Free Keystone Kids by John R. Tunis

Harris—fella used to play third for the Yankees—what’s he doing now?” asked a voice.
    “I understand he’s coaching at Yale.”
    “Coaching baseball at Yale!” Ginger’s contemptuous tone dominated the room. “Shoot! He can do that mornings over the telephone.”
    There was a burst of genuine laughter. Ginger was one manager at whose jokes a guy could really laugh. Spike bit at the top of his sweatshirt as he put it under his supporter, holding it in his teeth by one end to be sure to give himself freedom under the arms. He liked to be nice and loose in his movements and hated clothes that hampered him in any way. While he picked up his sliding pads, Bob was climbing into a pair of basketball pants. This was about the only thing on which the two brothers ever disagreed—the merits of these garments for sliding into bases. Spike heard Cassidy’s voice, strong, acidulous.
    “... Well, seems some 12-year-old kid came up to the Giant manager last week and asked for a try-out. He was nice to the kid, told him to wait a few years and come back again later. Today the same boy shows up and asks for a try-out once more. ‘Why, looka here,’ says the manager, ‘I thought I told you last week to come back here when you was a few years older.’ ‘Well, Mister,’ says this kid, ‘I watched your Giants take that nine to nothing licking against the Dodgers yesterday, and that aged me ten years.’ ”
    Guffaws broke out over the room. The team was certainly feeling good.
    Spike sat down on the bench before his locker and drew on his inner socks. They came below his knees and he fastened them with rubber garters. As he leaned over, he observed Razzle drawing on two pairs, one over the other. Raz had thin legs for a big man and was notoriously vain. It was little things such as these that amazed the boys about these big leaguers; Razzle’s vanity, Swanson’s tightness with money, Jake Kennedy’s superstitions. They were a strange lot with queer contradictions in their make-up.
    Meanwhile Razzle’s voice dominated the room.
    “A raise? Mebbe I did get me a raise. Why shouldn’t I get a raise?” He was talking with the New York Times reporter who stood with his hands in his pockets watching Raz climb into his clothes. “Won twenty games last year, didn’t I, and got the Most Valuable Player Award?”
    The reporter winked at Bob who was in the act of hauling his outer shirt on and fastening it up. “I thought MacEnnis of the Cards got the Most Valuable Player Award, Razzle.”
    “They give it to him. They give it to him; but I should have been give it. I really won it,” said Razzle with his customary fine disdain for the niceties of the English language. “When that-there committee met, they musta gone into a transom.”
    “Raz, your English is really something,” remarked Fat Stuff.
    “Yeah, and my Spanish is something, too. Say, Fat Stuff, a guy I know who lived in Havana told me the Spanish have no word for shortstop. Whadd’ya think of that?”
    “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Razzle,” said the old pitcher. “Neither have the Phillies.”
    More laughter. Spike pulled on his pants and buckled his elastic belt. Throwing off his shower shoes which he wore until almost the last minute, he sat down and put on his uniform socks of wool, and then leaned over for his shoes. Those shoes were expensive, made of kangaroo skin, and ballplayers pay for their own shoes. Both he and his brother were always ripping and tearing them in the scrimmages around second base, and to his dismay he had figured out that morning they would probably spend $150 and wear out five or six pairs of shoes apiece during the season.
    Down the line Razzle was still talking. Finally he finished dressing, picked up his glove, and stalked out.
    “There goes the All-American adenoid,” said Karl Case, scorn in his voice. A titter ran over the room. Spike looked down at Bob pulling on his inner socks and Bob looked up at Spike. Both