Pitcher’s Hands is OUT!

By Dan and Jay M. Bylsma

Copyright 2001. All rights reserved

Published by River Road Publications Hard cover $15.95

Chapters:

Scooter

Scooter’s Grandpa

Grand Harbor

Dutchie

Ferry Field

The New Neighborhood

The Boy Scout Troop

The Perfect Mitt

Play Ball!

Big Doin’s

Fourth of July Fireworks

(reproduced below)

Doolie Higgins

The Witch Doctor

The Championship Game

The Strangest Play in Baseball History

 

Chapter Eleven

Fourth of July Fireworks

The sound of cherry bombs and M-80’s exploding in the neighborhood woke Scooter, reminding him that it was the Fourth of July. When he had brushed away the cobwebs of sleep, he reached under his pillow and found the ball Judy Johnson had given him right where he had put it the night before. It was a beauty; pure white leather with bright red stitching so tight, seemed like the cover would never come off. It was another treasure for the growing trove under Scooter’s bed.

“How come the Negroes can’t play in the Majors, Gramps,” Scooter asked between bites of scrambled eggs.

“They can – can meaning ‘able’. They mayn’t. They aren’t allowed to because they’re Negroes. The baseball owners won’t hire black men on their teams.”

“Why not? Don’t they want the best players to help their teams win?”

“Well, yes. But a lot of people don’t want to mingle with Negroes, eat in the same places with them, sleep in the same beds they slept in. So they try to keep them separate. So it would be hard to have a Negro on a ball team because of those feelings that a lot of people have.”

“Why would it be hard?”

“Because there are a lot of hotels and restaurants that won’t allow Negroes. They couldn’t even travel with the team.”

“Just because they're black?”

“Well, black makes them seem different. And it’s the difference that makes folks feel that way. There was a time when the railroad wouldn’t hire Irish Catholics. But eventually the Irish people proved themselves to be… well, just people like everybody else. So they finally got hired on the railroad. One of my engineers was a great old Irishman name of O’Riley.”

“Oh, really?”

“No, O’Riley.”

“Gramps…” Scooter rolled his eyes at the old man’s joke. Then he persisted. “But the Negroes have proven themselves. Dutchie said that nobody ever hit a ball farther than Josh Gibson.”

“True enough, Don Badcon, the sports writer for the Tribune said as much last night. And Satchel Paige didn’t allow but one hit all last night. But as good as some of the Crawfords are, they're still Negroes and until folks change their attitudes, they won’t play in the Major Leagues.”

“I’m glad we don’t see any of that around here,” Ruthie’s mother said.

“Don’t paint your face black and try to get an ice cream cone at Mulder’s Drug Store, m’dear,” the old man said as he buttered another piece of toast.

“Surely you’re not serious?” Scooter’s mother was surprised.

“Mulder won’t kick you out the door, but they’ll be too busy to serve you even if you’re the only one in the store.”

“That ain’t fair,” Scooter said.

“Life isn’t fair,” the old man said with a sad note in his voice. “And life isn’t gonna be fair. There are gonna to be times when someone thinks you’re too young, other times when you’ll be too old. Times when you wish you were a man, others when you wish you were a woman. And all the time, you have to play the cards He deals you. Being successful and happy isn’t about getting a good hand, it’s about playing the cards you’re dealt the best you can.

“Take Satchel Paige, for example. Would he like to play in the Majors? I’m sure he would. But he’s not sitting around pouting. He’s risen to be the best he can be and do the best he can with what he’s got. That’s all any of us can do.

“Now speaking of doing the best we can… when is your baseball game this morning?”

“Eleven a’clock.

“Well, we got time to tend to the chickens and then you best get over there. We’ll come along in time for the game.”

“SCOOTER.” Someone calling at the back door interrupted the old man.

Scooter recognized the voice. “Dutchie,” he said. “Can I be excused?”

It was Dutchie. “I came to see if’n I could borrow your mitt, seein’ as I play before you.”

“S’okay, I’ll get it.”

*****

The scoreboard in right field told Scooter that Dutchie’s game was in the third inning and one of the teams was ahead 16-5 when he got to Seventh Street Field. The field itself was a sight. There was red, white and blue bunting on the backstop. The various scout troops had their flags and colors displayed. The grass was just mowed and new chalk lines had been put down. A lot of people were sitting on blankets on the rise. There were some older boys setting off firecrackers in a lot across the street. Miller’s Dairy had two horse drawn delivery wagons along the street, and there was a line of folks getting the free cold lemonade. The horses appeared restless at the firecrackers. They stomped and tossed their head at the sound of the firecrackers.

Scooter spotted Slats and Casey sitting on the rise with some other kids and made his way through the crowd to them. “Who’s winning,” he asked when he got to Slats and Casey.

“Dutchie’s team’s killin’ ‘em.” Casey responded. “Dutchie got a triple with the bases loaded and then Beans homered. It’s a slaughter. Do you know you play Doolie’s team?”

“Yeh. They killt us the time we played them before, didn’t they?” Scooter asked.

Slats nodded. “It wasn’t pretty and Doolie was mockin’ us the whole time. Especially Woody. I don’t know what he has in for Woody. But I hope to see the day Woody grows up bigger’n Doolie, walks up to him and says, ‘Lester, you’re a loser’ and knocks his block off.” They all nodded in agreement. Although Scooter felt safe in the crowd, he looked for Doolie, who was not to be found.

As they watched, the other team scored some runs to keep from getting mercied but before long, the game was over, with Dutchie’s team winning 16 - 9. Slats and Scooter left Casey and the other kids and made their way through the people and blankets to the field.

“Doesn’t Casey go to our church,” Scooter asked Slats.

“Yah.”

“How come he doesn’t join the scouts and play on our team. He’s as good as you and me and better than most of the others.”

Slats had stopped walking, and Scooter looked back to see why.

Slats was just standing there with his mouth open and a dumbfounded look on his face. “You kiddin'?”

“No. He’d be a heck of a lot better hitter than most and he can pitch besides. How come he doesn’t play. Won’t his folks let him?”

“You ain’t kidding, are you.”

“’Course I’m not kidding.”

Suddenly Slats understood. “You don’t know Casey’s real name do you?”

“All’s know is ‘Casey’. What’s his name got to do with it?”

“His name is ‘Cassandra’ as in ‘Cassandra Lynnae DeBoer’. Casey can’t join the Scouts because he’s a girl.”

“You’re fun‘un me,” Scooter protested. “He can’t be a girl. He’s too good to be a girl. Ain’t no girl I ever seen who can play baseball like that!”

Slats just stood there grinning. “She’s been as good as any boy since we were old enough to be playing ball on the playground at school… What’s the matter, you gonna be sick.”

Just then Dutchie came up to return Scooter’s mitt. “Thanks for the loan of your mitt. I left some catches in it for you. What’s the matter with you. You look like you’re gonna puke or somethin’.”

“He didn’t know Casey was a girl,” Slats offered.

“You didn’t? Geez!,” Dutchie was astonished. “She’s always been a girl.” Then he realized how funny that sounded. “I mean, she didn’t just change.”

Scooter wasn’t feeling so good. “Couple’a days ago, he… Casey that is, said he had to go home because he, er she, had to go to the bathroom. I told her to go in the bushes like the rest of us do. Gee Wilikers. Now I know why he looked at me so funny.”

“Why she looked at you so funny. What’s the big deal. Just tell her you though she was a boy.”

“Oh sure, Slats. That would be sweet music to any girl’s ears. ‘Sorry girlie, I thought you were a boy’.”

“Don’t forget to say you’re sorry for tellin’ her to pee in the bushes in front of all of us.”

“Oh yeh. I’m sorry for that too, girlie. Geeeeeeee Willikers.” Scooter moaned.

“Glad I’m not you. C’mon… get your mind off’n girls. We got a game to play.”

*****

“Okay, Scouts!” Coach Farley was rallying his players. “We’ll go with the same lineup as we did last week. It won’t be as easy this time. Troop 24 has but one loss. They’re a tough team and they beat us before. But if we keep our heads in the game and do our best, I think we can beat them. Some of their players are bigger than some of us. But remember, the bigger they are the harder they fall.”

“Or, as I like to say,” Scoutmaster McHenry interjected, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

“Yes. Well, we’re the visitors,” Coach Farley continued, “so we’ll be batting first. I’ve decided the on the same batting order as last week.” He paused to look at his clipboard. “Tommy Hammond bats first, then Stone, then Slatski, Secory, VanderVeen….” He went through the lineup.

“Good. They got Bub Denton pitching,” Slats said to Scooter as he was swinging a bat to warm up. “Usually they go with Doolie first. They think we’re gonna be a push over so they can save Doolie for the end. ‘Course it doesn’t hurt them to have Doolie at shortstop like he is.”

It also didn’t hurt that there was a baseball field between Doolie Higgins and a certain grocery delivery boy with whom Doolie thought he had a score to settle.

“Let’s play ball,” the umpire called out.

“Look, we got an ump behind the plate and one on the bases,” Scooter said.

“They do that for the final championship game, too,” Slats replied. Then he lowered his voice. “Look! They’re giving Hammy the line.”

Sure enough, after the pitcher had yelled “Lefty!,” the third baseman had moved toward Doolie at short. Doolie was waving him back, but the third baseman paid him no mind or didn’t hear him. He was shouting “Aay batta, batta” at the top of his lungs.

Bub’s first pitch was just where Hammy wanted it and he stroked the ball down the third base line. It was a slow grounder that neither the pitcher or the third baseman could field on time and Hammy was on first.

“The kid‘ll do it to you ever time.” Slats said to Scooter. Then he turned to Stony “C’mon, Stony, rip it now-ah!”

Stony let Bub’s first pitch go by but it was called a strike. The second pitch was high. Stony swung and missed the third pitch but connected with the next one and hit a grounder to the third baseman. He bobbled it momentarily, looked to throw to second but saw it would be too late. He then turned and threw the ball to first. But the throw was off the mark, and the ball got by the first baseman and went into the crowd. The umpire motioned to the runners to advance one base on the overthrow. Troop 23 had runners on second and third with nobody out. The crowd cheered wildly and Scooter could pick out his family - his mother and Little Russell on a blanket; his father and grandfather standing.

“You can hit this guy, Slats. A hit’s two runs,” Scooter urged and picked up his bat and started swinging it in wide arcs over his head - first with one arm then the other. He had watched Josh Gibson warm up in that fashion just the night before.

The “aay, batta, battas” began again as Slats stepped up to the plate. But “aay battas” didn’t bother Slats. He connected with Bub’s second pitch for a double down the third baseline scoring Hammy and Stony with ease. Troop 23 was ecstatic, and was jumping up and down and yelling “Atta boy” and “Way to hit ‘em Slats.” They were ahead 2 – 0 with nobody out and Scooter was up to bat.

Doolie Higgins signaled “Time Out” to the base umpire and trotted to the pitcher’s mound.

“Time out,” the base ump called raising both his arms in the air.

Scooter couldn’t hear what Doolie was saying and had no idea what they were planning. Then he heard Casey calling from the rise. “C’mon Scooter. You can hit him.” He glanced over her way and caught her eye. She raised both arms with clenched fists. “Take ‘em to the fence,” she hollered and Scooter grinned and nodded.

We’ll see if you’re so friendly when you find out I thought you were a boy, Scooter thought.

“Play ball,” the umpire called as Doolie returned to shortstop.

Scooter didn’t get a chance to “take it to the fence” as Bub delivered four straight balls and walked him. “So that’s what Doolie had up his sleeve - to walk me.”

“That’s okay, Gregory,” Coach Farley said when Scooter reached first. “A walk’s as good as a hit. Now if Teddy gets a hit, I want you to try to make it to third if you can. Take a good lead off on every pitch. Remember, there’s nobody out.”

What happened next Scooter couldn’t remember afterwards, but enough people told him about it so he could form a clear picture of what transpired. He took a lead off with each pitch, like Coach Farley had instructed. On the third pitch Teddy VanderVeen hit a line shot that looked like it would be a clean single up the middle. But Doolie raced to his left with the crack of the bat, diving full out and made an impossible catch of the line drive. Doolie actually landed on second base when he fell, doubling off Slats for the second out.

Scooter, who apparently saw Doolie catch the line drive and fall, skidded to a stop and raced back toward first base to avoid being doubled off as well as making a the third out – a triple play for Troop 24. Doolie jumped to his feet and threw the ball as hard as he could to make the force on Scooter at first base.

Scooter did remember wondering why the first baseman held his mitt out in such a way so as to catch his head instead of the ball as he came back toward first base. Then there was a loud crash inside the back of his head. There were fireworks in his brain like shooting stars on the Fourth of July. He couldn’t make his legs move properly, and then the lights went out. All of them.