Free World Series by John R. Tunis Page B

easy out.
    Just the same, try. You never know. Try, run, run. There...it was falling...almost. Through the roar of the crowd he heard Red Allen warning him. “Watch it...Roy...watch the stand...watch it...” Hang it all, he had to get that ball. Wall-shy, was he? They’d see whether he was wall-shy.
    From the stands in right field the crowd watched. Too bad, an impossible catch. No, he’s after it! They rose as he strained forward to the bleachers, desperately reaching for the ball, closer, closer. Look out, he’ll hit the wall. With a final burst of speed he stuck up one hand, caught it, and stumbling rolled over on the turf right against the barrier. At last he picked himself up, the ball safe in his glove.
    There! How do you like that, Casey? Wall-shy, am I? Yeah! The best one hand of anybody in the business, that’s what they said last year. Listen to ’em yell. Say, the fans in this man’s town are fair after all, aren’t they? Three out. “All right, gimme my bat, boy. Give us that heavy stick there. Who’s up, Allen? I’m next. We gotta have a rally. Give us a start, big boy, I’ll bring you round. Wait and see if I don’t.”
    “Roy, step up there and get me a hit. You’re better’n you’ve shown so far. Go get me a single. There goes Red!”
    Red Allen was fast. But fast as he was, old Lanahan’s arm was faster. The runner almost beat the throw, but the ball was there ahead of him. No! Hammy dropped it. He dropped it! The coaches danced with delight on the base paths. Here’s where we go. Man on first and nobody out. The Kid grabbed the heavy bat. I can always hit better with men on bases, he thought. That was a slow ball Drewes threw Red, I noted particular. Hope he throws me a slow ball, I can hit ’em.
    It was a slow ball and he caught it squarely. All he saw was old Cassidy urging him along from first, Lanahan dancing near second yet keeping well out of the path of his flying spikes, and then Charlie Draper back of third giving him the slide signal. The ball was still in the air as he felt the gorgeous touch of the canvas sack at his feet.
    Now the Dodger dugout was alive with pepper and noise. For the first time since the first game they had a chance really to yell. Sitting on the step they shouted at him through cupped hands. Swanny’s substitute flied out, and for a moment they cooled down, but then Whitehouse, substituting for Karl Case, came up. He looked at the outfielders, surveyed the situation, knocked the dirt from his spikes. The pitcher wound up.
    Another hit! McClusky and Gordon were both scampering after it. Once the ball landed, the Kid danced into the plate and stood watching McClusky reach it, fumble it momentarily, and then drop it. Finally he grabbed it and threw to Gordon, while Whitehouse, a jackrabbit on bases, was scooting round third and tearing for home. Turning to throw, Gordon slipped, caught himself, and burned the ball in hurriedly. The throw was wide and in a flurry of dust Whitehouse came across the plate with their third run.
    They scored another, and somehow Fat Stuff hung on. He weakened toward the end, but sheer heart carried him through, for the only way he would go off the field was on a stretcher.
    In a short while the game was over. Clack-clack, clackety-clack, clack-clack their spikes sounded gaily on the concrete runway. Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch their spikes beat a joyful tune as they poured onto the wooden floor of the dressing room. Laughing, yelling, shouting, they threw themselves down.
    “Swell playing, Roy....”
    “Great work, Roy....”
    “Thanks, Karl...thanks, Harry....”
    “Nice going out there, Fat Stuff....”
    “Meat and potatoes, oh, boy....”
    “Nice hitting, Whitey....”
    “Thanks, Chisel...how’s for a Coke?...”
    “Whoopee...yippee....”
    Yells, shouts, confusion. They sat shaking their fists at each other in triumph across the room. “I knew you could do it, Roy. Boy, did you bust that ball.”
    “Yowser. Fellas,