While the next batters took their turns, I fixed my attention on Hal Chase at first base. I was oddly comforted by his presence there. Not because it was Chase—famed equally for his fielding prowess and his unsavory character—but because he was a player I had watched as a boy in this very ballpark. When I was a kid, sitting in the bleachers and fantasizing about playing in the big leagues, I always envisioned in my daydreams playing against the very players who were on the field in the very ballparks where I watched them. Those players had been leaving the game, though, and huge new stadiums were replacing the homey ones I used to know. So it was with a feeling of comfortable familiarity that I sat in old Hilltop Park, reassured to see Hal Chase manning first base for the Highlanders.
Six and a half innings went by with the Sox hitters methodically driving singles and doubles off of Vaughn and circling the bases for seven runs. Our pitcher, Bucky O’Brien, just as methodically mowed down the New York batters, holding them scoreless with only two hits. Already some fans were crossing the corner of the outfield to get to the exit gate in the right field fence. It seemed odd to see people walking through fair territory while a game was in progress, but it was one of the quaint facts of life at Hilltop Park.
“Rawlings! You come here to sleep or play ball?”
I looked up at the angry voice. “Huh?”
Stahl was standing in front of me, clutching his mitt in one hand and pointing toward the infield with the other. “I said you’re playing second. Get out there! We’re not paying you to sit on your ass.”
I snatched my glove and stumbled out of the dugout, running to second base. Jake followed close on my heels to take his position at first. O’Brien threw his last warm-up pitch, and the Highlander leadoff man stepped into the batter’s box. I was now officially in my first Red Sox game. Stahl must have figured that with a 7–0 score it was safe to put me in.
I was a tight bundle of nerves anyway. To settle down, I went over the fundamentals: if it’s a grounder to me, I throw to Stahl at first ... a bunt toward first, I cover the bag ... a hit to right field, I move out for the cutoff throw ... a drive to left, I cover second.
None of these situations developed, as O’Brien struck out the first two batters and the third flied out to center. I jauntily trotted off the field, having accomplished nothing but feeling satisfied at having done nothing wrong.
I didn’t get a turn at bat in the top of the eighth, as our side went down in order. In the bottom half, my first fielding chance came as Hal Chase himself hit an easy one-hopper to me. I played it cleanly, and felt my confidence grow.
I was due up fourth in the final frame, so I wasn’t sure if I’d get to bat at all. Tris Speaker then led off the inning with his second double of the game and my chances improved. Speaker moved to third base on a fielder’s choice, and I moved to the on-deck circle. I swung two bats together to loosen up. They weren’t my usual bats, but new ones that I bought in a sporting goods store earlier in the day. The short stubby pieces of wood had roughly the same heft as the homemade bats I’d left in my hotel room.
Stahl struck out looking, and I approached the batter’s box slowly. As nervous as I first was in the field, I was more so coming to the plate. At second base there was always a chance that I wouldn’t be involved in a play, but in the batter’s box there was no place to hide. It would be just Hippo and me.
I took my place in the box, kicking my right spike into the dirt. When facing a pitcher he hasn’t seen before, a hitter will usually take the first pitch looking. But I didn’t like to let good ones go by, so I would choose one spot and one type of pitch, and if it was served there, I’d take a rip at it. I now tried to pick a location for the first pitch, but absolutely nothing came to mind. While I frantically tried to think of the pitch I wanted to look for, I unconsciously kept kicking with my shoe.
“Hey, busher! Dig it a little deeper! You’re gonna git buried in it!” Hippo got my full attention with that yell. I called time and backed out of the box. Glancing sideways at him, I could see that Hippo did not look happy—no surprise since he’d taken a beating from the Red Sox hitters. Okay, so I have to expect one at my head. No pitcher likes to have a batter dig in on him, and none would let a rookie get away with it. Just what I need: something more to think about. Okay, if it’s a fastball knee-high down the middle, I’m swinging. If it’s at my head I’m ducking. But Speaker’s on third; if Vaughn throws a wild pitch, he’ll score, so maybe he won’t try throwing at me. But if he hits me, the ball’s dead and Speaker can’t advance, so he will throw at me, but he’ll make sure not to miss me. Hmmm ... Only one thing is for certain: it is impossible to think and hit at the same time.
I took my stance in the box. In less than a second, I gracelessly dropped to the ground as Hippo tried to keep his word. He was mad—the ball was thrown behind my head. That’s where you throw it if you really want to hurt somebody; the batter’s instinct is to duck back into the path of the ball. But the ball missed me, and the catcher missed the ball, so Speaker trotted home with another run. Vaughn apparently didn’t care if he lost 7–0 or 8–0.
Okay, this isn’t working out badly. We have another run, and my pants are still dry. Considering the scare I got, I should get an RBI for that run.
The next pitch from Hippo was right where I wanted it. I pulled the trigger, but a little too early. The ball cued off the end of the bat and rolled up the dirt path from home plate to the pitcher’s mound. Vaughn threw me out before I was halfway to first base. A pretty good at bat: I got some wood on the ball, and earned that moral RBI for Speaker scoring.
The clubhouse was boisterous after the easy victory over New York. The players kidded each other, snapped a few towels—and sawed my new bats in half while I was in the shower.
When I discovered the useless pieces of lumber they left me, I loudly let loose with most of the cuss words I knew—a considerable repertoire after all my years around ball players. My teammates laughed at my reaction to their little prank. Welcome to the Red Sox, kid. What they didn’t know was that I was really relieved. One more aspect of the hazing was over, and I could safely bring in my good bats.
A stocky player with a small towel around his waist and an enormous wad of tobacco in his cheek shuffled up to me. Lush patches of wiry black hair sprouted on parts of his body where I didn’t even know hair could grow. “I’m Clyde Fletcher,” he said, spraying a shower of tobacco juice in saying the “tch” of his last name. “We’re gonna be roomies. I got plans for tonight, so if Jake comes by for bed check, tell him I went out for cigars. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Goo’ boy.” Fletcher belched out a dribble of brown juice, turned around to reveal a broad back that was nearly as hairy as his belly, and returned to his locker.
I remembered reading once that Rube Waddell had a clause put into the contract of his roommate that prohibited him from eating crackers in bed—Waddell said the noise kept him awake nights. I had a feeling I would soon be wishing for a roommate whose most annoying habit was munching crackers.
I was back at the Union Hotel by half past six. I walked up three flights of stairs to my room, intending to lie down for an hour and then go out for a late supper. But my bed was already occupied.
Neatly laid on top of the cover was Mabel, my favorite bat. She was lengthwise, with the knob toward the foot of the bed and the barrel denting the pillow—right where my head would be.
I turned to look on either side of the door. No one there.
Who put the bat on my bed? And how did he get in? I quickly examined the door lock: it was intact, no sign of force. And I’d needed the key to open it. I swept across