THE RETIRED MANAGER
Throughout his baseball career it had been the object of old Jack
Kennedy to quit the game voluntarily with honors and retire to his
little Ohio farm in the town of Deering. Being of a somewhat frugal
turn, he had saved from his earnings while in the game enough to
pay for the farm to the last dollar, which was a matter of no small
satisfaction to him when Charles Collier, the new owner of the Blue
Stockings, dropped him from the management of the team in order to give
Al Carson that position.
Without egotism, Kennedy knew himself to be more capable than Carson;
but still he made no protest, and, in spite of his evident regret over
bidding the players good-by, he succeeded very well in hiding the sore
spot.
“I’m done with baseball, boys,” he said. “Henceforth it’s the rural
life for me, raising corn and pumpkins and garden sass in general. If
any of you ever come through my way, don’t forget where I live. You’ll
make a hit with me if you take my wigwam for the home plate and squat
on the bench at my fireside.”
Kennedy knew full well the real trouble with the Blue Stockings, and
it had been his object to break up the cliques and smooth out the
wrinkles on the team in his own level-headed way. He knew also that
Carson was due to have his troubles, and, like the generous man he was,
he had approached the new manager and attempted to put him wise. These
advances, however, were not pleasing to Carson, who had cut him short
in a way that caused Kennedy to bottle up abruptly.
“All right,” old Jack had muttered to himself. “All right, my wise
gink. Go your way and see where you land. I’m betting it won’t be on
top.”
Despite the fact that he had said he was done with baseball, it was
no more than natural that he should keep track of the career of the
Blue Stockings under the new management, and the sporting department
of the big daily newspaper he received regularly by mail was the
first page examined. Each day he drove a mile and a half into town to
get the two o’clock mail, and the letters he received never seemed
to have much attraction for him until he had ripped off the cover of
his paper, glanced at the percentage of the Big League teams, and
perused the report of the last contest in which the Blue Stockings had
participated. While he was doing this his face was a study. Sometimes
he would smile, but more often he frowned and shook his head, and
occasionally he muttered to himself. Once a man, standing near, was
startled to hear him suddenly exclaim:
“What’s the matter with the boy, anyhow? Either he’s slumped or
Carson’s handing him a rotten deal.”
Of course he was speaking of Lefty Locke, and when, later, he saw a
printed reference to the southpaw’s poor form, he puzzled still more
over the matter. For Kennedy had realized the need of new blood on the
pitching staff of the Blue Stockings, and had banked a good deal on the
ability of Locke to aid in holding the team in first place.
With an excellent overseer on his farm, old Jack did not labor hard
enough to hurt himself. The truth was, he found it difficult to step
directly from the baseball harness into something so wholly different
and so decidedly tame and monotonous by comparison. At times he fretted
a little, although he did his best to overcome the restless spells that
assailed him.
“When an old race horse is turned out to pasture,” he told himself,
“it’s a good thing for him to realize that his track days are over.”
Now it chanced that the town of Deering supported one of the teams
which composed a four-cornered bush league, and, although the loyal
citizens had put their hands deep into their pockets to finance the
club, the “Deers,” as the local organization was known, were running
a rather bad third in the race. This fact was the cause of no small
dissatisfaction to Peter McLaughlin, proprietor of the Central House,
the principal hotel, and one of the most generous contributors to the
fund. In the old days McLaughlin had played baseball a little himself,
and he was confident now that he knew just where the trouble with the
local club lay.
“It’s in the management,” he told the other members of the board of
directors. “Sperry made a record as manager for a little jerkwater
college club, therefore he thinks he knows all about it. But I tell you
he’s no match for old Hank Bristol, of the Buccaneers, to say nothing
of Hi Pelty, who’s handling the Stars. Last year, this time, the
Buccaneers were in third place, where we are now, and we was banging
away trying to get ahead of the Stars. This year we’re down next to the
Boobs in the basement, and unless something’s done even that bunch of
dummies will get ahead of us. Sperry better throw up his job as manager
and stick to his regular business drawing sody water at Folsom’s drug
store.”
“If he did that,” said Lawyer Gange, secretary of the baseball
association, “who’d we get to fill his place? Nobody else wants the
job――unless you do, Peter.”
“Excuse me,” said McLaughlin. “I’ve got my own business to look after.
I’ve coughed up a hundred bucks to back the team, and I’m ready to put
in another hundred if necessary, but I couldn’t waste my time trying to
run the outfit, even if I knew how.”
“Well, that’s the way with the rest of us, so what are we going to do?”
“I’ve got an idea. There’s Jack Kennedy home on his farm, and he knows
more baseball in a minute than anybody in this town, or in the whole
league, for that matter, except possibly old Hank Bristol. If we could
get Kennedy to――”
“_If_ we could,” exclaimed Rufe Manning, the treasurer. “There’s that
if. You don’t s’pose Kennedy would monkey with a little bush team like
ours after being manager of Big League champs, do yer?”
“No tellin’. Perhaps he might.”
“He won’t,” said the lawyer. “He told me himself that he was done with
baseball. Why, he hasn’t even had interest enough since coming home to
see one of our games, though he’s been invited to do so.”
“No tellin’ what can be done with him,” persisted the hotel proprietor.
“He ought to have enough local pride to want to see his own town stand
well in this league. If somebody could prick that pride a little, mebbe
he’d take holt. I don’t reckon he’s workin’ himself to death on his
farm. He’s got the time.”
“Well, you’re the man to try him,” said Gange. “It’s up to you, Peter.”
“All right,” agreed Peter. “Leave it to me and I’ll see what I can do.
We’re going up against Bristol’s bunch of Buccaneers this afternoon,
and I’ll look out for Kennedy if he comes in for his mail same as
usual.”