Free Rookie of the Year by John R. Tunis Page A

ran to back up first on every ball hit to the infield and one never thought about it, never even saw him. Now, when he was needed, you suddenly saw him and your heart jumped. Because that error could mean the ballgame.
    The stocky catcher stopped the ball and then, without hesitating, burned it to second. Spike, waiting, slapped it on the runner just as he came tearing in, and the man was out. One out, instead of a man on second with no one down. Well, that’s picking me up; that’s certainly picking me up all right.
    Then Speed Boy Davis, the pitcher who had gone in for McCaffrey, weakened and lost the next batter. Once again there was a runner threatening. Gosh, won’t this ever end? Is this going on all night? Spike retreated to his position, glancing back at Rats Doyle throwing in the bullpen, watching Speed Boy carefully. He’s tired all right; he’s really tired. If this man gets on I better yank him.
    They all expected the man to bunt. That was percentage baseball. He did. The bunt was well placed, between the pitcher and first, and Davis went over. It was a slow hit, and he was near first when he scooped it up. He straightened as he got the ball, and threw it over Red’s head into right field. Immediately the runner on second broke for third, and the batter roared into second despite Swanny’s recovery and quick throw. The winning run was at the plate.
    Davis was weakening in the heat and the long, exhausting game. When he passed the next man to fill the bases, Spike turned and waved to the bullpen. As usual Rats, warming up, pretended not to notice him. They stood around the rubber, Spike and Bob and Harry and Red and Davis, gloomy and silent, saying nothing because there was nothing to say, while the crowd in the stands began shrieking for a hit to win the game.
    Shoot! That’s awful bad. Davis knows better than to straighten up on a play of that kind. He was just plain tired; he didn’t stoop down, he stood up straight and let go. Shucks! You practice and practice and practice a play all spring; then comes an important moment in a vital game and someone forgets everything he’s been taught. That can cost us second place.
    Now old Stubblebeard, the umpire in charge, was becoming impatient. He went out to deep short and waved for Rats to come in to the box. The big lefthander swaggered across the field, accompanied by hoots and claps from the bleachers. Spike kicked at the dirt in the pitcher’s box. This is going to raise hob with my pitching schedules. This will upset everything. Now I don’t know who’ll pitch tomorrow. Shoot, I don’t know who’ll pitch the next inning, if there is any, and it certainly looks as if there would be now. But we need this game the worst way; we simply gotta have this one.
    The Pirate coach held up one finger to the baserunners. Three men on, one out and two runs behind. Rats pitched. The batter hit the first one hard, to Spike’s right, the sure test of a shortstop. It was a ground-hugging hopper, and the Pirate baserunner hid it momentarily, then jumped it and was off toward third as the bounder sizzled toward Spike.
    Now... careful... steady... make it sure... don’t throw before you have it....
    He sent the ball away cleanly and fast to his brother on second. Bob jumped deftly out of the path of the spikes of the Pittsburgh runner charging into second, and got the ball off quickly to Red on first. One out! Two out! Almost before the batter had slowed up back of first they were running in, stuffing their gloves in their pockets, racing toward the showers. As they roared past the dugout, Chiselbeak was already lugging out the bat trunk and throwing the bats into it. Within the clubhouse the equipment boxes were set out before each man’s locker. These small, oblong wooden boxes had a space at one end for caps, and a large place for wet clothes, the whole to fit into the equipment trunks. It was the usual sign that meant a change of scenery. The western trip was over