Free Keystone Kids by John R. Tunis Page B

Razzle’s forehead was as big as an egg. The unlucky pitcher slumped down on the bench while Doc Masters applied hot towels soaked in witch hazel to reduce the swelling, and Raz kept muttering something over and over which sounded like “Clumsy butterfingers.” Everyone knew Karl had played too far back in order to protect himself.
    However, the Slugger was far from upset by his error. He kept talking in the showers in loud tones for the benefit of his friends and anyone who happened to be listening, amid loud guffaws. “Yeah, they rushed the ball to the Miami General Hospital, and the docs operated. That’s right, they had to take two stitches in the darn thing.”
    His voice could be heard pretty much all over the lockers, despite the noise and roar of the showerbaths. When he emerged, Raz kept muttering to himself as Case went past to his locker, a bath towel around his waist.
    Just beyond Razzle he stopped, turned, and came back. “What’s that? What was that you said just now? What was that you called me, Raz?”
    Poor Razzle’s head was throbbing and he was in misery.
    “I said you was a clumsy, butterfingered clown,” he remarked, rising to go to the showers.
    As he did so, Case reddened and lunged. He struck Raz on the undamaged part of his face and staggered him. But Raz came right back, both fists thrashing the air, whacking and pounding at Case’s body. They grappled. Benches shot across the room; clothes, shoes, the whole dressing room went round and round in a cyclone of noise as the two men wrestled, tripped, tumbled, and sprawled to the floor. While Ginger, the Doc, the coaches, and old Chiselbeak, the locker room attendant, jumped to pull them apart.
    Sometimes a fight in which both men shake hands afterwards clears the atmosphere. But Spike and Bob knew there would be no handshaking after this one. They sat there transfixed to the bench, eyes popping. Seldom had they seen this kind of a row before. Soberly they dressed and soberly returned to the hotel, saying little, both thinking the same thing. Gosh, how on earth can we hope to catch the Pirates when we scrap like that among ourselves?
    They were more sober after reading the evening paper. Spike went to the hotel lobby where Swanson was standing as usual by the newsstand.
    He glanced over Spike’s shoulder. “Well, whadd’ya think of that! Say, what do you think...” He pointed to a column halfway down the front page.
    It was a dispatch from St. Petersburg where the Cards were in training. Their manager had left and Grouchy Devine, the veteran pilot of the Nashville Vols, had been appointed to take over. Spike read the headlines and read them again. He turned toward his brother.
    “Hey, Bobby,” he called, “just look at this!”

10
    W HEN A TEAM picked to win the pennant starts the season badly, it’s not hard to explain to the public. But when April turns into May and the same team is dragging anchor in third place, when May dies away and June draws near and they are solidly anchored in fourth, there’s trouble ahead. The wisecracks start appearing in the newspapers, sports editors assign cub reporters to follow the team or drop out altogether on the club’s next western trip. When this happened to the Dodgers, most of the trouble seemed to fall upon the broad shoulders of that diplomat and business man combined, Bill Hanson, the club secretary.
    He had plenty to do. For as the days became longer and warmer, nerves became tauter. Inside the club, cliques developed. Some players refused to speak to others, and the two Russell boys had to be more careful than ever what they said casually to men with whom they traveled or to whom they talked in the dugout. You could never tell with the club in such a situation whose feelings you might hurt, or when you might unknowingly step into a nasty situation. Hanson was busy all day and much of the night smoothing out quarrels, arranging things after Ginger had talked indiscreetly to some