Free Kid from Tomkinsville by John R. Tunis Page B

one else can see the ball. Say, you know that guy gives me a pain in the neck. Well, I was telling you about this lad Tucker. He sure is one hustling ballplayer and don’t you forget it either. One day at Clearwater I came down early to practice and he was all dressed and out with Charlie Draper and a couple of the boys. I heard ’em talking. Charlie was hitting fungoes to ’em, and pretty soon this kid pipes up. ‘Man, you can’t hit fungoes. Lemme hit the ball myself.’ Yessir, it’s a fact; he picks up the bat, hits a fungo, and then runs out into the field, catches it. For half an hour. How’s that for spirit? I wish we had twenty men on the team with pep like that.” The telephone buzzed again.
    “Uhuh... put him on.... Hello, Tom... he did... it is... okay... keep me posted....” There was a roar from outside which penetrated the quiet little room. “Fine. Good. Well, I think he ought to stay in; give him confidence, and that’s what he needs most of all. But Gabby’ll have to use his own judgment.” He slammed back the telephone and turned with a satisfied grin to the visitor. “Nothing to nothing, end of the fifth, and the Yanks haven’t had a man on second yet....”
    Out on the field the Kid hardly knew what to do. If he didn’t tip his cap it might look fatheaded, but then it might be that stop of Red Allen’s, the first out of the inning, or the line drive back of second Harry nabbed. He couldn’t tell what they were yelling about, but as he crossed the first base line toward the dugout he knew they were cheering his pitching, so he touched his cap awkwardly and hurried in as fast as he could. All up and down the long bench came warm-hearted words, often from friends and often also from men who were trying for the same position, who saw themselves shunted off to the minors or even out of a job if he kept on as he was going. Nevertheless they meant what they said.
    “Thassa way to pour it in, Roy old boy....”
    “That’s throwing that old tomato, Roy....”
    “Now you’re showing those big stiffs something, Kid. That’s the way to chuck ’em.” And Doc Masters, who three weeks before at Clearwater had hardly noticed a bad blister which prevented him from running, now jumped up quickly and came over where he was sitting. Squeezing in unceremoniously, he started massaging his arm and asking how he felt.
    “You’re up after Swanson, Tuck,” called someone. He reached for his favorite bat when a roar rose from the stands. It was a long clean hit deep into center field and all three fielders were scurrying for it as the batter, head down, rounded first and started for second. The roar changed into a groan, followed by applause. The New York fielder had nabbed the ball out by the fence, shutting out a sure three-base hit.
    “He certainly can pound that old pea,” someone behind him remarked.
    Disgusted, the batter came back to the dugout and as he passed the Kid:
    “Nuts... That was robbery....”
    The Kid walked up to the plate. There was some scattered applause as he stood facing the man in the box. From behind in the dugout and on the coaching lines came calls for a hit. He yanked his cap down over his eyes and waited. The first ball caught the outer edge... a strike. Cries of derision came across the infield as, face flushed, he stood watching the motionless man on the mound. This one he’d hit. If it was any good at all he’d clout it... he’d...
    Nearing first he caught Charlie Draper waving him frantically on, and he came into second standing up, rounded the base, and started for third when he saw Gabby on the coaching lines yelling him back. Digging in his spikes he slid to a stop, turned, and retreated toward second. The ball came swift and low to third, and he would have been out even with the best of slides. Standing triumphantly on second, he watched the pitcher and catcher consulting between home and the box, their heads together. That was the same pitcher, he reflected,