobby full of 1,000,000 people saying, “Glad to see you back, boys,” and saying they knew it was our year again, and slapping you on the back. Joe was awful put out. I told him forget it, there would be happy times ahead when things settled down, and he said he supposed so. Bruce went up to Katie’s and come back and seen us there and said, “Why not 3-hand Tegwar just between ourself?” and Joe give him a look.

  Monday we drilled light and left for Boston.

  We were a strong club. We had the best left-hand pitcher in baseball, plus Van Gundy, Van Gundy a little thin boy you doubt can carry his hat, no speed but a lot of breaking stuff, and top control. We had strong right-hand pitching. We had good relief if Horse and Keith come through.

  We had the best
outfield in baseball, bar none, and the best double-play combination in Coker and Perry. We had good, solid right-hand hitting, and we had tremendous left-hand power if Sid and Pasquale both had a good year.

  But we had weak catching and a weak bench, Goose old and fading, Bruce never reliable, and Jonah no hitter. The bench was young and not yet ripe.

  I floated $250 on the Mammoths to win in a little pool run by a crook name of Suss Melner in the lobby, but he give it back to me when we come down again from Boston, saying, “No takers, Author.”

  On the following couple pages I am throwing in the roster, which I done the same in “The Southpaw” and received many letters from fans saying “Good idea,” for it helped them follow whose who. It seems crazy to me because I know the boys like the back of my book, what their voice is like and how they walk and talk and eat and comb their hair, how they stand in at the plate, how they throw, how they run, how they slide, where they spend their pay, who they hang with, what their wife and kids are like, or their girl. I know their voice through a wall. I can see a waiter in a diner with a tray full of food and pretty much know who ordered it. I know how they bet at poker, and what they smoke, those that do. I know whose rings are which piled in Mick McKinney’s box. Christ, if I see somebody head down on Mick’s table I know them by the callous on their feet. More things I know than this but probably better never mention for fear of getting them in trouble with their wife or their girl or the United States Bureau of Internal Revenue. Yet when you write a book you must remember that everybody don’t know what you might know. Holly says the same.

  Running down the roster I see where out of the 25 boys on the 52 club that won both the flag and the Series only 16 are back. I also notice where I was the youngest man on the 52 squad but am now older than 9 others. Canada Smith is listed as an outfielder but also fills in at first base.

  OFFICIAL ROSTER

  NEW YORK MAMMOTHS BASEBALL CLUB, INC.

  1955

  LESTER T. MOORS, JR. PATRICIA MOORS

  MANAGER

  SCHNELL, Herman H. “Dutch.” Born February 23, 1893, St. Louis, Mo. Residence: St. Louis.

  COACHES

  BARNARD, Egbert. “Egg.” Born October 2, 1896, Philadelphia, Pa. Residence: Philadelphia.

  JAROS, Joseph Thomas. “Joe.” Born March 31, 1895, Moline, Ill. Residence: Oak Park, Ill.

  STRAP, Clinton Blakesley. “Clint.” Born April 1, 1906, Mason City, Wash. Residence: Scranton, Pa. U. S. Army, World War II.

  OUTFIELDERS

  CARUCCI, Pasquale Joseph. Born August 10, 1923, Port Chester, N. Y. U. S. Army, World War II. 5’10½,” 180 lbs. Bats L, throws R. Residence: San Francisco, Cal.

  CARUCCI, Vincent Frank. Born July 17, 1925, San Francisco, Cal. U. S. Army, World War II. 5’10,” 175 lbs. Bats L, throws R. Residence: San Francisco.

  GLEE, Harry Justin. Born January 11, 1932, Chittenango, N. Y. U. S. Navy, 6’, 190 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Chittenango.

  LONGABUCCO, Frank Patrick. “Lawyer.” Born September 18, 1931, Peekskill, N. Y. U. S. Army, Korea, 5’11½,” 185 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Peekskill.

  MCGONIGLE, Reed. Born February 1, 1932, New Haven, Conn. U. S. Army. 6’1,” 180 lbs. Bats L, throws L. Residence: New Haven.

  SMITH, Earle Banning. “Canada.” Born October 14, 1929, Winnipeg, Canada. 5’11”, 185 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Winnipeg.

  INFIELDERS

  GOLDMAN, Sidney Jerome. “Sid.” Born May 7, 1928, Bronx, N. Y. U. S. Army, World War II. 6’1½,” 215 lbs. Bats L, throws L. Residence: Manhattan, N. Y.

  GONZALEZ, George. Born February 11, 1926, Pinar del Rio, Cuba. 5’9½,” 175 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Havana, Cuba.

  JONES, Robert Stanley. “Ugly.” (Captain). Born September 6, 1921, Batesville, Ark. U. S. Marines, World War II. 5’11½”,185 lbs. Bats L, throws R. Residence: Little Rock, Ark.

  ROGUSKI, John Llewellyn. “Coker.” Born April 2, 1930, Fairmont, W. Va. 5’10,” 180 lbs. Bats R-L, throws R. Residence: Fairmont.

  SIMPSON, Perry Garvey. Born May 27, 1931, Savannah, Ga. 5’10½,” 175 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Detroit, Mich.

  TYLER, Willis James. Born April 16, 1933, Dade City, Fla. 6’22,” 205 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Newark, N. J.

  WASHBURN, Lysander. “Wash.” Born May 17, 1932, Ellicott City, Md. U. S. Army. 5’10½,” 175 lbs. Bats R-L, throws R. Residence: Ellicott City.

  CATCHERS

  BROOKS, Jonah Francis. Born October 9, 1932, New Iberia, La. U. S. Army, Korea. 6’4,” 220 lbs. Bats L, throws R. Residence: New Orleans, La.

  PEARSON, Bruce William, Jr. Born June 4, 1926, Bainbridge, Ga. U. S. Army, World War II. 5’11,” 185 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Bainbridge.

  WILLIAMS, Harold Hill. “Goose.” Born August 26, 1920, Terre Haute, Ind. U. S. Marines, World War II. 6’½,” 200 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Chicago, Ill.

  PITCHERS

  BIGGS, Porter Leonard. “Blondie.” Born June 7, 1932, Morristown, N. J. U. S. Army. 6’2,” 200 lbs. Throws R, bats R. Residence: Morristown.

  BURKE, Lindon Theodore. Born March 12, 1930, Lusk, Wyo. 5’11,” 190 lbs. Throws R, bats R. Residence: Lusk.

  BYRD, Paul Richard. “Horse.” Born November 19, 1921, Cul-peper, Va. U. S. Army, World II. 6’1,” 240 lbs. Throws R, bats R. Residence: Washington, D. C.

  CASELLI, Franklin D. Roosevelt. “F. D. R.” Born November 12, 1932, Oakland, Cal. U. S. Army, Korea, 5’10½,” 190 lbs. Throws R, bats R-L. Residence: Mill Valley, Cal.

  CRANE, Keith Robert. Born June 22, 1929, Wooster, Ohio. 6’, 185 lbs. Throws L, bats R. Residence: Cleveland, Ohio. MACY, Herbert. Born October 1, 1928, Athens, Ga. 6’1,” 180 lbs. Throws R, bats R. Residence: Aqua Clara, Fla.

  STERLING, John Adams. “Jack.” Born March 16, 1925, East St. Louis, Ill. U. S. Navy, World War II. 5’9½,” 170 lbs. Throws R, bats R. Residence: Newport News, Va.

  VAN GUNDY, James Sweetser. Born January 2, 1932, Central City, Nebr. U. S. Army. 5’9,” 155 lbs. Throws L, bats L. Residence: Central City.

  WIGGEN, Henry Whittier. “Author.” Born July 4, 1931, Perkinsville, N. Y. 6’3,” 200 lbs. Throws L, bats L. Residence: Perkinsville.

  WILLOWBROOK, Gilbert Lillis. “Gil.” Born May 15, 1929, Boston, Mass. 6’, 190 lbs. Throws R, bats R. Residence, Aqua Clara, Fla.

  PHYSICIANS: Ernest I. Loftus, M.D., Hyman R. Solomon, M.D.

  TRAINER: Frank T. (“Mick”) McKinney.

  SUPPLEMENTARY

  COACHES: MULROONEY, Michael Conroy. “Mike.” Born June 2, 1896, Coraopolis, Pa. Residence: Last Chance, Colo.

  TRAPHAGEN, Berwyn Phillips. “Red.” Born December 9, 1919, Oakland, Cal. U. S. Medical Experimentation Corps, World War II. Residence: San Francisco, Cal.

  CATCHER: WOODS, Thurston Printise. “Piney.” Born September 18, 1935, Good Hope, Ga. U. S. Marines. 6’1,” 195 lbs. Bats R, throws R. Residence: Good Hope.

  ROSTER COMPILED BY BRADLEY R. LORD, SECRETARY

  CHAPTER 7

  ON THE way up to Boston all was quiet, especially the new boys, for they were tight. Tomorrow was for the money. I was sitting reading a book Arcturus sent me name of “Widening Your Circle of Acquaintances.” Every book they send you they send a card asking how you like it, and I send the card back, saying, “Good for laughs.” I got more business than I can handle already and do not need to circle my acquaintances. Dutch come past and touched me on the shoulder, saying, “Author, come with me,” and I went back to his room with him and sat down, not knowing what was up and wondering what I done wrong, and he said, “Are you ever planning to get down to your weight?” But he did not wait for an answer, saying instead, “Did you have your tooth fixed?” I had a hole in one of my cavities, and I started to say “No,” which was true, for there was too much excitement over the weekend to go sit in the dentist. The club has this dentist name of Dr. D. K. G. Silverstein that opens nights and Sundays for Mammoths only, a Mammoth fan for years and years with a ph
oto on the wall of each and every Mammoth he ever worked on. He has a big photo of Dutch that takes up half one wall that I personally do not consider the happiest thing to be staring you in the face at such a time. “How is the Mrs. coming along?” he said, which I did not even start to answer now, for I seen it was something else on his mind altogether.

  “Author,” he said, “Joe tells me you and Pearson been playing Tegwar over the winter.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  ‘When?” said Dutch.

  “Just before camp begun,” said I.

  “Where?” said he.

  “Down at Bruce’s,” said I.

  “What were you doing down there?” he said.

  “You mean besides playing Tegwar?” I said.

  “Do not stall,” he said. “Why did you go there?”

  “He always wished me to meet his folks,” said I.

  “Was the Mrs. with you?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You drove down by car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” said he. “We have got you and your wife by car in Bainbridge, Georgia. Leave us back up to whenever it was you spoke to Joe on the telephone in Chicago. When was that?”

  “I never did,” I said.

  “You never did? Are you telling me Joe is a liar?”

  “No,” said I. “I never spoke to Joe. I suppose what he means is I spoke to his Mrs.”

  “Yes, you know very goddam well what he probably means. Do not stall, Author, for you are stalling the wrong man. When was it?”

  “Probably around in January,” I said.