Free World Series by John R. Tunis

you one you can hit, sock it. All we need is two-three runs. Whatever you do, don’t worry. Keep relaxed. The ability to relax is what makes a money player in every sport, boys. Remember, we’ve come from behind lots of times this season, and if you’ll play the game you’re capable of playing, the game I know you can play, we’ll come from behind again. That licking we took yesterday doesn’t mean a thing. Not one thing. All right...any questions...anyone...
    “Yesterday I met up with Joe Jacobson, old friend of mine, now manager in Tulsa. Joe’s up for the Series, and I met him in the lobby as we came in. Joe started to ride me. ‘What you-all gonna do with those tickets you been printing for that game in Brooklyn tomorrow?’ he asks me.
    “‘We’re gonna sell ’em,’ I told him.” There was a ring of determination in his voice. “Okay. Let’s go.”
    And there was a ring of determination in the sound of their spikes; clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack on the concrete. They were going to win. They were determined to win for Dave. No one more so than the Kid. Dave hadn’t said a word about Casey. That was the kind of a guy he was. He knew who was right in that little incident, Dave did.
    After some batting practice, with no Casey visible among the mob of sportswriters on the field and climbing over them in the dugout, Roy walked out to his place in right field to chase fungoes. The fans were there in the cheap bleacher seats, attentive, watching, knowledgeable. To be sure they were not his own fans, but they were fans, with a fan’s sense of humor as he soon found out.
    “Hey, Kid,” someone called affectionately from the bleachers when he came near them. He waved his hand. Instantly the reply came back.
    “You big bum!” Not the Brooklyn retort, but close enough to make him think he was at home again.
    The game began. Rats lasted exactly two innings. The Cleveland powerhouse went to work in the second. A single, another single, and a double. Two runs across and McClusky dancing confidently off second. From his place the Kid watched Rats dejectedly stuff his glove into his pocket and take the longest walk in the world—the walk to the showers. In the stands the wolves rose jeering, while from the Indian dugout noise and chatter resounded. It was in the bag. Three games to one. Two runs to the good. Yep, a tough spot for the Dodgers.
    Doggone, thought Roy, I won’t quit. I won’t stop fighting. Why, we’re better than that. I just know we are. We haven’t showed it, but we are. Now who’ll Dave throw in? Elmer? Or maybe take a chance on Raz? Nosir. It’s old Fat Stuff.
    Yes, there was Fat Stuff in the bullpen, pretending as usual he didn’t hear, and burning in a few more practice throws. Old Fat Stuff, the reliable. He waddled across the field, a barrel-chested figure, long arms swinging by his side. And who’s that...it can’t be...it is! Dave! Dave going in to catch him!
    Gosh! Dave was back at the plate. Dave was in there. The old battery, Foster and Leonard. Now we’ll go places. Now you just watch our dust.
    Dave strapped on the breast protector, took Foster’s throw, and rifled the ball to Ed at second base, while shouts from every part of the field in confident tones showed how the team felt.
    “All right, Dave.”
    “Atta boy, Dave old kid, old boy...”
    “Right behind you, Dave.”
    “Le’s go, Dave...”
    Dave back! Gee, it was great to have him there. Fat Stuff threw his last warm-up pitch as the applause sprinkled through the Cleveland stands. Foster and Leonard. Why, they were together on the old White Sox back in 1934. They’d forgotten, the two of them, more baseball than the Indians ever knew.
    The first man hit a pop foul. “Yours, Dave...yours...Dave...Dave...Dave.” The cries had the same confidence in them. West might stumble over a bat; even Babe Stansworth could trip on his mask or muff a pop-up. Not Dave. Not old Surefoot. “Atta boy, Dave, good catch,