The Big Game

This is a story about old-time baseball.

Back when gloves still looked like mittens, bats were as thick as tree trunks, spikes on shoes were sharpened so they would be like weapons, pitchers threw spitballs and screwballs and knucklers, batters hit .400, outfielders ran down flies in places in-the-park homeruns usually went, catchers were afraid of nothing, pitchers made whole lineups quake by just looking at them, the dugout was full of spit and tobacco, cracker jack was all you could buy, and the only noise in the park was the crack of the bat and the cheer of the crowd. Every kid knew that Ty Cobb hit .385 in 1910, but Joe Jackson, who hit .387, couldn’t qualify for the title because he didn’t have enough at-bats. That Christy Matthewson won 27 games for John McGraw and the old Giants in NY, and that the farm-hand for Washington named Walter Johnson won over twenty games for the first time. The balls were soft then, so no one hit home-runs. Everyone went to Saturday afternoon games (Sunday games weren’t permitted), and local heroes were guys who hit the farthest, ran the fastest, threw the hardest, and who could leg triples out of hits that were usually doubles.

The Kid was nine. He didn’t have any money, but the way they’d built the outfield wall at the ballpark made it so that a nine-year-old could stand on the top board of the frame and could rest is arms on the top of the wall and look onto left field. It was a perfect place. He’d skipped school that day, and prayed that his Pa never found out, ‘cause he’d get a whippin’ for sure and would never be able to go back and he’d have to sit after at school and miss the afternoon games, and that would be awful. Ma would be mad, too. He’d skipped because today was special. The season hadn’t started yet, but a Big League team, the Tigers, was in town to play the local guys, the Bull Islanders, but usually just called the Bulls.
The Tigers. Ty Cobb and Wahoo Crawford and Hughie Jennings – it was great. The Kid had never seen any big-leaguers before. He’d seen some in making, playing on the local semi-pro team, but never a real big-leaguer. And he’d never seen a great player like Ty Cobb. Now Pa, he’d seen Wee Willie Keeler play, and the Kid’s older brother had played on a semi-pro team against the St. Louis Browns, but this was the Kid’s first experience. It was special to him. Like a birthday.
He’d gone from the house to the park on the other side of town, and played ball all morning to kill time. He’d eaten his lunch around noon, and after lounging and doing nothing with the other boys for an hour, they all started for the park. They’d practically run, they were so excited. When they’d gotten to the park there were still two hours till the first pitch, but the players were beginning to get there. The park was getting old – just one deck of seats, from the left field foul line to the right, and there were no outfield seats. But it was a nice park, with an awning, and a new scoreboard that three guys worked from the inside. They sold some food, and if you had a nickel, you could buy a root-beer, and for six cents a coke-and-lime, but only rich guys could afford that.
When the Tigers came onto the field and began to warm up, the kids on the wall started shouting. The players turned to look at the noise, then went back to warming up. When the outfielders began to shag flies, the boys really started cheering. One of the players, Davy Jones, the left fielder, caught one underneath the wall. The thundering applause and frenzied cheering of twenty boys made him look up.
“Whatch-y’all doin’ up there?”
“Watchin’!!” was the response.
“Don’t y’all got school or nothin’?”
Silence.
“Well?”
“It’s a holiday!” a boy named Tad shouted.
“Yeah!” the others shouted in unison.
“Oh,” Davy said, and smiled, showing that he’d been a kid once, too.
The kids went wild when Ty Cobb came out to center, but he paid them as much mind as a bug on the scoreboard. That disappointed them. When Davy Jones caught another fly by the wall, the Kid called down to him.
“Hey!”
Davy turned.
“What’s the matter with Ty? He’s…I dunno. Mean.”
“Mean!” Davy Jones said. He was grinning a lot. “Course he’s mean. He’s Ty Cobb. He’s the meanest man as ever played the game. He spikes guys and throws fists and does all manner of things that no nice player’d do. Watch. He might spike your third baseman today…” Then he jogged back to the infield.
All the boys looked at each other with wild eyes. They’d heard of a player getting spiked, but had never actually seen it.
But it was true. Cobb was batting third for Detroit, and in the first inning, with two out and Cobb on first after beating out an infield single, stole second, sharpened spikes first, on a strike to Sam Crawford who was batting. The Bulls’ second-baseman was so shocked at the sight of the lightening-quick Cobb sprinting down the line that he forgot he was in the game. The stands gasped as Cobb almost leapt into the air, stretching his legs with his razor sharp spikes in front of him, at the second-baseman’s thighs. Asa (the second-baseman) threw himself aside, the perfect throw from the catcher whizzed into the outfield, and before anyone knew it, Cobb was up and running and was safe at third.
It was amazing. No one had ever seen anything like it. Everyone marveled at Cobb’s speed and prowess, but the men began to deride the play.
         “Cobb shouldn’t be doin’ that! It’s not even the season yet, and playin’ against a farm team! Ain’t right!”
“Hey Ump! Yank that Cobb! That ain’t sportin’!”
“Cobb! You good for nothin’…! Play like a man!”
The Kid and his friends didn’t know quite what to think. Cobb had stolen two bases as fast as most could steal one, and he’d made a big player leap out of the way and miss a throw. It was spectacular, but confusing.
Wahoo Sam Crawford’s at-bat ended in a long fly pocketed by the left fielder, and the Bulls were at bat, but they were fighting an uphill battle. A triple by the short-stop, Mel Watkins, and a long single down the right field line by Asa Forrest, the second-baseman, put the Bulls on the scoreboard first, and the crowd went wild. Another inning went by with not much action (everyone was still thinking about the near-spiking). Then major-league ball caught up with the Bulls.
Davy Jones doubled on the first pitch he saw. Cobb singled, Sam Crawford doubled off the glove of the Bulls’ right fielder, and Jim Delahanty, the Tiger’s first baseman, tripled on a ball that look like it was shot out of a gun. Jus like that, three runs crossed the plate for the Tigers. The Bulls answered with a run that made it home on an error by the Tiger’s third baseman, making it 3-2.
Two more innings crept by. The kids wished that they’d had some money to buy a cracker jack with, but they were broke. The sun was really out, and it got hot for a day late in March. Pretty soon the ten-cent programs were being bought by the fans just so they could generate a little breeze. Lemonade began to sell fast too.
The fifth inning saw a new starter come out for Detroit. Bill Donovan, called Wild Bill by his friends because Buffalo Bill was already taken, and because he had an affinity for wild pitches, came up and surrendered one run on a spectacular inside-the-park home run to Mel Watkins, who looked like a pro. Tied all, 3-3, and the game was turning out pretty good.
         The kids were excited. After the three-run show by the Tigers, most people had seen hope slipping away. Dead ball games rarely had more than three or four runs scored per side, but three all after six was a good show. Wild Bill was still in the game, and so was the Bulls starter, Pete Forrest, a notorious tobacco-chewer and practical joker.  The kids chuckled that he’d spit on the ball, and then throw it with such spin that the spit would fly off and go into the batter’s eye, blinding him and rendering him useless. But that was legend. Crazy Pete, as he was called, was also known to chew tobacco and chewing gum at the same time, one on each side. What effect that had on spit-balls, no one knew.
But Pete surrendered another single to Cobb. Asa Forrest looked spooked at the prospect of that man flying towards second spikes first. He was playing rather far from second, hoping that he wouldn’t have to make a steal play.
It was a good thing that he was playing far from second.  Wahoo Sam hit a grounder up the right side, and Asa scooped it up. Everything seemed slow. Asa barehanded the ball and looked to second. Mel Watkins was running towards second, lifting his glove to try a double play. Cobb was streaking like a demon towards Mel, hoping to break up the double play and get home on the chaos that would ensue. Rupert Johnson, the first-baseman, was ready to seal the double play at first.
For a moment, it was like a photograph. Asa getting ready to sling the ball to Mel, Mel getting ready to throw it to Rupert as fast as he could before Cobb hit him, Rupert waiting at first with his foot on the bag, hoping Crawford didn’t leg out his hit.
Then Asa threw. The ball went into Mel’s glove like it was pulled there, and Mel turned himself to face first. And there was Cobb, leaping with his spikes leading, going for blood. Mel jumped up, his waist just above Cobb’s spikes, and threw. Then they collided.
Dust flew. Cobb’s shoulder went into Mel’s stomach, and his head into his ribs. Hats went flying, Mel did a half spin in the air, Cobb’s head and shoulders were slammed towards the ground by the force of the impact, but his feet and knees wanted to keep going forward, so fast was he moving. Mel landed on Cobb’s legs, away from the spikes, and it seemed that Sam Crawford’s left foot hit the bag at first as Rupert stretched to get Mel’s throw. All eyes shot to the ump for his decision, while he was looking at Sam Crawford with the greatest satisfaction and shouted for everyone to hear:
“Yur’ OUT!”
Everyone went wild. It was the greatest bang-bang-bang (extra bang for the collision) anyone had seen. The crowd was going nuts. The Kid and his friends were shouting crazily. One of the Kid’s friends, Ernie Short, forgot he was just standing on the frame of the wall, slipped, fell off, and had to scramble back on again to participate in all the yelling. The Bulls’ center fielder and Asa Forrest moved over to Mel and Cobb to make sure they were still lucid. The Tigers were all shaking their heads…it was a REALLY good play. And a good call. Cobb was mad (as usual), but there was nothing he could do. The double play had been turned, and it was still three-all.
The Tigers scored one run in the ninth, and ended up winning the game, but that was hardly what was on people’s minds. Mel Watkins was a local hero – not only had he hit a triple and an inside-the-park home run (a rarity), but he’d collided with the great Ty Cobb and had gotten off a spectacular mid-air throw to first that got Sam Crawford out for a double play. The Kid and his friends all stayed around the ballpark to congratulate him. They couldn’t stop telling him how great he’d done that day. Mel gave them a ball, whether in appreciation or just so they would stop surrounding him is hard to tell. Probably in appreciation.
The Kid was walking with his friends, and they were going over every detail of the play: the toss, the collision, the out at first, and the Kid was breathlessly telling everyone how that if Sam Crawford’s foot had hit that bag just a moment before, he’d have been safe, when all his friends got silent. The Kid stopped to see what they were looking at. It was his father, standing with a Cola in one hand and a program in the other. And he was looking at his son very gravely. The Kid was certain his stomach was in his shoes.
“Boy.”
Silence.
“Come here.”
And the Kid strode over, not once looking up, praying that a hole in the ground would swallow him or that lightening would strike him or somethin’, he was so nervous. His father crouched.
“Did’you go to school today?”
“No, pa.”
A pause.
“Were you here for the entire game?”
“Yessir.” He kicked at the dust.
“See that play?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Whad’ya think of it?”
“It was okay, I reckon.”
“Okay? Boy, that was the greatest play I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some good plays in my time. Won’t anything ever quite match what you saw today. I’d remember that for the rest of my life. You won’t see somethin’ like that again for an age.” He stopped and looked at the Kid. “You have good time?”
The Kid looked up with a little glimmer of hope. “Yes, Pa.”
His father looked at him.
“Ain’t you mad, Pa? I skipped school and everything.”
“No, Boy, I ain’t mad. I didn’t go to work this afternoon either. Had to see this game. Guess that means we’re both playin’ hooky.” He looked at the ground for a moment, then looked up at the Kid’s face. “It’s all right. Don’t tell your Ma, though. She don’t mind baseball much, and she’d rare if she found out what we did today.”
The Kid smiled.
“Wanna sip of Coke, Boy?”