The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
AW, LET THE KID HIT, by Michael Avallone
The Hawks had piled up so many runs at the expense of the Browns that even the most rabid of baseball fans were beginning to yawn when the seventh inning rolled around.
Substitutes were rolling out of the loudspeaker like water.
“Oll batting for Cassidy!”
The crowd could be forgiven this once for not sitting up and taking notice. Hawk hitters had nailed the lid down with a staggering total of sixteen safeties and were walking away from a 12-1 score.
Roxy Carter’s educated fastball had left the guys who batted for the Brown cause speechless. It looked like a red letter day for the Hawk nine all around.
“Oll batting for Cassidy!”
No one noticed the change in the lineup. Not a ripple of response, approval or otherwise, came down from the seats. The Browns had blown the game and had let the Hawks, a cocky first place outfit, climb all over them. Partisan Brownie fans were disgusted.
12-1. How much of a rooter can you be?
Out on the mound, Roxy Carter hitched his pants and waited for the pinch hitter to step in. Oll. A rookie fresh up from Peoria. So what? Three swings at big league pitching and he’d be on the bus heading back. Crazy game this, thought Roxy.
Roxy Carter was big league pitching, too. Eighteen wins, six of them shutouts and this was only the beginning of August. He was having one of his biggest years. His sidearm curve was pushing the Hawks right to the flag.
As he glanced down the line to his battery mate, Deacon Doyle, he grinned broadly. The new guy standing up there facing him in the batter’s box was holding a bat so big it made a lumberyard of home plate. Rookies always interested him, always gave him a chance to work a few things.
This was just another wide-shouldered kid trying to crash the big time. Well, let’s see what he’s got to sell.
Roxy had an eleven-run cushion and only two innings more to work. The Browns were acting like doormats and he was in a stepping mood. They’d been popping his stuff up all afternoon and only nicked him for three singles. The first two batters in the seventh had broken their backs on his soft tantalizing curve. Two outs.
Why should this kid Oll be any different?
Pitcher-like, he took the kid in. Sixty feet separated them, but Roxy’s practiced eye narrowed it down to talking distance.
Hmmm. Big, strong looking. Shoulders are plenty broad. Doesn’t look scared either. The way most bushers look in their first at bat in the big time. Never heard of this guy before. Must be a new one.
Well, let’s try him first. Then we’ll know if he’s just another green pea.
Nothing like a good fastball across the letters to find out what kind of a batter you’re tangling with. Roxy reared back on his right leg and let fly. The ball split the afternoon air like a comet. Deacon Boyle gloved it and the guy in blue behind him roared, “Stee—rike one!”
He rested on his hip and took the return throw. What’s-his-name, Oll, hadn’t budged an inch.
The pitch had cut the plate in half but he hadn’t fallen away from it. The kid’s either stupid or has guts. Maybe both. Haven’t found out which. Anyway, nothing lost. One up on him now. He’ll be waiting for a good one, so—
Roxy’s soft curve butterflyed around the edges of the plate for a one-and-one count. It was close but not quite in there. A perfect sucker pitch.
Kid’s got an eye, he thought. Most bushers would have tried to murder that one.
Noises of impatience went around the stands. Roxy Carter didn’t notice.
Oll, he watched now with respect. His pitcher’s eye had him marked. He had decided the big kid was a good hitter even though he hadn’t seen him swing once. Only a really good pitcher can do that.
He chuckled suddenly. Why not? The score was 12-1. Two out. Nobody on. How much could he hurt himself?
Even if the kid did connect—hell, it would be worth it just to see if he was right. He shook off Deacon Boyle’s signal and came in again with a sizzling fastball that was all steam and no curve. Just a high, hard one made to order for power hitters.
As a prophet, Roxy batted 1.000.
Oll, who had given a good imitation of still life up until then, kicked into action like a supercharger. His arms, legs, and bat did a chain reaction routine, and Roxy Carter’s fastest delivery tore a seat apart in the upper left field deck.
The crowd watched in stunned disbelief as the big, broad-shouldered rookie lumbered around the bases for a homer. Disbelief turned into a bedlam of wild cheers.
Roxy was delighted. He’d been right, of course. Should have known by the way the kid held that right shoulder of his in the dropped position at the beginning of his swing. Batters get real power that way. Roxy knew. Hadn’t he pitched against the best of them in his time?
Oll was practically mobbed by his teammates around home plate. The game was past rescue, of course, but a homer off the likes of Roxy Carter was something. First time up in the majors and he gets a homer. How about that?
Roxy set his chin and blazed through the rest of the game with ease. No Brown batter got on after Oll. The all-or-nothing technique gave him another big one for the win column and pushed the Hawks a full six games ahead of the runner-up Cubs.
* * * *
Lacing his street shoes in the locker room, Roxy looked up to see Deacon Doyle towering over him. The big catcher still had his dirty uniform on. A look of resentment was pinching his heavy face.
“How come you shake off my sign on that kid in the seventh? I signaled for a curve.” Boyle fairly ripped it out.
Roxy grinned. “Wanted to see what he could do with it.”
Boyle’s face kept its pinched look. “Well, you saw. He hit it a mile. What’s the matter with you, Roxy?” He bit the words off like they were chaws of tobacco.
The pitcher dropped his hands to his sides. It was the old story again. Who’s more important? The catcher or the pitcher?
“I don’t get you, Deac.”
“Listen, Roxy, I’ll make it plain.” Boyle moved in belligerently. “I don’t know what satisfaction you get outa lettin’ rookies tag you for homers, and I don’t care. All I do care about is this. I’m callin’ them behind the plate. Me. Got that?”
The pitcher straightened and got to his feet. Roxy’s locker was in the corner of the clubhouse, and they were alone except for a couple of ball players down at the far end of the room.
Roxy’s jaw set in a hard line and his eyes lost the warm, friendly look usually found in them.
“You’re a little mixed up, aren’t you, boy?” His voice was cucumber cool, which only seemed to make Boyle’s voice get louder.
“Yeah? If it wasn’t for my signals, me doling out the right signals, mixin’ them up for you, that soup bone of yours would have folded months ago. I know how to save your wing. You don’t.”
“You’d better shut up, Deac.” Roxy’s voice was even lower now. He was sore. Plenty sore. Boyle had sounded off on the same subject too many times. Why, the bum would be down on some hot Texas team now if he, Roxy, hadn’t asked Manager Wilks to give him a break. Gratitude!
Boyle ignored him. “Listen, Carter. The catcher runs the battery, not the pitcher. Cut the tricks. I’ll decide what you throw and what you don’t throw. Next time you shake a sign off when it’s called, I’ll ram the ball down your throat!”
They were close to each other now, angry words flying fast, when some spittle from Boyle’s mouth flew between