coming to an end.
Unfortunately, the visiting third-place Cardinals didn’t know it. Behind the two-hit pitching of Slim Sallee and a sacrifice fly by their manager and second baseman Miller Huggins, the Cardinals shut us out 1–0.
It wasn’t a bad loss though. The game was errorless and well-played by both teams; the Cards just came out ahead this time.
The mood in the clubhouse after the game was quiet but not glum. It was a loss, so we couldn’t be happy, but I could see a new confidence in my teammates. If we played the rest of the season the way we did today, we’d have the pennant locked up by Labor Day.
After showering and changing, I felt confident enough to talk to John McGraw about something that had nothing to do with the game. I’d had another one of my great ideas: who would be better to ask about Tom Kelly than John McGraw? I figured since McGraw had a grudge against Kelly for jumping the team, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell me if he knew any dirt about him.
McGraw was in his office, still in uniform, his feet on a desk and a newspaper in front of his face. It wasn’t a large room, just something to give him a little privacy from the players.
“Mr. McGraw?” Behind his back, he was often referred to as “The Little Round Man”; to his face, he was always “Mr. McGraw.”
He lowered the paper enough to look at me over the top of it. “Yeah, kid?” His eyes had an anger in them, and I remembered that it was winning, and only winning, that mattered to McGraw. “Well-played” didn’t count unless it put the game in the win column.
“I was wondering about Tom Kelly. When he played for you—”
“Kelly!” he roared. “You thinking of doing like he did? Think you’re gonna be a goddamn movie star now?”
“No! No, I just—”
“You forget about them goddamn moving pictures!” He threw down the paper and I saw it was the Public Examiner. Jeez, my timing needed work.
Now I just wanted to get out of his office as quickly as possible.
“You keep the hell away from them goddamn movie people,” he ordered. “They’re only gonna get you in trouble. You want to find yourself back in Beaumont?”
“No!” One season in East Texas was enough for a lifetime. And enough for an afterlifetime—it was a better illustration of hell than any fire and brimstone sermon by Billy Sunday.
“Then you worry about baseball and winning the pennant.” He slapped his hand down on the newspaper. “I read any more crap like this, and you’re not playing for John McGraw anymore. Got it?”
“Yes.” And I did. I backed out of his office and hustled out of the park. He had me feeling guilty and worried.
It took a while for me to realize it was McGraw who’d chosen me for the movie in the first place. If I got into trouble because of it, wouldn’t it be his fault?
Chapter Nine
F riday morning never dawned. The sun wasn’t powerful enough. to penetrate the dark massive clouds that stormed above the city.
I woke to a steady drum roll of rain pelting the awning over my bedroom window. Rumbles of thunder echoed in the background.
The rain cooled the air so much that my bedroom was almost chilly. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and plumped the pillow under my head. Listening to the gurgle of rain water running through a down spout, resting my eyes in the soothing dim gray light, and breathing air so brisk that it felt alive, I wallowed in the utter coziness of it all.
New York hadn’t been this cool since spring, and it reminded me that fall would soon be here. And with fall, the World Series. I just hoped the Series would hurry up and get here while the Giants were still in first place.
I tried to imagine myself playing in the World Series. Would it be in Philadelphia’s Shibe Park, against Connie Mack and his Athletics? Or would we be facing my former Red Sox teammates in Fenway?
Neither ballpark came into view. The only scene I could picture was me sitting next to John McGraw on a
Unfortunately, the visiting third-place Cardinals didn’t know it. Behind the two-hit pitching of Slim Sallee and a sacrifice fly by their manager and second baseman Miller Huggins, the Cardinals shut us out 1–0.
It wasn’t a bad loss though. The game was errorless and well-played by both teams; the Cards just came out ahead this time.
The mood in the clubhouse after the game was quiet but not glum. It was a loss, so we couldn’t be happy, but I could see a new confidence in my teammates. If we played the rest of the season the way we did today, we’d have the pennant locked up by Labor Day.
After showering and changing, I felt confident enough to talk to John McGraw about something that had nothing to do with the game. I’d had another one of my great ideas: who would be better to ask about Tom Kelly than John McGraw? I figured since McGraw had a grudge against Kelly for jumping the team, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell me if he knew any dirt about him.
McGraw was in his office, still in uniform, his feet on a desk and a newspaper in front of his face. It wasn’t a large room, just something to give him a little privacy from the players.
“Mr. McGraw?” Behind his back, he was often referred to as “The Little Round Man”; to his face, he was always “Mr. McGraw.”
He lowered the paper enough to look at me over the top of it. “Yeah, kid?” His eyes had an anger in them, and I remembered that it was winning, and only winning, that mattered to McGraw. “Well-played” didn’t count unless it put the game in the win column.
“I was wondering about Tom Kelly. When he played for you—”
“Kelly!” he roared. “You thinking of doing like he did? Think you’re gonna be a goddamn movie star now?”
“No! No, I just—”
“You forget about them goddamn moving pictures!” He threw down the paper and I saw it was the Public Examiner. Jeez, my timing needed work.
Now I just wanted to get out of his office as quickly as possible.
“You keep the hell away from them goddamn movie people,” he ordered. “They’re only gonna get you in trouble. You want to find yourself back in Beaumont?”
“No!” One season in East Texas was enough for a lifetime. And enough for an afterlifetime—it was a better illustration of hell than any fire and brimstone sermon by Billy Sunday.
“Then you worry about baseball and winning the pennant.” He slapped his hand down on the newspaper. “I read any more crap like this, and you’re not playing for John McGraw anymore. Got it?”
“Yes.” And I did. I backed out of his office and hustled out of the park. He had me feeling guilty and worried.
It took a while for me to realize it was McGraw who’d chosen me for the movie in the first place. If I got into trouble because of it, wouldn’t it be his fault?
Chapter Nine
F riday morning never dawned. The sun wasn’t powerful enough. to penetrate the dark massive clouds that stormed above the city.
I woke to a steady drum roll of rain pelting the awning over my bedroom window. Rumbles of thunder echoed in the background.
The rain cooled the air so much that my bedroom was almost chilly. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and plumped the pillow under my head. Listening to the gurgle of rain water running through a down spout, resting my eyes in the soothing dim gray light, and breathing air so brisk that it felt alive, I wallowed in the utter coziness of it all.
New York hadn’t been this cool since spring, and it reminded me that fall would soon be here. And with fall, the World Series. I just hoped the Series would hurry up and get here while the Giants were still in first place.
I tried to imagine myself playing in the World Series. Would it be in Philadelphia’s Shibe Park, against Connie Mack and his Athletics? Or would we be facing my former Red Sox teammates in Fenway?
Neither ballpark came into view. The only scene I could picture was me sitting next to John McGraw on a
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