Tommy knew this was his last chance to uncover the identity of the secret ace, to get the story of a lifetime and start himself on the pathway of fame and fortune.
The game had already begun. Koosman was pitching against McNally, Tommy thought. He didn’t really know. He was losing track of the unimportant stuff and focusing in on the big picture: the identity of the secret ace.
Slug Maligne seemed like a nice guy for a joker, and he sure knew his baseball. He didn’t believe that a secret ace was molding events for the Dodgers. But maybe he was being just a little naive. Even though he was young, Tommy figured he had a pretty well-developed detective sense, and he knew a scam when he smelled one. And he could smell one at Ebbets, all right.
Only he couldn’t pin the smell down to a specific individual. There were always too many people around. The scent itself was rather weak, but it had to stick to the clothes and belongings of whoever it came from. If he could check out the lockers on the quiet, take a whiff of the equipment, the players’ street clothes, maybe he could finally track down the ace who’d been manipulating things behind the scenes.
He’d come to believe that Slug was right about one thing, though. It probably wasn’t one of the big name players. He’d managed to eliminate some of the names conclusively. Some he wasn’t sure of. But it had to be, he figured, one of the little guys, one of the newcomers to the Dodgers. Otherwise, why hadn’t they played their cards before? Why hadn’t they built success for them and their team in the past? Swoboda, for example, or Ed Charles. Why would they wait for this year to start pulling their tricks?
He had a couple of people in mind. He waited his chance and slipped behind a laundry hamper in the corner of the trainer’s room while no one was looking; then it was a matter of quiet patience until the locker room cleared out right before game time. He had to be careful. He had to be quiet and subtle because occasionally a player would pop into the locker room to go to the bathroom or something, but Tommy had good ears. He could hear them coming down the hall and he was quick to hide. The lockers themselves presented no obstacles. They were stalls rather than real lockers, made of boards and wire fencing, totally open in the front. Some were messy enough to briefly hide in if someone came into the room.
It was nerve wracking, but Tommy thought you needed nerves to be a good reporter, and he had plenty.
He’d checked the first two guys on his list-Nathan Bright, the third string catcher, and Steve Garvey, a young third baseman the Dodgers had called up late in the season mainly for pinch-hitting duty-and found nothing out of the ordinary, except that Garvey seemed to get an inordinate amount of fan mail from girls who liked to include their photos with their autograph requests. He found himself lingering over a couple of the photos, almost tempted to pocket one or two-Garvey’d never miss them-until a sudden roar from the crowd outside wrenched his mind back to his quest.
He put the photos back. There was one more name on his list of suspects, Milt Hayes. He’d been in the majors for a couple of years, and was a fringe talent. The Dodgers mainly used him as a pinch-runner and defensive specialist in the outfield. Maybe, Tommy thought, he figured his time in the big leagues was limited. Maybe he saw the Dodgers had a chance this year and he figured to get that one championship ring in his career. Maybe-
“Can I help you, kid?”
Tommy straightened up from Hayes’ locker, a startled, guilty look on his face. He turned to see Don Drysdale staring down at him, a look of concern compounded with wonder on his stern features. Drysdale was big, raw-boned and said to be downright nasty. He must move quieter than a snake, too, otherwise he wouldn’t have caught me. He stared at Tommy with a hard glare that had intimidated more than a few major league batters.
“Uh, gee, no, Mr. Drysdale,” Tommy said, “I was, uh, I was-I have a press pass!” Tommy held it out like a magic talisman in front of him.
Drysdale nodded uncertainly. “Uh-huh. Well, kid, I suggest you get your butt back up to the press box, then, with the other pervs and drunks. I don’t think you’re going to get much of a story out of sniffing somebody’s street pants.”
If only I could tell you, Tommy said to himself. But he knew he couldn’t.
“Yes sir, yes sir,” he said, sidling past the player, who turned to keep an eye on him as he scuttled for the locker room door.
He was almost there, when suddenly it hit him.
The smell. What he’d been looking for. There was no doubt about it whatsoever. He looked at the name over the locker, and was stunned.
He was sure Drysdale thought he was nuts when he started to laugh.
Tommy heard another roar from the crowd before he could make his way up to the press box, but it had a sort of downcast, moaning note to it, so Tommy knew that whatever had happened was bad for the Dodgers.
“What happened?” he asked Slug Maligne, who was perched in his usual spot in the box.
“Where you been, Tommy?” Slug asked. “You’ve missed half the game.”
“Working on my story,” Tommy said.
Slug shook his head. “You’re missing the story, Tommy. The game is the story, kid. If you want to be a reporter you have to remember that, first and foremost. What happens down there on the field, where men give their hearts, where sometimes they leave pieces of themselves, all in search of that moment of perfection, whether it’s a throw or a catch or swing of the bat, that’s the story kid. Everything else is just lipstick on a pretty girl.”
Tommy was pretty sure he didn’t believe that. The story, to him, was a secret found and exposed, but he didn’t feel like discussing the philosophy of journalism with Slug, who wasn’t a journalist, so couldn’t be expected to understand such things. “Well,” Tommy said, “what’d I miss?”
“First, McNally hit a two-run homer for the Orioles.”
“McNally?”
“Yeah. McNally. You know, the Orioles pitcher?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Now Frank Robinson just hit another one. It’s three to nothing for the Orioles.”
Tommy wanted to shake his head and laugh, but he didn’t. That would upset Slug, and he did sort of like the guy.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “The Dodgers are going to win.”
Slug smiled at him. “I like a fan with faith in their team.”
Sure, they’re going to win, Tommy thought. The secret ace will take control any time now. He settled back to watch and wait.
As the game wore on, McNally looked invincible. Koosman found his groove and gave up nothing more. But McNally was still in total command as Cleon Jones, who hit.349 during the season but was having a poor Series, stepped up to lead-off the sixth. McNally threw one of his sharp-breaking curves and it bounced in the dirt at Jones’ feet. Play halted as the ball rolled towards the Dodger dugout, and Jones got into a discussion with the plate umpire.