Free Kid from Tomkinsville by John R. Tunis

Remember you can’t get a hit with your bats on your shoulders, and you can’t get runs being nice boys out there on the bases. Jake, I want you and Rats and that kid, where is he, young Tucker... oh, there you are... I want you fellas to warm up....”
    The Kid felt as if everyone in the room was looking at him. Almost everyone was, too. Yep, he was going in. He flushed as faces turned his way, and hardly heard the last bitter-sharp words of their leader ending his charge.
    “... C’mon now, gang, some pepper out there.... Le’s go....”
    Snatching their gloves from benches and lockers, the squad turned toward the door. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack their spikes sounded on the concrete runway leading from the dressing room to the field.

9
    T HE CROWD STAGGERED HIM. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in mid-April, and a soft spring sunshine flooded the diamond. Ordinarily he would have been anxious to pitch, but the mob jammed the lower stands, peered over from the second story, and even filled the bleachers in left center, was terrifying. He had never seen such a crowd before, and as he warmed up between Jake and Rats Doyle, he felt suddenly weak. The aisles even were full, and still more people were coming in every minute, and he could see them filling the boxes as he hurled his fast ball into that waiting mitt.
    “Gosh, Rats, how many does this park hold? You know?”
    Chewing energetically, the man beside him wound up, threw the ball, and grunted between his teeth. “Oh, this way it’s close to capacity, I guess.”
    “How many is that?”
    “Thirty thousand. Thirty-two maybe. With the deadheads. And if they fill those second story stands up there.”
    They were filling. Thirty thousand watching a game! The fans were in good humor, too. They were shouting and calling out to Swanson, the center fielder, who had won the day before with a double in the ninth, they were yelling to Gabby Gus as he pranced round short, to Red Allen, the first baseman. But they seemed to be asking for something, for there was a note of insistence in the sound of their voices. A murmur ran round the stands, died away, and broke out again.
    “Say... Rats... I’m sure glad I’m not starting today. Front of that gang...”
    “What’s the difference, boy? Crowds don’t mean a thing. You’ll get used to ’em soon enough. That’s the trouble; then you’ll get so you need ’em same as I do.” He wound up and threw the ball. “Some guys hate it when the gang’s out there, but me, I don’t like to play to empty stands. This-here-now-crowd all steamed-up-like, makes me feel I wanna go.”
    Funny, thought the Kid. Imagine a man anxious to get out there against the Yanks in front of those packed stands. He felt heartily glad it wasn’t his turn, for the crowd was still coming and there were still those queer insistent shouts from the bleachers.
    “What’s that yelling? What are they hollerin’ about, Rats?”
    “Them’s the loyal rooters back of first. They want young Street to go in. They’re hollering for Gabby to shove Street in... at that he might let the boy have a few innings today.”
    A sudden panicky feeling ran up and down the Kid’s spine. Maybe he’d shove me in. No, unlikely, because it was Jake’s turn to pitch, and besides, the veteran was always effective against the Yanks. Then the bell clanged and the Dodger fielders rose from the dugout to take the diamond as the three pitchers walked in. Gabby came toward them.
    “Whaddya say, Tuck old boy? ’Bout ready?”
    “Who? Me? You want me... want me to start in there, Gabby?” He looked for Jake, but his waddling form was nearing the dugout, pulling on his jacket, his chunky legs churning the ground, his huge arms swinging outwards. Jake must have known all the time. The Kid was seized with a terrible fright; why, he’d make a fool of himself. He’d be a joke out...
    “Sure, I want you in there. Remember this is just an