Roy wanted nothing from the bastard but took the cigarette because everyone was looking on. When he lit it, someone in the rear yelled, “Fire!” and ducked as it burst in Roy’s face. Bump had disappeared. The players fell into each other’s arms. Tears streamed down their cheeks. Some of them could not unbend and limped around from laughing so.
Roy flipped the ragged butt away and began to mop up his wet locker.
Allie Stubbs, the second baseman, danced around the room in imitation of a naked nature dancer. He pretended to discover a trombone at the foot of a tree and marched around blowing oompah, oompah, oompah.
Roy then realized the bassoon case was missing. It startled him that he hadn’t thought of it before.
“Who’s got it, boys?” — but no one answered. Allie now made out like he was flinging handfuls of rose petals into the trainer’s office.
Going in there, Roy saw that Bump had broken open the bassoon case and was about to attack Wonderboy with a hacksaw.
“Lay off of that, you goon.”
Bump turned and stepped back with the bat raised. Roy grabbed it and with a quick twist tore it out of his sweaty hands, turning him around as he did and booting him hard with his knee. Bump grunted and swung but Roy ducked. The team crowded into the trainer’s office, roaring with delight.
But Doc Casey pushed his way through them and stepped between Roy and Bump. “That’ll do, boys. We want no trouble here. Go on outside or Pop will have your hides.”
Bump was sweaty and sore. “You’re a lousy sport, alfalfa.”
“I don’t like the scummy tricks you play on people you have asked for a favor,” Roy said.
“I hear you had a swell time, wonderboy.”
Again they grappled for each other, but Doc, shouting for help, kept them apart until the players pinned Roy’s arms and held on to Bump.
“Lemme at him,” Bump roared, “and I will skin the skunk.” Held back by the team, they glared at one another over the trainer’s head.
“What’s going on in there?” Pop’s shrill blast came from inside the locker room. Earl Wilson poked his grayhaired, sunburned head in and quickly called, “All out, men, on the double.” The players scurried past Pop and through the tunnel. They felt better.
Dizzy hustled up a makeshift rig for Roy. He dressed and polished his bat, a little sorry he had lost his temper, because he had wanted to speak quietly to the guy and find out whether he was expecting the redhead in his room last night.
Thinking about her made him uneasy. He reported to Pop in the dugout.
“What was that trouble in there between Bump and you?” Pop asked.
Roy didn’t say and Pop got annoyed. “I won’t stand for any ructions between players so cut it out or you will find yourself chopping wood back in the sticks. Now report to Red.”
Roy went over to where Red was catching Chet Schultz, today’s pitcher, and Red said to wait his turn at the batting cage.
The field was overrun with droopy players. Half a dozen were bunched near the gate of the cage, waiting to be pitched to by Al Fowler, whom Pop had ordered to throw batting practice for not bearing down in the clutches yesterday. Some of the men were at the sidelines, throwing catch. A few were shagging flies in the field, a group was playing pepper. On the line between home and first Earl Wilson was hacking out grounders to Allie Stubbs, Cal Baker at short, Hank Benz, the third baseman, and Emil Lajong, who played first. At the edge of the outfield, Hinkle and Hill, two of the regular starters, and McGee, the reliefer, were doing a weak walkrun-walk routine. No one seemed to be thoroughly awake, but when Roy went into the batting cage they came to life and observed him.
Fowler, a southpaw, was in a nasty mood. He didn’t like having his ears burned by Pop, called a showboat in front of the other men, and then shoved into batting practice the day after he had pitched. Fowler was twenty-three but looked thirty. He was built rangy, with very light hair and eyelashes, and small blue eyes. As a pitcher he had the stuff and knew it, but all season long he had been erratic and did a great amount of griping. He was palsy with Bump, who as a rule had no friends.
When Roy came up with Wonderboy, he hugged the plate too close to suit Fowler, who was in there anyway only to help the batters find their timing. In annoyance Fowler pitched the ball at Roy’s head. Roy hit the dirt.
Pop shrieked, “Cut that out, you blasted fool.” Fowler mumbled something about the ball slipping. Yet he wanted to make Roy look silly and burned the next one in. Roy swung and the ball sailed over the right field fence. Red-faced, Fowler tried a hard, sharp-breaking curve. Roy caught it at the end of his bat and pulled it into the left field stands.
“Try this one, grandpa.” Fowler flung a stiff-wrist knuckler that hung in the air without spin before it took a sudden dip, but Roy scooped it up with the stick and lifted it twenty rows up into the center field stands. Then he quit. Fowler was scowling at his feet. Everybody else stared at Roy.
Pop called out, “Lemme see that bat, son.”
Both he and Red examined it, hefting it and rubbing along the grain with their fingers.
“Where’d you get it?” Pop asked.
Roy cleared his throat. He said he had made it himself.
“Did you brand this name Wonderboy on it?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s it mean?”
“I made it long ago,” Roy said, “when I was a kid. I wanted it to be a very good bat and that’s why I gave it that name.”
“A bat’s cheap to buy,” Red said.
“I know it but this tree near the river where I lived was split by lightning. I liked the wood inside of it so I cut me out a bat. Hadn’t used it much until I played semipro ball, but I always kept it oiled with sweet oil and boned it so it wouldn’t chip.”
“Sure is white. Did you bleach the wood?”
“No, that’s the true color.”
“How long ago d’you make it?” Pop asked.
“A long time — I don’t remember.”
“Whyn’t you get into the game then?”
Roy couldn’t answer for a minute. “I sorta got sidetracked.”
But Pop was all smiles. “Red’ll measure and weigh it. If there’s no filler and it meets specifications you’ll be allowed to use it.”
“There’s nothing in it but wood.”
Red clapped him on the back. “I feel it in my bones that you will have luck with it.” He said to Pop, “Maybe we can start Roy in the line-up soon?”
Pop said they would see how it worked out.
But he sent Roy out to left field and Earl hit fungos to him all over the lot. Roy ran them down well. He took one shot over his shoulder and two caroming off the wall below the stands. His throwing was quick, strong, and bull’s eye.
When Bump got around to his turn in the cage, though he did not as a rule exert himself in practice, he now whammed five of Fowler’s fast pitches into the stands. Then he trotted out to his regular spot in the sun field and Earl hit him some long flies, all of which he ran for and caught with gusto, even those that went close to the wall, which was unusual for him because he didn’t like to go too near it.
Practice picked up. The men worked faster and harder than they had in a long time. Pop suddenly felt so good, tears came to his eyes and he had to blow his nose.
In the clubhouse about an hour and a half before game time, the boys were sitting around in their underwear after showers. They were bulling, working crossword puzzles, shaving and writing letters. Two were playing checkers, surrounded by a circle of others, and the rest were drinking soda, looking at the
