Above the full-throated roar of the crowd, the Sox base runner yelled, “Next time I’ll put both feet in your face!”
Paul grinned amiably at him. “Which rib you want me to bust next time?”
In the upper half of the seventh, Sharker retired the three men in order, but Paul didn’t like the feel of it. Two of the outs were on long, hard drives. The curves mushed instead of breaking sharply. Paul saw the lines of weariness around Sharker’s mouth.
He approached Sharker in the dugout. “You threw hard in the first innings. Too hard, maybe?”
“I’m fine. What are you trying to do? Sabotage me?”
“You got a nice season with fourteen and six.”
“So what?”
“So you know better than anybody when the stuff is gone. That’s all.”
The Sox came roaring to bat in the top of the eight. They sensed the weakness of the pitcher. Raneri robbed the first batter of a sure hit with a somersaulting, miracle catch.
The next man up hit a line-drive double that took a bad bounce just when it looked as though Sildon would hold it to a single.
Sharker motioned to Paul, and Paul walked out. Sharker said, “I got a few fast ones left. What do you think?”
“Try one and if it feels O.K. I’ll call more.”
The ball came down the slot like a bullet, a called strike at the knees. Paul called it again and it went wild. Paul made a desperate save and the runner darted back to second. Sharker lost the batter on a walk.
The next Sox batter hammered the first pitch solidly. Sildon went back to the wall, gathered it in. The runner touched up and took off. Sildon arrowed the ball in. Sharker moved off the mound and trapped it, and the runner scrambled back to third.
Paul shuddered as he saw the next pitch coming in. You could almost count the stitches. The batter undercut it — a towering foul to the left of the plate. Paul whipped off the mask and raced back. The wind eddying around the high stands, made the ball tricky; they were shouting warnings at him. The ball clopped into the pocket of the glove as he ran into the cement in front of the boxes at the same instant. He fell.
He was lying on his back looking up into a bunch of silly balloons that became faces. He still had the ball. He heard the siren sound of the crowd.
The team was around him. The trainer wouldn’t let him up until he named the date, his address and phone number.
The trainer felt him over. “You sure you feel O.K.?”
“I feel fine.”
The top of the Saint batting order came up in the top of the ninth. Paul sat and watched Sildon bat, and the weakness and dizziness slowly left him. There was an egg over his ear.
He turned and winked at Sharker. “We got ’em that inning.”
“Go on and say it,” Sharker said icily.
“I told you you’re the judge, Al.”
Sharker looked at him for long seconds, and then turned to Rogan. Sharker said, “I’m all through. I can’t pitch another strike ball with a cannon.”
Rogan gave his quiet half-smile and motioned to the bull pen. Belton, the big left-hander, began to work in earnest. Paul swiveled around, tense, as he heard the crack of the bat. Sildon hit nicely, crisply, for a copy-book single. Sharker hunched forward and yelled, “Get one, Sharmody! Get that big one!”
Sharmody, as per instructions, sacrificed Sildon to second. The Saints dugout had come alive. Paul looked around, grinning inside. If you had to knock down a wall with your head to get these guys going, maybe it was worth it. Leroy came up and powdered one. The crowd roar swelled and then sagged as the line drive went foul by inches. Leroy fouled the next one on top of the stands, took two balls in a row to even the count, and then slammed one by the Sox third baseman. The outfielder came in fast, so fast that Sildon had to hold at third. Leroy on first, Sildon on third, and one down. Leroy danced off first, taking the dangerous big lead.
Then, dancing on the base path, Leroy stumbled. Ibbert threw to first. It was a hurried throw, low and to the left. The first baseman made a frantic stab for it but it ticked off the edge of his glove. Sildon broke for home. The second baseman snatched up the deflected ball, whirled and threw to the catcher. Sildon slid hard, hooking, and the Sox catcher missed his tag.
The crowd went crazy. The Saints dugout emptied as they surrounded Sildon, pummeling him.
Sildon yelled, “Sure glad it wasn’t old Muzzol trying to tag me!”
Leroy was still on second when Paul came to bat. Towers had bounced out.
“Put it on ice!” yelled Raneri.
“Bunt and knock ’em all down on your way around,” Towers yelped.
Paul grinned. He knocked the dirt out of his spikes. This was better. This was like ball for the Robins. Wake these guys up and they sounded like any team. Hard to figure, these guys. A series in the offing and they still don’t get off their high horse — not until you push them around a little. That was the thing to do.
Paul felt nice and loose. Ibbert looked white around the mouth. Paul let two go by. And then a third. Three and nothing, the count. As soon as the next one left Ibbert’s hand he knew it was the automatic strike pitch. It came down the line with its thumb out, asking for a ride. He put back and shoulders and hips and ankles and wrists into the swing. He ran hard for first and then slowed down and jogged the rest of the way. The whole team, hands outstretched, was waiting at the plate, screaming their brains out.
And that was definitely all for Mr. Ibbert. Waldo Retting came out for the Sox and put out the fire.
Belton pitched for the Saints in the top half of the ninth. Before he took the mound he grinned at Paul and said. “Call anything but the hop. It just don’t hop today. It’s tired.”
The Sox came to bat grimly. Two pinch hitters were useless. The third batter struck out.
The locker room was noisier than Paul had heard it all season. He couldn’t stop grinning.
Sharker came up and said, “About that little date we got, son.”
“And with Raneri and me, too,” Leroy said. “How about it? One at a time or all three of us.”
“One at a time.” Paul said.
“The hell with that!” Al Sharker said. “Three at once, or we won’t fight you. Do we look stupid?”
Rogan came over, into the circle of laughter. “Stick around,” he told Paul.
After he was dressed in street clothes, Paul found Rogan in his office. Rogan was tilted back, feet on desk, pipe between his teeth. “Sit down, Muzzol.”
Paul sat. As always, with Rogan, he felt ill at ease.
“Took you long enough,” Rogan said.
“For what?”
“To get mad, to come alive. To start getting on top of the team. Thought I’d have to find me another backstop. Catcher holds a team together. Always has. Always will.”
“You could have told me what you wanted,” Muzzol said indignantly.
“Nope. You had to work it out yourself. You were scared of the boys. Stage fright, I guess. They’re just another ball team, with more clippings than most. Ever see a green pitcher facing that Yankee batting order? Same thing. If a manager tries to appoint a spark plug for the team, it’s always phoney. Man has to do it himself. Now you’re on top of them. Stay there. Once in a while I’ll call pitches from the bench. But seldom. Up to you. Ride ’em, rough ’em up. See you around.”
Rogan walked with him to the door. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll see you around for quite a while, I think.”