MONDAY we drilled from 11 till a little after noon. I come up through the dugout with Perry and Coker and Canada, and we stood on the steps. “There she blows,” said I.
“This is a ball park,” said Canada, for he never seen it before, nor did Perry nor Coker. Perry whistled between his teeth. Coker said, “I suppose if you was lost up there in the stands somewheres they could send a dog out after you.”
For a drill that was supposed to be closed to the public there was certainly a large number of people present. There was men on scaffolds riding up and down along the fences, putting in a last little dab of paint here and there. There was about 100 more sweeping and scrubbing in the stands and bleachers. There was a bunch of men crawling up and down on the towers, testing all the lights. There was 3 men on power mowers, and about another dozen down on their knees clipping with a scissors what the mowers missed. There was 1 man painting the top of the visiting dugout. You could hear hammers and saws in all corners of the park, and there was a fellow testing the loud speaker, “testing, 1, 2, testing, 1, 2,” and the lights on the new scoreboards was flashing on and off. That scoreboard shows just about anything, up to and including a running box score, plus a line score, plus how other games are going in both leagues, plus of course balls and strikes and hits and errors, plus even the names of the umpires. It takes 3 men to run it.
And then of course on top of everything there was the usual plague of writers circulating around the clubhouse and the dugout and the batting cage. Me and Perry no sooner hit the field then a colored photographer run up wanting a picture of the 2 of us with our arm around each other. It come out quite nice in the Harlem paper later on in the week. Other writers come around asking questions and trying to get somebody to say something worth writing down. Soon Dutch come up out of the dugout and made them all clear off the field.
We got some work done. There was a good infield drill plus some mighty impressive hitting. Some of the boys parked a few in the stands. Sid hit 1 over the Gem sign, a mighty blast when you consider that the cage was moved clear back to the screen, and Red walloped 1 that went in just above the Blatz. Squarehead hit the longest of the morning, a drive that went 450 feet that I took without moving, for me and Gil Willowbrook was shagging flies in center. It seemed like I waited 20 minutes at least, for it went so high before it dropped. I said to Gil, “I guess I know where Squarehead hits them.” When Squarehead finished hitting me and Gil moved in about 50 feet.
After awhile Dutch yelled at me to come in and hit a few. I suppose it should of made some impression on me at the time, for since when does a lowly relief pitcher take batting practice? But it did not, and I trotted in and took a bat and went in the cage. Lindon was throwing. “Now,” said I, “not too hard, Lindon old boy, for I am no hitter.”
Bruce Pearson was catching. “Dutch says to throw fast,” he said.
“Okay,” said I. “If I catch a glimpse of it I will stick out the bat.”
I poled the first 1 a terrific drive that Lindon picked up with his bare hand when it stopped rolling. Then I swang at 5 and missed them all. Lindon give me a twist of the wrist, meaning that he would throw a couple curves. I swang at 3 and missed. I poled the next 1 a gigantic clout that went about 150 feet in the air and come down on the screen above my head. “Bunt a couple,” said Bruce, and I bunted 3. I consider myself just about a perfect bunter. A pitcher has got to know how to lay them down.
When me and Coker and Canada and Perry got back to the hotel a fellow come to see us from the TV show put on by Fireball Gas called “People, U. S. A.,” and he said he would give us all 100 each to sing on the air that night. The m.c. of the show is Larry Hatfield. Larry would throw a few questions at us and then we would sing 2 songs.
This fellow was a very swishy sort of a character. I notice that there’s quite a few like that in and around TV studios. Just before he left Canada made some little remark, using a nasty word. “That reminds me,” said this fellow, “you have got to watch your language on TV. If someone was to cuss there would be the most awful consequences.”
“Cuss?” says Coker. “Why, dear me, nobody on this ball club ever says so much as the nastiest little word. Heavens to Betsy, if we was to be vile or not act like gentlemen Dutch Schnell, our sweet manager, would wash out our f—ing little mouth with soap.” Coker never cracked a smile, and this fellow did not know if he was being took for a ride or not. Perry cut in and made Coker lay off. Perry said it is okay to ride a man, but not when you are libel to get him mad and it cost you 100.
We went down to lunch, and then I telephoned home. I could hear the Perkinsville operator switching in, and the next thing I heard was Pop’s voice.
“Pop,” said I, “this is Hank.”
“Hello, boy,” said Pop, “how is the flipper?”
“Never better,” said I.
“Why do you never write a letter?” said he.
“I am too busy,” said I.
“I guess you are at that,” said he.
“Listen,” said I, “the reason I called is that me and Perry and Coker and Canada is going to sing on the TV tonight.”
“Sing?” said Pop.
“Sure,” said I.
“What time?” said Pop.
“8,” said I. “We get 100 each.”
“For singing?” said Pop. “Maybe you ought to quit baseball and go into singing.” He laughed. “We are coming down to New York tomorrow.”
“Coming down?” I said. “What do you want to come all the way down just to see me sit on the bench?”
“I got a hunch you might pitch,” said he.
“You are nuts,” said I.
“Dutch would want to get off to a fast start with a win,” said Pop. “His best bet would be a lefthander, would it not? And Sam pitched Sunday.”
“Who all is coming?” I said.
“Me and Holly and Aaron,” said he.
“After the game come up to the hotel,” I said.
“Hank,” said Pop, “I got a letter from the club. It said you done well and listened to what you was told and never spoke back and kept good hours and no monkeyplay. You keep that up. Study Sam and listen to Dutch. I am convinced that Dutch will use you as a starter.”
“Do not pay no attention to that piece by Krazy Kress,” I said.
“What piece?” said Pop. “I never seen it. When the hell was it?”
“That is right,” said I, “it will not be out until tomorrow.” Perry was laying on his bed. “You want to speak to Perry?” said I.
“Sure,” said Pop, and I give the phone to Perry.
“Howdy,” he said. “Do not forget to see us on the TV tonight.” He went bippy-de-bop-boop-bop in the phone a few times, and Pop got a kick out of that.
“Get to bed early afterwards,” said Pop. “Gene Park is libel to bust his leg.”
“Leave us hope so,” said Perry. “Hank told me all about you, playing ball yourself and all.”
“I played a bit with Cedar Rapids in the Mississippi Valley League,” said Pop. “Then I played a lot of semi-pro. I am still at it.”
“Hank says you were pretty fair,” said Perry.
“Well, maybe so,” said Pop. “I see where you stole a good many bases this spring.”
“That is me,” said Perry. “I do not like to stay too long in 1 place. I am 1 of the roving kind.” Then he done the bippy-de-bop-boop-bop again, like Bing Crosby done on the record, and Pop laughed and asked for me back, and I took the phone.
“I do not want to run up your money,” said Pop. “I hope you ain’t throwing the screw too much. You got time for that.”
“That is what Red says,” said I.
“You follow Red and do what he says,” said Pop. “Say,” he said, and he lowered his voice a bit. “Is Flynn in the room?”
“No,” I said.
“Why does he not hit?” said Pop.
“He does not pull,” I said. “It ain’t like Q. C. where we had that short center field. These parks is big, Pop. Big! We drilled this morning and he done the same.”
“That is too bad,” said Pop. “It seems like he would learn. We got seats square behind home about 15 rows up. We wrote away in the middle of March. If Dutch does not start you tomorrow he will start you Thursday. I will stake my life on that. We will lay over till Thursday if need be.”
“That is crazy, Pop,” I said. “But if you wish to come and see me sit on the bench that is okay with me.”
“You will work,” said Pop. “Listen, boy, I do not wish to run up your money. Get your sleep tonight. Well, we will see you tomorrow. We will be pulling out of here with the birds.”
“Pop,” I said, “is my car still in the depot?”
“Still sitting there,” said he. “I pass by now and then and take a look. Hank, Perkinsville is gone mad. Business stands still when they get the Mammoths on the radio. They stopped the show when you was down in Baltimore the other night. Bill Duffy telephoned it in play by play. I guess you seen Bill.”
“Yes,” I said. “He was in Baltimore and then again in Philly. He done “Casey at the Bat” for a crowd of us up in the hotel in Philly.”
“Well,” said Pop, “I do not want to run up your money. Good luck, son. We will see you tomorrow.”
“So long, Pop,” I said.
“Goodby, son,” he said, and then we hung up.
Me and Perry and Coker and Canada spent the afternoon deciding on what to sing. We chose “I Love You As I Never Loved Before” for we liked it and knowed the words, but we could not decide on another. We thought about “On Top of Old Smokey” but Hams Carroll was always singing it to the tune of these very vulgar words and we would of probably busted out laughing in the middle. We liked that 1 about the girl where her hair hung down in ringulets, and finally Perry remembered that it was on the juke in the Manhattan Drugs in the lobby, and we went down and played it a few times, copying off the words. By about 5 we had them down pat. We ate early so as to get the burps out of our system, and about 7 we caught a cab in front of the hotel. “Radio City,” said I to the cabbie, and away we went.
“Who is going to win the ball game?” said the cabbie.
“Heavens to Betsy,” said Coker, “Notre Dame, I suppose. Notre Dame always wins.”
“Oh,” said the cabbie, “I thought you was ballplayers. The ballplayers stay up in that hotel.”
“Ballplayers?” said Coker. “Lordy me, that is too strenuous. We are singers.”
Well, Coker been on that kick ever since we spoke to the swishy fellow from the show early in the day.
“It is pretty strenuous,” said the cabbie.
“I bet at the day’s end them poor ballplayers is all wore down to where they ain’t got enough energy to trim their nails,” said Coker.
“Yes, they get worked pretty hard,” said the cabbie. “It is a tough life.”
“Heavens to Betsy,” said Coker, “they start playing ball in February and sometimes they play clear into October. Then them dear boys have only got November and December and January and part of February to theirselves.”
“That is right,” said the cabbie. “It is a rough life.”
“Good gracious but I would never be a ballplayer for all the perfume in Paris,” said Coker.
“It is sure tough,” said the cabbie.
“What hours do you work?” said Coker.
“I work 12 hours a day with every other Sunday off,” said the cabbie.
“You lucky stiff,” said Coker.
The program was fairly corny. Larry Hatfield is rather flatnosed, and he said if we was to make a remark or 2 about his nose he would not mind, for it always brung a laugh. There was 3 acts before us.
Then the band swung into “Take Me Out To The Ball Game,” and we was introduced. “Well,” said Larry Hatfield, “I see where Brooklyn is leading the league.” That was true, for Brooklyn opened down in Washington that afternoon. The opener is always a day earlier in Washington, the President throwing out the first ball and all that crap. Bill Scudder won it, 6–1. The audience give out with a great hand for Brooklyn.
“That is right,” said I, “and they better make the most of it, for just as soon as the Mammoths get rolling there will be little to clap for over in Brooklyn.” This remark got a tremendous amount of applause. Hatfield give me the sign to keep on talking. “It ain’t where you stand the first day,” said I. “It is where do you stand along about September 30. Now, if it rains 3 days until Scudder rests up Brooklyn is safe. But it ain’t going to rain 3 days in 4 the whole summer through, so these folks that clap so hard for Brooklyn might just as well save their breath.” This just about brung the house down.
“How about you other boys?” said Larry. “What is your opinion in this matter?”
“It is about like Hank says,” said Coker.
“Hank give it to you straight,” said Perry.
Canada give a grunt.
“It looks like Henry Wiggen does the talking for this quartet,” said Larry Hatfield.
“I do not believe in hiding the truth under a basket,” I said. There was so much applause it sounded like even some of the Brooklyn people was chiming in.
Then we tore into the music. Frankly speaking, I think we was a little flat here and there. Somehow we was geared to the shower room rather then to an open place. We sung 2 songs. Perry forgot the words halfway through the girl with the hair hung down in ringulets, but he filled in with a couple bars of bippy-de-bop-boop-bop and it sounded exactly like it was planned that way. On the way out we was give 100 each in an envelope.
Canada and Coker went for a ride on the subway afterwards. I wanted to go along, even though I been on the subway a number of times with Lindon the September before. But Perry grabbed me. “Back to the hotel,” said he, “for you might work relief tomorrow.”
“It ain’t but 9,” I said. Nonetheless he steered me in a cab, and back we went. We grabbed a couple sandwiches and milk down in the Manhattan Drugs, and then we went up. “It sure is earlier then hell,” I said.
“It is nearly 10,” said Perry.
“I ain’t tired,” I said.
“Take a bath and relax,” he said.
“I took 1 this afternoon,” I said.
“Take another,” he said.
But I did not. Red and some of the others stopped by and said they seen us on the TV. Red said we sounded a little flat. Most of the boys seemed to think we sounded better in the shower, which was true. I wish to make this clear, for I don’t want nobody to think we sing so flat as we done on the air. Dutch come by. He asked us if we got the 100 as promised, and we said we did. “Well, get to bed,” said Dutch.
“What the hell!” said I. “I never before seen so many people so hot after getting to bed at 10:30 in the evening in my life.”
“Everybody goes to bed early the night before the opener,” said Dutch. Well, if Dutch says a thing it might not always be true, but it’s the law. I begun to undress. I must of fell asleep about 11.
Along about 9 I woke up, and I laid there looking out the window. It looked cloudy and cool, and the sun went in 1 minute and out the other. I laid very quiet, for me and Perry never would stir around until the other 1 did. I laid there thinking. Lots of times when I lay still like that my mind catches a hold of things that it misses completely when I am up and moving. That is what happened, for all of a sudden it flashed upon me that if you will read in Sad Sam Yale’s book called “Sam Yale—Mammoth,” pages 196 through 199, you will find a description of the first Opener he pitched, and how they rushed him to bed the night before and never told him a thing for fear he would be nervous and lose out on his sleep, being just a rookie and all, and how he got up about 12 midnight, thinking he would go down for a sandwich, and then he was no sooner out of his room then Dutch Schnell and Mike Mulrooney, both coaches for the Mammoths at the time, collared him and asked him where he was going, and then they went along and sat with him like 2 guards over a prisoner, and then they steered him back to his room and straight to bed, and Mike sat on a chair outside Sam’s room half the night, guarding it.
I remembered that. And I remembered all the dreaming I done as a kid, maybe whilst laying in bed, and how I would dream that that was what they done to me the night before the opener. I must of dreamed that dream 500 times. Now here it happened to me, like in Sam’s book and like I dreamed it, and I never suspected.
I got up and opened the door. Right smack across from the door, up against the opposite wall, there was a chair. Beside it on the floor there was an ash tray choked with cigarettes, cork-tip like Clint Strap smokes, and I knowed where Clint spent most of the night.
I closed the door. Perry was awake. He had a gleam in his eye like he just stole home. “You bum,” said I. “You knowed all the time.”
“Knowed what?” said he.
“Ain’t it true?” said I. “Ain’t I going to pitch today?”
“It is true,” said he, and he give me a grin from here to St. Louis. “Now you know. Everybody in the United States knowed it by midnight last night, all but you.”
“Well, I cannot go to the ball park naked,” said I, and I begun to dress, and along about halfway through my heart begun to pump something fierce and I got so excited I could barely button my shirt. I guess it was a good thing they did not tell me after all, for I would of never slept.
Dutch and Red come in about 1 minute later. “I suppose by now you know,” said Dutch. I said I did. Then Dutch went out and me and Red and Perry went to breakfast together. There was a picture of me in all the papers, saying such things as ROOK TO HURL and MAMMOTH’S SURPRISE STARTER, and Red read Krazy Kresses tripe and said that Krazy’s crystal ball was muddy already and the first game yet to be played. Red reads “The Star-Press” every day but says it is cockeyed. 1 time I asked him why he did not read another, and he said “The Star-Press” was the biggest and give you the most laughs for your money.
Then we spent most of the breakfast going over the Boston hitters. Red knowed them all but Heinz, a young kid up from the American Association. He said that if we got the chance we should try and watch Heinz hit in practice. Perry done so, and that was a help, although we would of got his number sooner or later. There’s people that say Heinz is a coming immortal, but I got my doubts. We had a good book on him all year.
About 11 me and Canada and Perry and Coker and Lindon and Squarehead piled in a cab. The more you get in the less you each pay. The traffic got thicker the nearer we got to the Stadium, and when we got out there was a mob of kids waiting there where I first seen Sad Sam Yale in the flesh that time with Pop. The cops tried to clear a way, but the kids ducked under and around. They spotted me, for my picture was all over the morning papers, and they spotted Perry, for that was no trick, him being the first colored Mammoth since Mark Jackson in 47. Besides which they seen us on the TV the night before. They come charging at us, crying “Sign my book, sign my book,” pushing their books under our nose. The way to do is grab 1 and sign it and keep on moving. You just can’t sign them all. I usually say, “Look, kids, if I was to sign all your books my arm would be broke and I could not pitch. So if everybody will meet me here after the game I will sign them then and it will not matter if my arm is broke or not.” When the game is over it will take awhile to get dressed, and when you come out there will only be a few kids left that would rather have your autograph and never mind the whaling they might get for not getting home to dinner.
If you lose there might not be no kids a-tall. I seen that happen, too.