“I don’t care if you don’t know a spitball from a fadeaway when you see it. You’ll be out in the air all afternoon, and there’ll be some excitement. All the girls go. You’ll like it. They’re playing Marshalltown.”
New York Giants Opening Day line-up at the Polo Grounds, 1910
This is not a baseball story. The grandstand does not rise as one man and shout itself hoarse with joy. There isn’t a three-bagger in the entire three thousand words, and nobody is carried home on the shoulders of the crowd. For that sort of thing you need not squander fifteen cents on your favorite magazine. The modest sum of one cent will make you the possessor of a Pink ‘Un. There you will find the season’s games handled in masterly fashion by a six-best-seller artist, an expert mathematician, and an original-slang humorist. No mere short story dub may hope to compete with these.
In the old days, before the gentry of the ring had learned the wisdom of investing their winnings in solids instead of liquids, this used to be a favorite conundrum: When is a prize-fighter not a prize-fighter?
Chorus: When he is tending bar.
I rise to ask you Brothah Fan, when is a ball player not a ball player? Above the storm of facetious replies I shout the answer:
When he’s a shoe clerk.
Any man who can look handsome in a dirty baseball suit is an Adonis. There is something about the baggy pants, and the Micawber-shaped collar, and the skull-fitting cap, and the foot or so of tan, or blue, or pink undershirt sleeve sticking out at the arms, that just naturally kills a man’s best points. Then too, a baseball suit requires so much in the matter of leg. Therefore, when I say that Rudie Schlachweiler was a dream even in his baseball uniform, with a dirty brown streak right up the side of his pants where he had slid for base, you may know that the girls camped on the grounds during the season.
During the summer months our ball park is to us what the Grand Prix is to Paris, or Ascot is to London. What care we that Evers gets seven thousand a year (or is it a month?); or that Chicago’s new South-side ball park seats thirty-five thousand (or is it million?). Of what interest are such meager items compared with the knowledge that “Pug” Coulan, who plays short, goes with Undine Meyers, the girl up there in the eighth row, with the pink dress and the red roses on her hat? When “Pug” snatches a high one out of the firmament we yell with delight, and even as we yell we turn sideways to look up and see how Undine is taking it. Undine’s shining eyes are fixed on “Pug,” and he knows it, stoops to brush the dust off his dirt-begrimed baseball pants, takes an attitude of careless grace and misses the next play.
Our grand-stand seats almost two thousand, counting the boxes. But only the snobs, and the girls with new hats, sit in the boxes. Box seats are comfortable, it is true, and they cost only an additional ten cents, but we have come to consider them undemocratic, and unworthy of true fans. Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne, who spends her winters in Egypt and her summers at the ball park, comes out to the game every afternoon in her automobile, but she never occupies a box seat; so why should we? She perches up in the grand-stand with the rest of the enthusiasts, and when Kelly puts one over she stands up and clinches her fists, and waves her arms and shouts with the best of ’em. She has even been known to cry, “Good eye! Good eye!” when things were at fever heat. The only really blase individual in the ball park is Willie Grimes, who peddles ice-cream cones. For that matter, I once saw Willie turn a languid head to pipe, in his thin voice, “Give ’em a dark one, Dutch! Give ’em a dark one!”
Well, that will do for the firsh dash of local color. Now for the story.
Ivy Keller came home June nineteenth from Miss Shont’s select school for young ladies. By June twenty-first she was bored limp. You could hardly see the plaits of her white tailored shirtwaist for fraternity pins and secret society emblems, and her bedroom was ablaze with college banners and pennants to such an extent that the maid gave notice every Thursday–which was upstairs cleaning day.
For two weeks after her return Ivy spent most of her time writing letters and waiting for them, and reading the classics on the front porch, dressed in a middy blouse and a blue skirt, with her hair done in a curly Greek effect like the girls on the covers of the Ladies’ Magazine. She posed against the canvas bosom of the porch chair with one foot under her, the other swinging free, showing a tempting thing in beaded slipper, silk stocking, and what the story writers call “slim ankle.”
On the second Saturday after her return her father came home for dinner at noon, found her deep in Volume Two of “Les Miserables.”
“Whew! This is a scorcher!” he exclaimed, and dropped down on a wicker chair next to Ivy. Ivy looked at her father with languid interest, and smiled a daughterly smile. Ivy’s father was an insurance man, alderman of his ward, president of the Civic Improvement Club, member of five lodges, and an habitual delegate. It generally was he who introduced distinguished guests who spoke at the opera house on Decoration Day. He called Mrs. Keller “Mother,” and he wasn’t above noticing the fit of a gown on a pretty feminine figure. He thought Ivy was an expurgated edition of Lillian Russell, Madame De Stael, and Mrs. Pankburst.
“Aren’t you feeling well, Ivy?” he asked. “Looking a little pale. It’s the heat, I suppose. Gosh! Something smells good. Run in and tell Mother I’m here.”
Ivy kept one slender finger between the leaves of her book. “I’m perfectly well,” she replied. “That must be beefsteak and onions. Ugh!” And she shuddered, and went indoors.
Dad Keller looked after her thoughtfully. Then he went in, washed his hands, and sat down at table with Ivy and her mother.
“Just a sliver for me,” said Ivy, “and no onions.”
Her father put down his knife and fork, cleared his throat, and spake, thus:
“You get on your hat and meet me at the 2:45 inter-urban. You’re going to the ball game with me.”
“Ball game!” repeated Ivy. “I? But I’d—-“
“Yes, you do,” interrupted her father. “You’ve been moping around here looking a cross between Saint Cecilia and Little Eva long enough. I don’t care if you don’t know a spitball from a fadeaway when you see it. You’ll be out in the air all afternoon, and there’ll be some excitement. All the girls go. You’ll like it. They’re playing Marshalltown.”
Ivy went, looking the sacrificial lamb. Five minutes after the game was called she pointed one tapering white finger in the direction of the pitcher’s mound.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Pitcher,” explained Papa Keller, laconically. Then, patiently: “He throws the ball.”
“Oh,” said Ivy. “What did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t say. But it’s Rudie Schlachweiler. The boys call him Dutch. Kind of a pet, Dutch is.”
“Rudie Schlachweiler!” murmured Ivy, dreamily. “What a strong name!”
“Want some peanuts?” inquired her father.
“Does one eat peanuts at a ball game?”
“It ain’t hardly legal if you don’t,” Pa Keller assured her.
“Two sacks,” said Ivy. “Papa, why do they call it a diamond, and what are those brown bags at the corners, and what does it count if you hit the ball, and why do they rub their hands in the dust and then–er–spit on them, and what salary does a pitcher get, and why does the red-haired man on the other side dance around like that between the second and third brown bag, and doesn’t a pitcher do anything but pitch, and wh—-?”
“You’re on,” said papa.
After that Ivy didn’t miss a game during all the time that the team played in the home town. She went without a new hat, and didn’t care whether Jean Valjean got away with the goods or not, and forgot whether you played third hand high or low in bridge. She even became chummy with Undine Meyers, who wasn’t her kind of a girl at all. Undine was thin in a voluptuous kind of way, if such a paradox can be, and she had red lips, and a roving eye, and she ran around downtown without a hat more than was strictly necessary. But Undine and Ivy had two subjects in common. They were baseball and love. It is queer how the limelight will make heroes of us all.
Now “Pug” Coulan, who was red-haired, and had shoulders like an ox, and arms that hung down to his knees, like those of an orang-outang, slaughtered beeves at the Chicago stockyards in winter. In the summer he slaughtered hearts. He wore mustard colored shirts that matched his hair, and his baseball stockings generally had a rip in them somewhere, but when he was on the diamond we were almost ashamed to look at Undine, so wholly did her heart shine in her eyes.
Now, we’ll have just another dash or two of local color. In a small town the chances for hero worship are few. If it weren’t for the traveling men our girls wouldn’t know whether stripes or checks were the thing in gents’ suitings. When the baseball season opened the girls swarmed on it. Those that didn’t understand baseball pretended they did. When the team was out of town our form of greeting was changed from, “Good-morning!” or “Howdy-do!” to “What’s the score?” Every night the results of the games throughout the league were posted up on the blackboard in front of Schlager’s hardware store, and to see the way in which the crowd stood around it, and streamed across the street toward it, you’d have thought they were giving away gas stoves and hammock couches.
Going home in the street car after the game the girls used to gaze adoringly at the dirty faces of their sweat-begrimed heroes, and then they’d rush home, have supper, change their dresses, do their hair, and rush downtown past the Parker Hotel to mail their letters. The baseball boys boarded over at the Griggs House, which is third-class, but they used their tooth-picks, and held the postmortem of the day’s game out in front of the Parker Hotel, which is our leading hostelry. The postoffice receipts record for our town was broken during the months of June, July, and August.
Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne started the trouble by having the team over to dinner, “Pug” Coulan and all. After all, why not? No foreign and impecunious princes penetrate as far inland as our town. They get only as far as New York, or Newport, where they are gobbled up by many-moneyed matrons. If Mrs. Freddy Van Dyne found the supply of available lions limited, why should she not try to content herself with a jackal or so?
Ivy was asked. Until then she had contented herself with gazing at her hero. She had become such a hardened baseball fan that she followed the game with a score card, accurately jotting down every play, and keeping her watch open on her knee.
She sat next to Rudie at dinner. Before she had nibbled her second salted almond, Ivy Keller and Rudie Schlachweiler understood each other. Rudie illustrated certain plays by drawing lines on the table-cloth with his knife and Ivy gazed, wide-eyed, and allowed her soup to grow cold.
The first night that Rudie called, Pa Keller thought it a great joke. He sat out on the porch with Rudie and Ivy and talked baseball, and got up to show Rudie how he could have got the goat of that Keokuk catcher if only he had tried one of his famous open-faced throws. Rudie looked politely interested, and laughed in all the right places. But Ivy didn’t need to pretend. Rudie Schlachweiler spelled baseball to her. She did not think of her caller as a good-looking young man in a blue serge suit and a white shirtwaist. Even as he sat there she saw him as a blonde god standing on the pitcher’s mound, with the scars of battle on his baseball pants, his left foot placed in front of him at right angles with his right foot, his gaze fixed on first base in a cunning effort to deceive the man at bat, in that favorite attitude of pitchers just before they get ready to swing their left leg and h’ist one over.
The second time that Rudie called, Ma Keller said:
“Ivy, I don’t like that ball player coming here to see you. The neighbors’ll talk.”
The third time Rudie called, Pa Keller said: “What’s that guy doing here again?”
The fourth time Rudie called, Pa Keller and Ma Keller said, in unison: “This thing has got to stop.”
But it didn’t. It had had too good a start. For the rest of the season Ivy met her knight of the sphere around the corner. Theirs was a walking courtship. They used to roam up as far as the State road, and down as far as the river, and Rudie would fain have talked of love, but Ivy talked of baseball.
“Darling,” Rudie would murmur, pressing Ivy’s arm closer, “when did you first begin to care?”
“Why I liked the very first game I saw when Dad—-“
“I mean, when did you first begin to care for me?”
“Oh! When you put three men out in that game with Marshalltown when the teams were tied in the eighth inning. Remember? Say, Rudie dear, what was the matter with your arm to-day? You let three men walk, and Albia’s weakest hitter got a home run out of you.”
“Oh, forget baseball for a minute, Ivy! Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about–us.”
“Us? Well, you’re baseball, aren’t you?” retorted Ivy. “And if you are, I am. Did you notice the way that Ottumwa man pitched yesterday? He didn’t do any acting for the grandstand. He didn’t reach up above his head, and wrap his right shoulder with his left toe, and swing his arm three times and then throw seven inches outside the plate. He just took the ball in his hand, looked at it curiously for a moment, and fired it–zing!–like that, over the plate. I’d get that ball if I were you.”
“Isn’t this a grand night?” murmured Rudie.
“But they didn’t have a hitter in the bunch,” went on Ivy. “And not a man in the team could run. That’s why they’re tail-enders. Just the same, that man on the mound was a wizard, and if he had one decent player to give him some support—-“
Well, the thing came to a climax. One evening, two weeks before the close of the season, Ivy put on her hat and announced that she was going downtown to mail her letters.
“Mail your letters in the daytime,” growled Papa Keller.
“I didn’t have time to-day,” answered Ivy. “It was a thirteen inning game, and it lasted until six o’clock.”
It was then that Papa Keller banged the heavy fist of decision down on the library table.
“This thing’s got to stop!” he thundered. “I won’t have any girl of mine running the streets with a ball player, understand? Now you quit seeing this seventy-five-dollars-a-month bush leaguer or leave this house. I mean it.”
“All right,” said Ivy, with a white-hot calm. “I’ll leave. I can make the grandest kind of angel-food with marshmallow icing, and you know yourself my fudges can’t be equaled. He’ll be playing in the major leagues in three years. Why just yesterday there was a strange man at the game–a city man, you could tell by his hat-band, and the way his clothes were cut. He stayed through the whole game, and never took his eyes off Rudie. I just know he was a scout for the Cubs.”
“Probably a hardware drummer, or a fellow that Schlachweiler owes money to.”
Ivy began to pin on her hat. A scared look leaped into Papa Keller’s eyes. He looked a little old, too, and drawn, at that minute. He stretched forth a rather tremulous hand.
“Ivy-girl,” he said.
“What?” snapped Ivy.
“Your old father’s just talking for your own good. You’re breaking your ma’s heart. You and me have been good pals, haven’t we?”
“Yes,” said Ivy, grudgingly, and without looking up.
“Well now, look here. I’ve got a proposition to make to you. The season’s over in two more weeks. The last week they play out of town. Then the boys’ll come back for a week or so, just to hang around town and try to get used to the idea of leaving us. Then they’ll scatter to take up their winter jobs-cutting ice, most of ’em,” he added, grimly.
“Mr. Schlachweiler is employed in a large establishment in Slatersville, Ohio,” said Ivy, with dignity. “He regards baseball as his profession, and he cannot do anything that would affect his pitching arm.”
Pa Keller put on the tremolo stop and brought a misty look into his eyes.
“Ivy, you’ll do one last thing for your old father, won’t you?”
“Maybe,” answered Ivy, coolly.
“Don’t make that fellow any promises. Now wait a minute! Let me get through. I won’t put any crimp in your plans. I won’t speak to Schlachweiler. Promise you won’t do anything rash until the ball season’s over. Then we’ll wait just one month, see? Till along about November. Then if you feel like you want to see him—-“
“But how—-“
“Hold on. You mustn’t write to him, or see him, or let him write to you during that time, see? Then, if you feel the way you do now, I’ll take you to Slatersville to see him. Now that’s fair, ain’t it? Only don’t let him know you’re coming.”
” M-m-m-yes,” said Ivy.
“Shake hands on it.” She did. Then she left the room with a rush, headed in the direction of her own bedroom. Pa Keller treated himself to a prodigious wink and went out to the vegetable garden in search of Mother.
The team went out on the road, lost five games, won two, and came home in fourth place. For a week they lounged around the Parker Hotel and held up the street corners downtown, took many farewell drinks, then, slowly, by ones and twos, they left for the packing houses, freight depots, and gents’ furnishing stores from whence they came.
October came in with a blaze of sumac and oak leaves. Ivy stayed home and learned to make veal loaf and apple pies. The worry lines around Pa Keller’s face began to deepen. Ivy said that she didn’t believe that she cared to go back to Miss Shont’s select school for young ladies.
October thirty-first came.
“We’ll take the eight-fifteen to-morrow,” said her father to Ivy.
“All right,” said Ivy.
“Do you know where he works?” asked he.
“No,” answered Ivy.
“That’ll be all right. I took the trouble to look him up last August.”
The short November afternoon was drawing to its close (as our best talent would put it) when Ivy and her father walked along the streets of Slatersville. (I can’t tell you what streets, because I don’t know.) Pa Keller brought up before a narrow little shoe shop.
“Here we are,” he said, and ushered Ivy in. A short, stout, proprietary figure approached them smiling a mercantile smile.
“What can I do for you?” he inquired.
Ivy’s eyes searched the shop for a tall, golden-haired form in a soiled baseball suit.
“We’d like to see a gentleman named Schlachweiler–Rudolph Schlachweiler,” said Pa Keller.
“Anything very special?” inquired the proprietor. “He’s–rather busy just now. Wouldn’t anybody else do? Of course, if—-“
“No,” growled Keller.
The boss turned. “Hi! Schlachweiler!” he bawled toward the rear of the dim little shop.
“Yessir,” answered a muffled voice.
“Front!” yelled the boss, and withdrew to a safe listening distance.
A vaguely troubled look lurked in the depths of Ivy’s eyes. From behind the partition of the rear of the shop emerged a tall figure. It was none other than our hero. He was in his shirt- sleeves, and he struggled into his coat as he came forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, hurriedly, and swallowing.
I have said that the shop was dim. Ivy and her father stood at one side, their backs to the light. Rudie came forward, rubbing his hands together in the manner of clerks.
“Something in shoes?” he politely inquired. Then he saw.
“Ivy!–ah–Miss Keller!” he exclaimed. Then, awkwardly: “Well, how-do, Mr. Keller. I certainly am glad to see you both. How’s the old town? What are you doing in Slatersville?”
“Why–Ivy—-” began Pa Keller, blunderingly.
But Ivy clutched his arm with a warning hand. The vaguely troubled look in her eyes had become wildly so.
“Schlachweiler!” shouted the voice of the boss. “Customers!” and he waved a hand in the direction of the fitting benches.
“All right, sir,” answered Rudie. “Just a minute.”
“Dad had to come on business,” said Ivy, hurriedly. “And he brought me with him. I’m–I’m on my way to school in Cleveland, you know. Awfully glad to have seen you again. We must go. That lady wants her shoes, I’m sure, and your employer is glaring at us. Come, dad.”
At the door she turned just in time to see Rudie removing the shoe from the pudgy foot of the fat lady customer.
We’ll take a jump of six months. That brings us into the lap of April.
Pa Keller looked up from his evening paper. Ivy, home for the Easter vacation, was at the piano. Ma Keller was sewing.
Pa Keller cleared his throat. “I see by the paper,” he announced, “that Schlachweiler’s been sold to Des Moines. Too bad we lost him. He was a great little pitcher, but he played in bad luck. Whenever he was on the slab the boys seemed to give him poor support.”
“Fudge!” exclaimed Ivy, continuing to play, but turning a spirited face toward her father. “What piffle! Whenever a player pitches rotten ball you’ll always hear him howling about the support he didn’t get. Schlachweiler was a bum pitcher. Anybody could hit him with a willow wand, on a windy day, with the sun in his eyes.”
