Free Fear Strikes Out by Jim Piersall, Hirshberg Page B

product of the Pennsylvania coal-mine regions. He had been around the majors for so long that he had become a sort of baseball nomad, never in or out of a job for any length of time. The Red Sox were the third team he managed and he has since been in and out of Philadelphia, where he managed the Phillies for a couple of seasons.
    Steve, the patriarch of a huge family, liked rookies and knew how to handle them. A jovial, good-humored man, he rarely got annoyed and I never saw him lose his temper. He was always considerate and kind to me.
    “You won’t get to play much, son,” he told me, “but you’ll learn a lot by sitting on the bench and keeping your eyes open. You’d be surprised how much you can pick up just by watching what goes on around you.”
    I was so happy simply wearing a Red Sox uniform that, for once, the prospect of sitting on the bench most of the time didn’t bother me. The season had only a few weeks to go and, as Steve pointed out, I could learn by looking. Besides, he told me I might get a chance to pinch-hit a few times, and maybe even start in one of the late-season games.
    But I didn’t get my name into a big-league box score until the last week of the season. We were playing the Washington Senators in Boston, when, during the third inning of a hopelessly lost game, O’Neill sent me up to bat for our pitcher, Dick Littlefield. Gene Bearden, a veteran who threw a baffling knuckle ball, was the Washington pitcher, and I was so scared that I threw the bat over the third-base dugout and into the grandstand the first time I swung at a ball. Imagine my embarrassment when I found myself standing at the plate without a bat in my hand.
    I turned and walked over to Billy Goodman, the next hitter. He had been crouching in the on-deck circle, but he stood up and met me halfway.
    “What do I do now?” I whispered.
    “Get another bat,” said Billy. “Here—use mine.”
    I did, and it brought me luck. After the count ran to three balls and two strikes, I drove the ball safely to right field for a hit on my first time at bat in the majors. I felt as if I were flying down the first-base line—there were wings on my shoulders.
    When I said good-by to O’Neill after the last game of the season, he shook hands and said, “You’ll get there, boy. We’ll see you next spring in Sarasota.”
    Mary and I went back to Waterbury again after the season was over, both of us bubbling with happy anticipation. We were expecting again, and this time the doctors assured us that everything would be all right. Furthermore, we had decided to buy a home. We found a new ranch-type house that was not quite completed. The builder assured us we could get in before Christmas, so we settled down with my folks while we waited. Mom and Dad were going to move in with us, and I was glad I could get them out of their old apartment.
    Mary, busy with decorating and furnishing the new place, was having a wonderful time. I went back to work for International Silver, so we had that additional income, and there was really no financial problem, but I had misgivings. Something seemed to be wrong somewhere, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. I should have been happy. Mary was out of the woods and a baby was on the way. I was moving my parents out of an ancient flat where they had lived for years. I was about to go into a brand new home, complete with the latest gadgets and equipment. I was in my own home town, among my own people, and working at a familiar off-season job. Everything should have been perfect.
    It wasn’t. Night after night, after Mary was asleep, I would lie in bed, tossing around and worrying about the house. Was I doing the right thing? Would I be able to meet the payments? Would Mary be happy once we were settled down? Did I want to commit myself to living in Waterbury permanently? A house was a pretty permanent thing. Once in there, would it be easy to get out? Yet why should I want to get out? How could I be