Free Kid from Tomkinsville by John R. Tunis Page A

exhibition. Get out and do your best; never mind the crowd. They’re pulling for you hard.”
    He yanked his glove desperately from his hip pocket and started toward the box. Someone slapped him hard on the back and ran past into the field... Harry Street! Harry was playing short in place of Gabby. A roar greeted him as he neared the mound, for the fans were anxious to see him even if he wasn’t anxious to see them. Nervous, timid, uncertain, he rubbed the ball in his hands and threw it. Old Leonard stood smiling behind the plate. The first ball was high and wide, but the second burned across into his mitt, and the old catcher grinned as he tossed it back. The Kid put more into the next and the next. Now his confidence was returning. Leonard nodded; he nodded back....
    MacManus was tired. He had flown out to Kansas City to see a young third baseman play, jumped another plane to Nashville the same night for a conference with his farm manager, taken the air again to return to New York, been grounded in Pittsburgh in a storm, and reached Brooklyn by train early that morning. But no one would have guessed he was tired. Apparently he had as much vitality as ever, sitting behind his desk attending to a hundred details; now leaning back in his chair and tossing his horn-rimmed glasses on the desk, now yanking his feet back suddenly to the floor, pressing the buzzer, reaching for the telephone, banging it down, and pounding his fist into his palm to emphasize a point he was making to the visitor in front. Seated with him was Jim Casey who after a few innings of the game had dropped into the office to watch the fiery owner’s reaction to the latest insult of his rival, the Giant manager.
    “No, I haven’t seen a paper. We were grounded in Pittsburgh yesterday by that storm, and I took a train, so I was late getting in and haven’t had a chance to look at the sports news. What’s more, I’ve got nothing to say... nothing....”
    But Casey knew his man. He continued as if he hadn’t heard the last remark. “Murphy was sounding off yesterday when he heard you won that game against the Yanks in the tenth. Said he guessed the Dodgers must be pretty good. Said the team that beats Brooklyn will win the pennant this year.”
    A flush of red came over the other’s face. He half rose, leaning over toward the sportswriter and pounding the table. “Why... why, that big... why, the big bum... the Giants... Say, those guys will be lucky to keep ahead of Philadelphia. And you can say I said so, too.... Lemme tell you something...” The telephone interrupted him. It was a long conversation and when he had finished, the sportswriter changed the subject. He had just what he’d come for.
    “Seems to me, Jack, like this fogger out there might turn into something. He seems to have pretty good control for a rookie.”
    “Yeah... yeah, he may be a ballplayer in a couple of years. Know how I happened to land him, don’t you? You don’t? I was up there in Waterbury after Simpson, their shortstop, and this here kid from some hick town was in pitching. He pitched six innings and that was enough for me. I says to their manager, I said... Excuse me...” The telephone jangled again. “Yeah, I’ll talk... put him on.... Hullo, Hank... Sure. How you? Pretty good, thanks.... Well, we got a hustlin’ ballclub; tha’s more than we had last summer. No, can’t say much more right now. What’s that? No, I haven’t heard Murphy’s last crack, and what’s more... he says... What?... If we play night baseball... He did, hey?... Well, you get this straight.... Just say we started night baseball; so let him stop popping off about us and mind his own business. That’s all. We’ll look out after ourselves. G’by....” He slammed the telephone back on the little table at one side, a table ornamented by three different receivers. “Murphy! Popping off again. Says the Dodgers may finish in the second division if they play enough at night ’cause no