"Yes, Carroll, I got my notice. Maybe it's no surprise to you. And
there's one more thing I want to say. You're 'it' on this team.
You're the topnotch catcher in the Western League and one of the best
ball players in the game--but you're a knocker!"
Madge Ellston heard young Sheldon speak. She saw the flash in his gray
eyes and the heat of his bronzed face as he looked intently at the big
catcher.
"Fade away, sonny. Back to the bush-league for yours!" replied
Carroll, derisively. "You're not fast enough for Kansas City. You
look pretty good in a uniform and you're swift on your feet, but you
can't hit. You've got a glass arm and you run bases like an ostrich
trying to side. That notice was coming to you. Go learn the game!"
Then a crowd of players trooped noisily out of the hotel lobby and
swept Sheldon and Carroll down the porch steps toward the waiting
omnibus.
Madge's uncle owned the Kansas City club. She had lived most of her
nineteen years in a baseball atmosphere, but accustomed as she was to
baseball talk and the peculiar banterings and bickerings of the
players, there were times when it seemed all Greek. If a player got
his "notice" it meant he would be released in ten days. A "knocker"
was a ball player who spoke ill of his fellow players. This scrap of
conversation, however, had an unusual interest because Carroll had paid
court to her for a year, and Sheldon, coming to the team that spring,
had fallen desperately in love with her. She liked Sheldon pretty
well, but Carroll fascinated her. She began to wonder if there were
bad feelings between the rivals--to compare them--to get away from
herself and judge them impersonally.
When Pat Donahue, the veteran manager of the team came out, Madge
greeted him with a smile. She had always gotten on famously with Pat,
notwithstanding her imperious desire to handle the managerial reins
herself upon occasions. Pat beamed all over his round ruddy face.
"Miss Madge, you weren't to the park yesterday an' we lost without our
pretty mascot. We shure needed you. Denver's playin' at a fast clip."
"I'm coming out today," replied Miss Ellston, thoughtfully. "Pat,
what's a knocker?"
"Now, Miss Madge, are you askin' me that after I've been coachin' you
in baseball for years?" questioned Pat, in distress.
"I know what a knocker is, as everybody else does. But I want to know
the real meaning, the inside-ball of it, to use your favorite saying."
Studying her grave face with shrewd eyes Donahue slowly lost his smile.
"The inside-ball of it, eh? Come, let's sit over here a bit--the sun's
shure warm today.... Miss Madge, a knocker is the strangest man
known in the game, the hardest to deal with an' what every baseball
manager hates most."
Donahue told her that he believed the term "knocker" came originally
from baseball; that in general it typified the player who strengthened
his own standing by belittling the ability of his team-mates, and by
enlarging upon his own superior qualities. But there were many phases
of this peculiar type. Some players were natural born knockers; others
acquired the name in their later years in the game when younger men
threatened to win their places. Some of the best players ever produced
by baseball had the habit in its most violent form. There were players
of ridiculously poor ability who held their jobs on the strength of
this one trait. It was a mystery how they misled magnates and managers
alike; how for months they held their places, weakening a team, often
keeping a good team down in the race; all from sheer bold suggestion of
their own worth and other players' worthlessness. Strangest of all was
the knockers' power to disorganize; to engender a bad spirit between
management and team and among the players. The team which was without
one of the parasites of the game generally stood well up in the race
for the pennant, though there had been championship teams noted for
great knockers as well as great players.
"It's shure strange, Miss Madge," said Pat in conclusion, shaking his
gray head. "I've played hundreds of knockers, an' released them, too.
Knockers always get it in the end, but they go on foolin' me and
workin' me just the same as if I was a youngster with my first team.
They're part an' parcel of the game."
"Do you like these men off the field--outside of baseball, I mean?"
"No, I shure don't, an' I never seen one yet that wasn't the same off
the field as he was on."
"Thank you, Pat. I think I understand now. And--oh, yes, there's
another thing I want to ask you. What's the matter with Billie
Sheldon? Uncle George said he was falling off in his game. Then I've
read the papers. Billie started out well in the spring."
"Didn't he? I was sure thinkin' I had a find in Billie. Well, he's
lost his nerve. He's in a bad slump. It's worried me for days. I'm
goin' to release Billie. The team needs a shake-up. That's where
Billie gets the worst of it, for he's really the makin' of a star; but
he's slumped, an' now knockin' has made him let down. There, Miss
Madge, that's an example of what I've just been tellin' you. An' you
can see that a manager has his troubles. These hulkin' athletes are a
lot of spoiled babies an' I often get sick of my job."
That afternoon Miss Ellston was in a brown study all the way out to the
baseball park. She arrived rather earlier than usual to find the
grand-stand empty. The Denver team had just come upon the field, and
the Kansas City players were practising batting at the left of the
diamond. Madge walked down the aisle of the grand stand and out along
the reporters' boxes. She asked one of the youngsters on the field to
tell Mr. Sheldon that she would like to speak with him a moment.
Billie eagerly hurried from the players' bench with a look of surprise
and expectancy on his sun-tanned face. Madge experienced for the first
time a sudden sense of shyness at his coming. His lithe form and his
nimble step somehow gave her a pleasure that seemed old yet was new.
When he neared her, and, lifting his cap, spoke her name, the shade of
gloom in his eyes and lines of trouble on his face dispelled her
confusion.
"Billie, Pat tells me he's given you ten days' notice," she said.
"It's true."
"What's wrong with you, Billie?"
"Oh, I've struck a bad streak--can't hit or throw."
"Are you a quitter?"
"No, I'm not," he answered quickly, flushing a dark red.
"You started off this spring with a rush. You played brilliantly and
for a while led the team in batting. Uncle George thought so well of
you. Then came this spell of bad form. But, Billie, it's only a slump;
you can brace."
"I don't know," he replied, despondently. "Awhile back I got my mind
off the game. Then--people who don't like me have taken advantage of
my slump to----"
"To knock," interrupted Miss Ellston.
"I'm not saying that," he said, looking away from her.
"But I'm saying it. See here, Billie Sheldon, my uncle owns this team
and Pat Donahue is manager. I think they both like me a little. Now I
don't want to see you lose your place. Perhaps----"
"Madge, that's fine of you--but I think--I guess it'd be best for me to
leave Kansas City."
"Why?"
"You know," he said huskily. "I've lost my head--I'm in love--I can't
think of baseball--I'm crazy about you."
Miss Ellston's sweet face grew rosy, clear to the tips of her ears.
"Billie Sheldon," she replied, spiritedly. "You're talking nonsense.
Even if you were were that way, it'd be no reason to play poor ball.
Don't throw the game, as Pat would say. Make a brace! Get up on your
toes! Tear things! Rip the boards off the fence! Don't quit!"
She exhausted her vocabulary of baseball language if not her
enthusiasm, and paused in blushing confusion.
"Madge!"
"Will you brace up?"
"Will I--will I!" he exclaimed, breathlessly.
Madge murmured a hurried good-bye and, turning away, went up the
stairs. Her uncle's private box was upon the top of the grand stand
and she reached it in a somewhat bewildered state of mind. She had a
confused sense of having appeared to encourage Billie, and did not know
whether she felt happy or guilty. The flame in his eyes had warmed all
her blood. Then, as she glanced over the railing to see the powerful
Burns Carroll, there rose in her breast a panic at strange variance
with her other feelings.
Many times had Madge Ellston viewed the field and stands and the
outlying country from this high vantage point; but never with the same
mingling emotions, nor had the sunshine ever been so golden, the woods
and meadows so green, the diamond so smooth and velvety, the whole
scene so gaily bright.
Denver had always been a good drawing card, and having won the first
game of the present series, bade fair to draw a record attendance. The
long lines of bleachers, already packed with the familiar mottled
crowd, sent forth a merry, rattling hum. Soon a steady stream of
well-dressed men and women poured in the gates and up the grand-stand
stairs. The soft murmur of many voices in light conversation and
laughter filled the air. The peanut venders and score-card sellers
kept up their insistent shrill cries. The baseball park was alive now
and restless; the atmosphere seemed charged with freedom and pleasure.
The players romped like skittish colts, the fans shrieked their
witticisms--all sound and movements suggested play.
Madge Ellston was somehow relieved to see her uncle sitting in one of
the lower boxes. During this game she wanted to be alone, and she
believed she would be, for the President of the League and directors of
the Kansas City team were with her uncle. When the bell rang to call
the Denver team in from practice the stands could hold no more, and the
roped-off side lines were filling up with noisy men and boys. From her
seat Madge could see right down upon the players' bench, and when she
caught both Sheldon and Carroll gazing upward she drew back with
sharply contrasted thrills.
Then the bell rang again, the bleachers rolled out their welcoming
acclaim, and play was called with Kansas City at the bat.
Right off the reel Hunt hit a short fly safely over second. The ten
thousand spectators burst into a roar. A good start liberated applause
and marked the feeling for the day.
Madge was surprised and glad to see Billie Sheldon start next for the
plate. All season, until lately, he had been the second batter.
During his slump he had been relegated to the last place on the batting
list. Perhaps he had asked Pat to try him once more at the top. The
bleachers voiced their unstinted appreciation of this return, showing
that Billie still had a strong hold on their hearts.
As for Madge, her breast heaved and she had difficulty in breathing.
This was going to be a hard game for her. The intensity of her desire
to see Billie brace up to his old form amazed her. And Carroll's rude
words beat thick in her ears. Never before had Billie appeared so
instinct with life, so intent and strung as when he faced Keene, the
Denver pitcher. That worthy tied himself up in a knot, and then,
unlimbering a long arm, delivered the brand new ball.
Billie seemed to leap forward and throw his bat at it. There was a
sharp ringing crack--and the ball was like a white string marvelously
stretching out over the players, over the green field beyond, and then,
sailing, soaring, over the right-field fence. For a moment the stands,
even the bleachers, were stone quiet. No player had ever hit a ball
over that fence. It had been deemed impossible, as was attested to by
the many painted "ads" offering prizes for such a feat. Suddenly the
far end of the bleachers exploded and the swelling roar rolled up to
engulf the grand stand in thunder. Billie ran round the bases to
applause never before vented on that field. But he gave no sign that
it affected him; he did not even doff his cap. White-faced and stern,
he hurried to the bench, where Pat fell all over him and many of the
players grasped his hands.
Up in her box Madge was crushing her score-card and whispering: "Oh!
Billie, I could hug you for that!"
Two runs on two pitched balls! That was an opening to stir an exacting
audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. The Denver manager
peremptorily called Keene off the diamond and sent in Steele, a
south-paw, who had always bothered Pat's left-handed hitters. That
move showed his astute judgment, for Steele struck out McReady and
retired Curtis and Mahew on easy chances.
It was Dalgren's turn to pitch and though he had shown promise in
several games he had not yet been tried out on a team of Denver's
strength. The bleachers gave him a good cheering as he walked into the
box, but for all that they whistled their wonder at Pat's assurance in
putting him against the Cowboys in an important game.
The lad was visibly nervous and the hard-hitting and loud-coaching
Denver players went after him as if they meant to drive him out of the
game. Crane stung one to left center for a base, Moody was out on a
liner to short, almost doubling up Crane; the fleet-footed Bluett
bunted and beat the throw to first; Langly drove to left for what
seemed a three-bagger, but Curtis, after a hard run, caught the ball
almost off the left-field bleachers. Crane and Bluett advanced a base
on the throw-in. Then Kane batted up a high foul-fly. Burns Carroll,
the Kansas City catcher, had the reputation of being a fiend for
chasing foul flies, and he dashed at this one with a speed that
threatened a hard fall over the players' bench or a collision with the
fence. Carroll caught the ball and crashed against the grand stand,
but leaped back with an agility that showed that if there was any harm
done it had not been to him.
Thus the sharp inning ended with a magnificent play. It electrified
the spectators into a fierce energy of applause. With one accord, by
baseball instinct, the stands and bleachers and roped-in-sidelines
realized it was to be a game of games and they answered to the stimulus
with a savage enthusiasm that inspired ballplayers to great plays.
In the first half of the second inning, Steele's will to do and his arm
to execute were very like his name. Kansas City could not score. In
their half the Denver team made one run by clean hitting.
Then the closely fought advantage see-sawed from one team to the other.
It was not a pitchers' battle, though both men worked to the limit of
skill and endurance. They were hit hard. Dazzling plays kept the
score down and the innings short. Over the fields hung the portent of
something to come, every player, every spectator felt the subtle
baseball chance; each inning seemed to lead closer and more thrillingly
up to the climax. But at the end of the seventh, with the score tied
six and six, with daring steals, hard hits and splendid plays, enough
to have made memorable several games, it seemed that the great
portentous moment was still in abeyance.
The head of the batting list for Kansas City was up. Hunt caught the
first pitched ball squarely on the end of his bat. It was a mighty
drive and as the ball soared and soared over the center-field Hunt
raced down the base line, and the winged-footed Crane sped outward, the
bleachers split their throats. The hit looked good for a home run, but
Crane leaped up and caught the ball in his gloved hand. The sudden
silence and then the long groan which racked the bleachers was greater
tribute to Crane's play than any applause.
Billie Sheldon then faced Steele. The fans roared hoarsely, for Billie
had hit safely three times out of four. Steele used his curve ball,
but he could not get the batter to go after it. When he had wasted
three balls, the never-despairing bleachers howled: "Now, Billie, in
your groove! Sting the next one!" But Billie waited. One strike! Two
strikes! Steele cut the plate. That was a test which proved Sheldon's
caliber.
With seven innings of exciting play passed, with both teams on edge,
with the bleachers wild and the grand stands keyed up to the breaking
point, with everything making deliberation almost impossible, Billie
Sheldon had remorselessly waited for three balls and two strikes.
"Now! ... Now! ... Now!" shrieked the bleachers.
Steele had not tired nor lost his cunning. With hands before him he
grimly studied Billie, then whirling hard to get more weight into his
motion, he threw the ball.
Billie swung perfectly and cut a curving liner between the first
baseman and the base. Like a shot it skipped over the grass out along
the foul-line into right field. Amid tremendous uproar Billie
stretched the hit into a triple, and when he got up out of the dust
after his slide into third the noise seemed to be the crashing down of
the bleachers. It died out with the choking gurgling yell of the most
leather-lunged fan.
"O-o-o-o-you-Billie-e!"
McReady marched up and promptly hit a long fly to the redoubtable
Crane. Billie crouched in a sprinter's position with his eye on the
graceful fielder, waiting confidently for the ball to drop. As if there
had not already been sufficient heart-rending moments, the chance that
governed baseball meted out this play; one of the keenest, most trying
known to the game. Players waited, spectators waited, and the instant
of that dropping ball was interminably long. Everybody knew Crane
would catch it; everybody thought of the wonderful throwing arm that
had made him famous. Was it possible for Billie Sheldon to beat the
throw to the plate?
Crane made the catch and got the ball away at the same instant Sheldon
leaped from the base and dashed for home. Then all eyes were on the
ball. It seemed incredible that a ball thrown by human strength could
speed plateward so low, so straight, so swift. But it lost its force
and slanted down to bound into the catcher's hands just as Billie slid
over the plate.
By the time the bleachers had stopped stamping and bawling, Curtis
ended the inning with a difficult grounder to the infield.
Once more the Kansas City players took the field and Burns Carroll sang
out in his lusty voice: "Keep lively, boys! Play hard! Dig 'em up an'
get 'em!" Indeed the big catcher was the main-stay of the home team.
The bulk of the work fell upon his shoulders. Dalgren was wild and
kept his catcher continually blocking low pitches and wide curves and
poorly controlled high fast balls. But they were all alike to Carroll.
Despite his weight, he was as nimble on his feet as a goat, and if he
once got his hands on the ball he never missed it. It was his
encouragement that steadied Dalgren; his judgment of hitters that
carried the young pitcher through dangerous places; his lightning swift
grasp of points that directed the machine-like work of his team.
In this inning Carroll exhibited another of his demon chases after a
foul fly; he threw the base-stealing Crane out at second, and by a
remarkable leap and stop of McReady's throw, he blocked a runner who
would have tied the score.
The Cowboys blanked their opponents in the first half of the ninth, and
trotted in for their turn needing one run to tie, two runs to win.
There had scarcely been a breathing spell for the onlookers in this
rapid-fire game. Every inning had held them, one moment breathless,
the next wildly clamorous, and another waiting in numb fear. What did
these last few moments hold in store? The only answer to that was the
dogged plugging optimism of the Denver players. To listen to them, to
watch them, was to gather the impression that baseball fortune always
favored them in the end.
"Only three more, Dal. Steady boys, it's our game," rolled out
Carroll's deep bass. How virile he was! What a tower of strength to
the weakening pitcher!
But valiantly as Dalgren tried to respond, he failed. The grind--the
strain had been too severe. When he finally did locate the plate Bluett
hit safely. Langley bunted along the base line and beat the ball.
A blank, dead quiet settled down over the bleachers and stands.
Something fearful threatened. What might not come to pass, even at the
last moment of this nerve-racking game? There was a runner on first
and a runner on second. That was bad. Exceedingly bad was it that
these runners were on base with nobody out. Worst of all was the fact
that Kane was up. Kane, the best bunter, the fastest man to first, the
hardest hitter in the league! That he would fail to advance those two
runners was scarcely worth consideration. Once advanced, a fly to the
outfield, a scratch, anything almost, would tie the score. So this was
the climax presaged so many times earlier in the game. Dalgren seemed
to wilt under it.
Kane swung his ash viciously and called on Dalgren to put one over.
Dalgren looked in toward the bench as if he wanted and expected to be
taken out. But Pat Donahue made no sign. Pat had trained many a
pitcher by forcing him to take his medicine. Then Carroll, mask under
his arm, rolling his big hand in his mitt, sauntered down to the
pitcher's box. The sharp order of the umpire in no wise disconcerted
him. He said something to Dalgren, vehemently nodding his head the
while. Players and audience alike supposed he was trying to put a
little heart into Dalgren, and liked him the better, notwithstanding
the opposition to the umpire.
Carroll sauntered back to his position. He adjusted his breast
protector, and put on his mask, deliberately taking his time. Then he
stepped behind the plate, and after signing for the pitch, he slowly
moved his right hand up to his mask.
Dalgren wound up, took his swing, and let drive. Even as he delivered
the ball Carroll bounded away from his position, flinging off the mask
as he jumped. For a single fleeting instant, the catcher's position
was vacated. But that instant was long enough to make the audience
gasp. Kane bunted beautifully down the third base line, and there
Carroll stood, fifteen feet from the plate, agile as a huge monkey. He
whipped the ball to Mahew at third. Mahew wheeled quick as thought and
lined the ball to second. Sheldon came tearing for the bag, caught the
ball on the run, and with a violent stop and wrench threw it like a
bullet to first base. Fast as Kane was, the ball beat him ten feet. A
triple play!
The players of both teams cheered, but the audience, slower to grasp
the complex and intricate points, needed a long moment to realize what
had happened. They needed another to divine that Carroll had
anticipated Kane's intention to bunt, had left his position as the ball
was pitched, had planned all, risked all, played all on Kane's sure
eye; and so he had retired the side and won the game by creating and
executing the rarest play in baseball.
Then the audience rose in a body to greet the great catcher. What a
hoarse thundering roar shook the stands and waved in a blast over the
field! Carroll stood bowing his acknowledgment, and then swaggered a
little with the sun shining on his handsome heated face. Like a
conqueror conscious of full blown power he stalked away to the
clubhouse.
Madge Ellston came out of her trance and viewed the ragged score-card,
her torn parasol, her battered gloves and flying hair, her generally
disheveled state with a little start of dismay, but when she got into
the thick and press of the moving crowd she found all the women more or
less disheveled. And they seemed all the prettier and friendlier for
that. It was a happy crowd and voices were conspicuously hoarse.
When Madge entered the hotel parlor that evening she found her uncle
with guests and among them was Burns Carroll. The presence of the
handsome giant affected Madge more impellingly than ever before, yet in
some inexplicably different way. She found herself trembling; she
sensed a crisis in her feelings for this man and it frightened her.
She became conscious suddenly that she had always been afraid of him.
Watching Carroll receive the congratulations of many of those present,
she saw that he dominated them as he had her. His magnetism was
over-powering; his great stature seemed to fill the room; his easy
careless assurance emanated from superior strength. When he spoke
lightly of the game, of Crane's marvelous catch, of Dalgren's pitching
and of his own triple play, it seemed these looming features retreated
in perspective--somehow lost their vital significance because he
slighted them.
In the light of Carroll's illuminating talk, in the remembrance of
Sheldon's bitter denunciation, in the knowledge of Pat Donahue's
estimate of a peculiar type of ball-player, Madge Ellston found herself
judging the man--bravely trying to resist his charm, to be fair to him
and to herself.
Carroll soon made his way to her side and greeted her with his old
familiar manner of possession. However irritating it might be to Madge
when alone, now it held her bound.
Carroll possessed the elemental attributes of a conqueror. When with
him Madge whimsically feared that he would snatch her up in his arms
and carry her bodily off, as the warriors of old did with the women
they wanted. But she began to believe that the fascination he
exercised upon her was merely physical. That gave her pause. Not only
was Burns Carroll on trial, but also a very foolish fluttering little
moth--herself. It was time enough, however, to be stern with herself
after she had tried him.
"Wasn't that a splendid catch of Crane's today?" she asked.
"A lucky stab! Crane has a habit of running round like an ostrich and
sticking out a hand to catch a ball. It's a grand-stand play. Why, a
good outfielder would have been waiting under that fly."
"Dalgren did fine work in the box, don't you think?"
"Oh, the kid's all right with an old head back of the plate. He's
wild, though, and will never make good in fast company. I won his game
today. He wouldn't have lasted an inning without me. It was dead wrong
for Pat to pitch him. Dalgren simply can't pitch and he hasn't sand
enough to learn."
A hot retort trembled upon Madge Ellston's lips, but she withheld it
and quietly watched Carroll. How complacent he was, how utterly
self-contained!
"And Billie Sheldon--wasn't it good to see him brace? What hitting! .
.. That home run!"
"Sheldon flashed up today. That's the worst of such players. This
talk of his slump is all rot. When he joined the team he made some
lucky hits and the papers lauded him as a comer, but he soon got down
to his real form. Why, to break into a game now and then, to shut his
eyes and hit a couple on the nose--that's not baseball. Pat's given him
ten days' notice, and his release will be a good move for the team.
Sheldon's not fast enough for this league."
"I'm sorry. He seemed so promising," replied Madge. "I liked
Billy--pretty well."
"Yes, that was evident," said Carroll, firing up. "I never could
understand what you saw in him. Why, Sheldon's no good. He----"
Madge turned a white face that silenced Carroll. She excused herself
and returned to the parlor, where she had last seen her uncle. Not
finding him there, she went into the long corridor and met Sheldon,
Dalgren and two more of the players. Madge congratulated the young
pitcher and the other players on their brilliant work; and they, not to
be outdone, gallantly attributed the day's victory to her presence at
the game. Then, without knowing in the least how it came about, she
presently found herself alone with Billy, and they were strolling into
the music-room.
"Madge, did I brace up?"
The girl risked one quick look at him. How boyish he seemed, how
eager! What an altogether different Billie! But was the difference
all in him! Somehow, despite a conscious shyness in the moment she
felt natural and free, without the uncertainty and restraint that had
always troubled her while with him.
"Oh, Billie, that glorious home run!"
"Madge, wasn't that hit a dandy? How I made it is a mystery, but the
bat felt like a feather. I thought of you. Tell me--what did you
think when I hit that ball over the fence?"
"Billie, I'll never, never tell you."
"Yes--please--I want to know. Didn't you think something--nice of me?"
The pink spots in Madge's cheeks widened to crimson flames.
"Billie, are you still--crazy about me? Now, don't come so close.
Can't you behave yourself? And don't break my fingers with you terrible
baseball hands.... Well, when you made that hit I just collapsed
and I said----"
"Say it! Say it!" implored Billie.
She lowered her face and then bravely raised it.
"I said, 'Billie, I could hug you for that!' ... Billie, let me go!
Oh, you mustn't!--please!"
Quite a little while afterward Madge remembered to tell Billie that she
had been seeking her uncle. They met him and Pat Donahue, coming out
of the parlor.
"Where have you been all evening?" demanded Mr. Ellston.
"Shure it looks as if she's signed a new manager," said Pat, his shrewd
eyes twinkling.
The soft glow in Madge's cheeks deepened into tell-tale scarlet; Billie
resembled a schoolboy stricken in guilt.
"Aha! so that's it?" queried her uncle.
"Ellston," said Pat. "Billie's home-run drive today recalled his
notice an' if I don't miss guess it won him another game--the best game
in life."
"By George!" exclaimed Mr. Ellston. "I was afraid it was Carroll!"
He led Madge away and Pat followed with Billie.
"Shure, it was good to see you brace, Billie," said the manager, with a
kindly hand on the young man's arm. "I'm tickled to death. That ten
days' notice doesn't go. See? I've had to shake up the team but your
job is good. I released McReady outright an' traded Carroll to Denver
for a catcher and a fielder. Some of the directors hollered murder,
an' I expect the fans will roar, but I'm running this team, I'll have
harmony among my players. Carroll is a great catcher, but he's a
knocker."