The Ball Player's Son

                                          FACING LEFTY GROVE

BIG MOE

     It was common knowledge Lefty Grove was the meanest man in baseball. Grove’s own team mates feared him, because if you booted one and cost him a game, or a shutout, he’d give you a look that would kill, and there were those who said Grove hated to lose even more than he liked to win. He was the best pitcher in baseball for nearly ten years, winning 30 games one year and leading the league in strikeouts and everything else year in and year out, a “stopper” who ended up winning 300 games and was an easy Hall of Famer.

     Though Grove was known for threatening team mates when they cost him a game or even a run, if you made a big play for him or got a big hit in a tight game, he’d give you a nod of approval, and that little nod meant more than all this hugging and kissing you see with these modern ball players. And if you were his team mate and somebody on the other team took liberties with your health, Grove was the first to retaliate, and word was—“nobody messed with Grove.”

     The first time I faced him as a rookie in an exhibition game, Grove was an old man, around 40. He had snow-white hair, had put on weight. The Red Sox were using him mostly as a spot starter and reliever. He no longer threw hard enough to scare people, but still, he had that aura, a big vulture, and he awed you. He acted like he owned the field, owned the game, and you were some interloper, and everything he did on the mound was effortless grace, like Williams hitting. A legend.

     My team mate, Schoolboy Rowe, a pitcher, told me Grove’d been washed up for years and couldn’t get off the mound any more. “Get yourself a hit,” he told me. “Drag a bunt.”

     Jim Tabor was at third, and he was slow as an ice wagon, and Jimmy Foxx was at first, looking ragged from another hangover. So I stepped in there. Lefty glared in, looking bigger than I imagined. He threw me a fastball and I dragged it down the third base line and ran like a bat out of hell down the line. As I crossed first base, Foxx never made a move toward the bag. He stood there, watching me fly past. When I got back to the bag there was a hush on the field and in the stadium. Our first base coach wouldn’t look at me. Foxx sidled up, arms folded, stinking like a distillery, with those big arms, biggest in baseball. He talked to me out of the side of his mouth.

     “Jesus, kid, what the hell you doing?”

     Over at third, Tabor stood near the bag, the ball sitting untouched between home and the bag, a perfect bunt. He was staring at me, too. “Nobody bunts Grove, kid,” Foxx told me. “It ain’t done.”

     Now I had to look at Grove. He was halfway between the mound and first, scowling right through me. He growled and turned around and took the ball from Tabor, who looked at me and shook his head, as if to say, “Boy is that stupid ass in for it.” All the guys in our dugout were having a big time falling all over each other, and the guys in the Boston dugout were quiet and grim, like they were waiting for somebody to stick my head in the chopping block.

     “You’re hitting a thousand against Grove, Franklin,” Dizzy Trout yelled from our dugout. He and Rowe jostled each other.

     I kep my head down, took a small lead, while Foxx toed the bag and smacked his glove. “Lefty don’t forget,” he said. “Better hope he’s gone next time you’re up, kid.”

     Sure enough they left him in there and I came up again. Lefty’s glaring at me when I stepped into the box. I played it meek, knowing I was going to get knocked down and deserved it for being dumb and listening to guys like Rowe and Trout, goddam pitchers. So I braced myself to take one on the backside and Grove floated a slow curve down the middle. Strike one. Well, he’ll get me now, I thought, he’s setting me up

     “Hey bush!” somebody yelled from the Boston dugout. “Drag another bunt!”

     I got ready to duck again and he floated I another slow curve down the middle. Strike two. I got out of the box, stared out at Grove. To hell with him, I thought. I don’t give a damn what he does, I’m hitting. Next pitch he comes in tight with a fastball and I whack it off the fence in left and pull into second with a double. I stand there, proud as a peacock, and Lefty’s got the ball back. He steps off the mound and gives me a tiny nod, no smile.

     “Thattaway to swing that bat, kid,” he growled. “You don’t ned to bunt.”

     (Next Sunday installment: “An essential arrogance.”)