BUILDING UP THE TEAM
With the season three-quarters over, it was no cinch for anybody to
whip into winning form a bush team like the Deers, and Jack Kennedy
soon realized that he had a real problem on his hands. Having
shouldered the responsibility, however, he went at it with the same
conscientious earnestness he would have devoted to a Big League
organization, and the bushers, who had been taking things easy and
“soldiering” under Sperry, quickly learned that there would be no
loafing or fooling with the new manager. Whenever possible there was
regular forenoon practice, and when this could not be secured it was
necessary for the team to appear on the playing field for a long
warming-up before any league game.
The code of signals arranged and put into use by Sperry and Toots
Kilgore, second baseman and captain of the Deers, was promptly cast
into the discard. In place of these incomplete and rather simple
signals, old Jack introduced a new code, at which the men were
drilled on the field and off, the requirement being that every one of
them should become so familiar with the signs that there could be no
possible misunderstanding, doubt, or hesitation in any event.
Of course, Kennedy secured a suit for himself, which enabled him not
only to sit on the bench and direct his men, but to go on to the
coaching lines or take the place of another player as a pinch hitter or
upon the field. The loose ends were quickly gathered up, and the former
hit-or-miss style of going after a game was abandoned for something
bearing a genuine resemblance to inside baseball.
Nor did it take old Jack long to perceive that the arrangement of the
team, as well as the batting order, needed doctoring. His first move,
of course was to line up the batters so that their individual work in
offense would become as effective as possible in securing runs. Almost
simultaneously he called to the bench the regular center fielder,
although that individual had established a record in the league for
his great ground covering, sureness on flies, and splendidly accurate
long throws to the sacks or the plate. It was Kennedy’s theory that
all outfielders should be hitters, and the man benched had the lowest
batting average on the team. The former first baseman was sent out into
the middle garden, where he soon demonstrated that he had the making
of an outfielder.
The regular third baseman did not handle hot grounders to Kennedy’s
satisfaction, but in all other ways he could cover the sack well,
therefore the manager switched him round to first, where he would not
get so many sizzling grass clippers. This move proved to be a piece
of wisdom, but it left the third station vacant, and for some time
Kennedy was bothered to plug the hole. The first person tried was Tim
Coffin, the utility man, who had been kept on the bench, but Coffin
had the same trouble with sharp ground hits. Nevertheless, at bat he
was certain to get one clean, hard bingle a game, and his average was
nearly two, which created in Kennedy’s breast a strong desire to keep
him regularly at work.
“Have you ever done any backstopping, Coffin?” asked the manager.
“A little,” was the reply. “I started out to be a catcher.”
“You’ve got a good whip,” said old Jack. “We’ll try you behind the pan
to-day. Brinkley will have a go at third.”
Behind the pan Coffin did a splendid turn, being far more successful
than Brinkley in stopping base pilfering. Brinkley was one of those
backstops who could handle almost any sort of pitching and rarely let
a wild heave get past him if there was any possible way of touching
it, but his base throwing was erratic. The players of every other team
in the league knew this, but they soon found that they could not reap
the advantage of a wild throw off Coffin at a critical time, and their
first efforts to do so cost them dearly.
But Brinkley was no third baseman, and Kennedy kept the wires hot with
distress signals in his efforts to fill that position.
In response to one of those signals, Joe Digg blew into Deering. Digg
had come up from the sand lots through the minors to the Big League,
where, after creating a sensation in the early part of one season, he
passed away in a blaze of red fire. Drink had sent Joe back to the
minors and thence down into temporary oblivion. Kennedy knew him as a
crackajack third sacker and a terror to pitchers when he was sober and
in condition. Old Jack met the new man at the station.
“Hello, Joe,” he said cordially, shaking Digg’s hand. “Glad to see you.”
“Hello, Jack,” returned Digg, with equal cordiality. “I’m glad to see
you, but I never expected it would be managing a bunch of bushers.”
“Oh, this is just a little matter of sport,” explained Kennedy. “I’m
out of the game, you know. I’m a farmer now. But it happened that they
had a team here in this burg that was getting walloped because of bad
management, and my friends in town drafted me into service. I want you
to come out with me to the farm to-night, and we’ll have a little chat.”
They did have a chat that night after supper on Kennedy’s veranda.
In his bluff, open way, which seldom caused offense or produced
resentment, the manager came to the point without beating around the
bush.
“Joe,” he said, “you ought to be drawing a fancy salary to-day in the
Big League, and it’s your own fault that you ain’t.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” returned Digg, flushing.
“Booze has downed many a good man besides yourself. Are you going to
let it keep you down?”
“I dunno. Seems like I’m such a thunderin’ fool that I can’t help it.”
“Rot! You can help it. Keep away from jag hunters and you’ll be all
right. As I said, I’m out of Big League baseball for good, but I reckon
my judgment and my influence would count for something with a number
of managers who are still in the game. If I should say to one of them
that I had a player who ought to be given a trial, that man would get a
show, even if he had been canned after one fizzle. You get me?”
“I get you, Jack,” nodded Digg, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “If
you can work me back into the game you’ll do me a turn I’ll never
forget.”
“But you know I wouldn’t try such a thing unless I was satisfied that
you had really turned over a new leaf and meant to cut drink out for
good and all. You’ve got to show me, Joe.”
“It’s a go!” exclaimed Digg. “If you ever catch me drinking anything
stronger than water, put the tag on me.”
In the first two games in which Digg played third for the Deers he
accepted eleven chances, three of them of the most sensational order,
without an error, and batted .400.