Evening Star Newspaper, August 1, 1937, Page 82

T e wwasa wviay wn preve | \ T Out! In « cdowd of dust, * ai = Wociterly, of Indians, ™ ahrupt stop THIS WEEK American League \ SDAY N ESULYS - L moee . - who beat Lazzeri’s throw te «m (Stery and sther phots s Page Ma jor—ljo.;g.:xe—Baseball_‘]a- National League P 2 VENTERDAY'S RESULTS Y Cincianatt & New York ¢ K Buddy performed the introductions and all three newspapermer backed away nursing bruised hands. Buddy said, ‘“They’re news papermen, Steve. ¥ Mr. Webb glared. He said, in a deep, throaty voice, **Well, what about it?” Ry «d 4. Pitiebursn 3 N T, Philadelpbia 1. ¥, . Besten b T Naims major leagues?”’ brains.” - - That’s all.” cscsscocen % e-eecuccun—w his brow. tough.” copy. Got color.” one?” { sluggers.” OIEASS1], ONE ERROR UDDY MORGAN was General Press Repre- sentative for the Cougar Baseball Association. He was small — five feet- two with rubber heels — and wiry. He had bright, sparkling eyes, an impish grin and sparse, sandy hair. He clutched the hand of the pretty girl-who stood beside him, and gazed across the vast expanse of the Pennsylvania Station. “For Pete’s sake,” he murmured, “is that him?” Linda Roberts asked, “Why not?”’ “Of course,” retorted Buddy. thought of that.” It must be, of course. There was Mike Davis shaking the huge hand of Steve Webb, the slightly bewildered newcomer from the wilds of Alabama, and things were being said. Buddy Morgan’s eyes began to shine: he was thinking in terms of photographs and newspaper pub- licity. This new major league rookie gave promise of providing good press copy. “A wrastler, no less,” he commented. ‘‘Must be three inches better’n six feet and weigh two- twenty. Observe those shoulders and them bicep.” “Probably powerful of wind and limb,” agreed Miss Roberts, who, in professional life, was secretary to the president of the Cougar outfit, and privately rather attached to the dynamic little press agent. ‘“Things like that don’t happen. They’re miracles.” “Let's hope. Eddie McGuire has never picked a palooka yet, but everybody’s gotta make a first mistake sometime.” “Why the pessimism?”’ “A guy can't look like that and play ball too.” He shook his head forlornly. ‘“Something strange for the newspaper lads to spill adjec- tives on — and what happens? The lad will throw six wild pitches and leave New York for further seasoning. Then I'll have to go to work again. Life’s like that.” “Is it?”’ inquired Linda. “‘Let’s see what he does at practice tomorrow morning."”’ “You'll be there, sweet?” “l never To the new rookie, a “bust in the jaw" was an answer to any argument . . . except the most important one of all by OCTAVUS “You just try to keep me away, mister.” “Then I don’t care what he does. 1 won't have to look at him.” The Cougar Stadium is large — so large that the word “‘tremendous’ is considered a gross understatement. It is huge when its double- decked grandstand is jammed with rabid fans, but it is twice that big during morning practice when not even a peanut boy circulates through the aisles. Out from the locker room came Steve Webb. Somewhere they had found a uniform that wasn’t too hopelessly small for him, and with the uniform much of his gawkiness vanished. Buddy Morgan and Linda Roberts, standing back of first base with three second-string men from the sports departments of leading dailies, exchanged comments. Buddy said, ‘“He walks like a man.” ‘“The uniform,” observed Linda, ‘‘is becom- ing. He seems to belong in it.” “Through one practice session, anyway.”’ Con Graham of the “Globe” was inclined to be resentful. He glowered down on the Cougar’s press representative. “Is that what you brought us out to see?” “Well, he’s different, ain’t he?”’ “Different is right. But not a ballplayer.” “Watch,” advised Buddy hopefully. “We’ll see something. Or will we?”’ Big Mac slipped on a catcher’s mitt and tossed a ball to Steve Webb. The large lad from the small town of Crinkle, Alabama, caught it casually and commenced to warm up. Roy COHEN Buddy said, gently, “Out of the bowels of the earth come behemoths,”” but Con Graham and his friends only snorted. It was Linda Roberts who gave expert testimony after seven minutes of warming up had passed into history. She said, ‘“Mr. Mount Everest has speed.”’ They began to watch, then —and to see things. Steve Webb was taking a slow, easy wind-up which somehow gave grace to his huge muscular frame. The snap came from some- where just before the ball left his hamlike hand. Big Mac wore an expression of interest, not un- tinged with amazement. After fifteen additional minutes Mac waved Steve Webb away and rambled over to Mike Davis, his manager. “Well?” inquired the laconic Mr. Davis. The first words of Big Mac’s answer were profanely reverent. After relieving himself of a few choice but violent expletives, he said, “I never saw anything like it. There ain’t six men in the major leagues who can hold him for nine innings.” The newspaper lads back of first base were surging forward, and Buddy Morgan was beaming and exuding I-told-you-so’s. Linda said, “I want to meet him.” ““Again? You met him yesterday.” “He was just a laugh then. Today he’s a ballplayer.” “I got a bat,” stated Buddy hopefully. “I bought it yesterday at the ten-cent store. Does that make you love me more passionately?”’ “I adore you, Buddy. But I still want to meet this Steve Webb. Seriously, that is.” “They want to interview you. Publicity.” Con Graham was inclined to be a wit. A columnist had once statec that his sports column crackled with humor and, ever since, he hac been trying to live up to it. He smiled at the big rookie with the in- dulgent tolerance great brain exhibits toward mere brawn. ““What is your rustic impression of New York?’’ inquired Graham “Don’t like it much. Too full of guys that think they're smart.” Con's voice was edgy as he asked, “Think you’ll make good in the ‘‘Remarkable! Superb self-confidence. Magnificent assurance *‘And a good bust in the jaw for anybody that tries to kid me, see.’ Buddy Morgan spluttered, but Linda intervened. The smile she flashed Steve Webb had a hop on it. “They can’t help it, Steve. They were born that way.” “Tough luck,” said Steve. “You're going to like New York.” “I ain’t sure. Fancy suits make a lot of folks think they've got “No sense getting mad.” X “I know, miss; but before I ever left Crinkle I made up my mind they weren’t going to poke fun at me. I came here to play ball. The other reporters moved closer. But their questions were poinf edly lacking in sarcasm. They noted that Steve Webb was twenty- two years of age, graduate of the county high school, single, proficient also in football, basketball and track. They heard Mike Davis hail ) Steve and watched Mr. Webb stride away. Buddy Morgan mopped “Gee, fellers, I'm sorry. He's nuts.” Con Graham shrugged. ‘A week from now it won’t make any dif ference. He’ll be back in the mines.” Another reporter said, ‘“Hé’s tough.” “They’ll dust him,” prophesied Graham. ‘“The Cougars like 'em “I hope he sticks,”” commented another. ‘A lad like that is easy “So has a red undershirt,” snapped Graham. “‘But who wants “I do,” said Linda Roberts. ‘“They tickle.” Buddy Morgan, beset by what are commonly referred to as mixed emotions, said, ‘‘Maybe we’ll really learn something now. Mike is sending the team out and fixing to test Brother Webb with a few Four regulars who were known as the Homicide Squad were swing- ing bats. Steve walked to the mound, and back of first base Con Graham hopefully murmured, *‘Adios.” Magazine Section Tim Riley dropped two bats, retained one, and stepped to the plate. Riley was smart and willing. He had watched Steve warm up and had plenty of respect for the rookie. But Tim loved speed. Steve wound up. His big body uncoiled, and * Tim swung. A split second later the ball floated over the plate, and Tim had the grace to grin. “Fooled me that time,”” he complimented. Again the wind-up. Again Tim almost broke his back lacing at a “‘puff” ball that barely reached the catcher. He grinned again, but not so heartily. Teammates were laughing. Tim dug his cleats into the ground. He saw Steve’s face go grim, saw big muscles flex, knew that speed was on the way. B But it wasn’t, and Manager Michael Davis | delightedly waved Tim away from the plate. Linda Roberts was blinking. ‘‘Brains!” she said to Buddy. ‘‘Great, gorgeous gobs of brains.” | Mr. Webb continued to have a perfectly elegant time. His slow ball tantalized them. When he threw his fast one, they couldn’t even see it. Bill Marshall, stellar first baseman and a .342 hitter, fanned twice, popped an easy fly to short and then struck out for the third time. Mike Davis ordered Steve out of the box. Bill was still standing at the plate as Steve ambled nonchalantly toward the dugout. N Mr. Marshall was possessed of a disposition that was never unduly sunny. He was almost as large as Steve Webb, and fancied himself physi- cally. He blocked Steve’s path. “Next time,” he said, “I'll knock the cover off the ball.” Steve grinned slowly. 1 reckon not.” “Hmph! Think you're smart, don’t you?” “Smart enough to make a monkey out of - you.” A “Oh! Is that so? Well listen here, you two- bit mucker — "’ | & Manager Michael Davis yelled and started for the plate. But he wasn’t nearly quic;% enough to intercept Steve's right. Bill Marshal went down hard and came up roaring. Twic his fists collided with Steve Webb’s feature: but the young coal miner didn’t even blink| Neither did Bill the next time Steve's rig 4 | MANAGER MIKE DAVIS YELLE AND STARTED FOR THE PLATE. BUT HE WASN'T NEARLY QUIC ENOUGH TO INTERCEPT STEVE"' RIGHT. BILL WENT DOWN HAR