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

and the Dodgers were headed for home in second place.

12
    T HE A MERICAN ROCKED along the rails through the gathering dusk. The players had eaten and returned to their air-conditioned rooms. Red Allen, quietest and most reliable member of the team, was deep as usual in a crossword puzzle. Razzle, neither the quietest nor yet the most reliable member, had dropped in and was sitting with his feet on the opposite seat.
    “We sure needed that one. Boy, we needed that one. And we could use those two against the Giants tomorrow. There’s a couple of good ball-games to win. Second place ain’t bad; it ain’t bad, kid.” Then he added: “That is, if we stay there!”
    “We’ll stay there,” replied the big first baseman not glancing up from his crossword puzzle.
    “Yeah. Looks like this-here club is moving the right way at last. Say — d’ja hear about those fans who started that fight by calling Jocko Klein names over in Phillie in June? Remember? Their case came up finally. The judge fined them twenty bucks and sent ’em to the cooler for ten days.”
    “That right....”
    “Uhuh. Fine and cooler, eh!” The first baseman was too deep in his crossword puzzle to get it.
    “Razzle, what’s an eight letter word for satisfy?” The pitcher reflected a minute. “Highball. At least there’s a few guys on this club what seem to think so. Hey there... hey there, Jocko! Boy, you really backed us up out there today; you were really on your toes, Jocko.”
    The black-haired catcher passed by in the corridor and paused, smiling. “Anyone hear how those Redbirds made out this afternoon?” No one knew, so he moved along.
    In the next compartment, Rats Doyle was talking to young Hathaway. “Say, are my dogs tired! That gettin’ up and settin’ down and gettin’ up all afternoon tires a man more’n pitching a full nine innings of ball.”
    “Being a relief pitcher is no joke,” said the rookie, sympathetically.
    “Boy, you oughta have been on this club last season under Nippy Crane. It was something. A guy was in and out, in and out, every other day. I was a regular pinch pitcher; in more games than a playground director. So was Fat Stuff. He was in the bullpen so much he got his mail there.”
    “It’s different now.”
    “I’ll say,” agreed the relief hurler, kicking his shoes off and pushing them to one side. “Are my dogs tired! Yep, Spike Russell stays with you to the limit. He used more pitchers today than any time for a long while; he likes to give a man a chance to win his own game. Over the long haul it teaches you to rely on yourself, not on bullpen support. I b’lieve it helps a manager, too. Look how some of these boys have come along in the past few weeks. Why... hullo there, Swanny!”
    The big, blond fielder rolled past. He entered and slumped down. “Well, here we are, going home in second place. Darn it all, who’d have thought such a thing could happen? Who’d have thought it possible two months ago?”
    “You said it, Swanny. Looked to me like we were anchored in sixth place.”
    “For life, if you asked me.”
    “Yep, and since then we’ve won... what? 48 out of 62, isn’t it? 48 games out of 62 since Spike took over. How’s that? .700 baseball, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, that couldn’t be just a coincidence. Say, I sure hope we don’t run into another convention in New York when we get there. Everywhere we run into conventions; in Pitt it’s a druggist convention, in St. Loo an undertakers’ convention, in Chicago an Elks’ convention; seems like a man can’t get a decent night’s rest any more!”
    In the compartment at the end of the car, Spike Russell, alone, was reading the morning New York newspaper, just arrived by air. He liked to keep track of what the writers, traveling with the club, felt and what they thought about things.
    “If the Dodgers win today, they’ll go into second place, and if they do it’s speed more than anything which yanked them up there. They