The Celebrated No-Hit Inning
This is A TRUE STORY, you have to remember. You have
to keep that firmly in mind because, frankly, in some
places it may not sound like a true story. Besides, it's a
true story about baseball players, and maybe the only one
there is. So you have to treat it with respect.
You know Boley, no doubt. It's pretty hard not to know
Boley, if you know anything at all about the National
Game. He's the one, for instance, who raised such a
scream when the sportsvmters voted him Rookie of the
Year. "I never was a rookie," he bellowed into three mil-
lion television screens at the dinner. He's the one who
ripped up his contract when his manager called him, "The
hittin'est pitcher I ever see." Boley wouldn't stand for
that.  "Four-eighteen  against  the  best  pitchers  in  the
league," he yelled, as the pieces of the contract went out
the window. "Fogarty, I am the hittin'est hitler you ever
see!"
He's the one they all said reminded them so much of
Dizzy Dean at first. But did Diz win thirty-one games in
his first year? Boley did; he'll tell you so himself. But
politely, and without bellowing. . . .
Somebody explained to Boley that even a truly great
Hall-of-Fame pitcher really ought to show up for spring
training. So, in his second year, he did. But he wasn't con-
vinced that he needed the training, so he didn't bother
much about appearing on the field.
Manager Fogarty did some extensive swearing about
that, but he did all of his swearing to his pitching coaches
and not to Mr. Boleslaw. There had been six ripped-up
contracts already that year, when Boley's feelings got
hurt about something, and the front office were very in-
sistent that there shouldn't be any more.
There wasn't much the poor pitching coaches could do,
of course. They tried pleading with Boley. All he did was
grin and ruffle their hair and say, "Don't get all in an
uproar." He could ruffle their hair pretty easily, since he
stood six inches taller than the tallest of them.
"Boley," said Pitching Coach MagiU to him desper-
ately, "you are going to get me into trouble with the
manager. I need this job. We just had another little boy
at our house, and they cost money to feed. Won't you
please do me a favor and come down to the field, just for
a little while?"
Boley had a kind of a soft heart. "Why, if that will
make so much difference to you. Coach, I'll do it. But I
don't feel much like pitching. We have got twelve exhibi-
tion games lined up with the Orioles on the way north,
and if I pitch six of those that ought to be all the warm-up
I need."
"Three innings?" Magill haggled. "You know I wouldn't
ask you if it wasn't important. The thing is, the owner's
uncle is watching today."
Boley pursed his lips. He shrugged. "One inning."
"Bless you, Boley!" cried the coach. "One inning it is!"
Andy Andalusia was catching for the regulars when
Boley turned up on the field. He turned white as a sheet.
"Not the fast ball, Boley! Please, Boley," he begged. "I
only been catching a week and I have not hardened up
yet."
Boleslaw turned the rosin bag around in his hands and
looked around the field. There was action going on at all
six diamonds, but the spectators, including the owner's
uncle, were watching the regulars.
"I tell you what I'll do," said Boley thoughtfully. "Let's
see. For the first man, I pitch only curves. For the second
man, the screwball. And for the third manlet's see. Yes.
For the third man, I pitch the sinker."
"Fine!" cried the catcher gratefully, and trotted back
to home plate.
"He's a very spirited player," the owner's uncle com-
mented to Manager Fogarty.
"That he is," said Fogarty, remembering how the pieces
of the fifth contract had felt as they hit him on the side
of the head.
"He must be a morale problem for you, though. Doesn't
he upset the discipline of the rest of the team?"
Fogarty looked at him, but he only said.) "He win thirty-
one games for us last year. If he had lost thirty-one he
would have upset us a lot more."
The owner's uncle nodded, but there was a look in his
eye all the same. He watched without saying anything
more, while Boley struck out the first man with three
sizzling curves, right on schedule, and then turned around
and yelled something at the outfield.
"That crazy By heaven," shouted the manager, "he's
chasing them back into the dugout. I told that"
The owner's uncle clutched at Manager Fogarty as he
was getting up to head for the field. "Wait a minute.
What's Boleslaw doing?"
"Don't you see? He's chasing the outfield off the field.
He wants to face the next two men without any outfield!
That's Satchell Paige's old trick, only he never did it
except in exhibitions where who cares? But that Boley"
"This is only an exhibition, isn't it?" remarked the
owner's uncle mildly.
Fogarty looked longingly at the field, looked back at
the owner's uncle, and shrugged.
"All right." He sat down, remembering that it was the
owner's uncle whose sprawling factories had made the
family money that bought the owner his team. "Go
ahead!" he bawled at the right fielder, who was hesitating
halfway to the dugout.
Boley nodded from the mound. When the outfielders
were all out of the way he set himself and went into his
windup. Boleslaw's windup was a beautiful thing to all
who chanced to behold itunless they happened to root
for another team. The pitch was more beautiful still.
"I got it, I got it!" Andalusia cried from behind the
plate, waving the ball in his mitt. He returned it to the
pitcher triumphantly, as though he could hardly believe he
had caught the Boleslaw screwballafter only the first
week of spring training.
He caught the second pitch, too. But the third was
unpredictably low and outside. Andalusia dived for it in
vain.
"Ball one!" cried the umpire. The catcher scrambled
up, ready to argue.
"He is right," Boley called graciously from the mound.
"I am sorry, but my foot slipped. It was a ball."
"Thank you," said the umpire. T"P_ next screwball was
a strike, though, and so were the thiee sinkers to the third
manthough one of those caught a little piece of the bat
and turned into an into-the-dirt foul.
Boley came off the field to a spattering of applause. He
stopped under the stands, on the lip of the dugout. "I
guess I am a little rusty at that, Fogarty," he called.
"Don't let me forget to pitch another inning or two be-
fore we play Baltimore next month."
"I won't!" snapped Fogarty. He would have said more,
but the owner's uncle was talking.
"I don't know much about baseball, but that strikes me
as an impressive performance. My congratulations."
"You are right," Boley admitted. "Excuse me while I
shower, and then we can resume this discussion some
more. I think you are a better judge of baseball than you
say."
The owner's uncle chuckled, watching him go into the
dugout. "You can laugh," said Fogarty bitterly. "You
don't have to put up with that for a hundred fifty-four
games, and spring training, and the Series."
"You're pretty confident about making the Series?"
Fogarty said simply, "Last year Boley win thirty-one
games."
The owner's uncle nodded, and shifted position un-
comfortably. He was sitting with one leg stretched over a
large black metal suitcase, fastened with a complicated
lock. Fogarty asked, "Should I have one of the boys put
that in the locker room for you?"
"Certainly not!" said the owner's uncle. "I want it right
here where I can touch it." He looked around him. "The
fact of that matter is," he went on in a lower tone, "this
goes up to Washington with me tomorrow. I can't discuss
what's in it. But as we're among friends, I can mention
that where it's going is the Pentagon."
"Oh," said Fogarty respectfully. "Something new from
the factories."
"Something very new," the owner's uncle agreed, and
he winked. "And I'd better get back to the hotel with it
But there's one thing, Mr. Fogarty. I don't have much
time for baseball, but it's a family affair, after all, and
whenever I can help I mean, it just occurs to me that
possibly, with the help of what's in this suitcase "That is,
would you like me to see if I could help out?"
"Help out how?" asked Fogarty suspiciously.
"Well I really mustn't discuss what's in the suitcase.
But would it hurt Boleslaw, for example, to be a little
more, well, modest?"
The manager exploded, "No."
The owner's uncle nodded. "That's what I've thought.
Well, I must go. Will you ask Mr. Boleslaw to give me a
ring at the hotel so we can have dinner together, if it's
convenient?"
It was convenient, all right. Boley had always wanted
to see how the other half lived; and they had a fine dinner,
served right in the suite, with five waiters in attendance
and four kinds of wine. Boley kept pushing the little
glasses of wine away, but after all the owner's uncle was
the owner's uncle, and if he thought it was all right
It must have been pretty strong wine, because Boley began
to have trouble following the conversation.
It was all right as long as it stuck to earned-run averages
and batting percentages, but then it got hard to follow,
like a long, twisting grounder on a dry September field.
Boley wasn't going to admit that, though. "Sure," he said,
trying to follow; and "You say the fourth dimension?" he
said; and, "You mean a time machine, like?" he said; but
he was pretty confused.
The owner's uncle smiled and filled the wine glasses
again.
Somehow the black suitcase had been unlocked, in a
slow, difficult way. Things made out of crystal and steel
were sticking out of it. "Forget about the time machine,"
said the owner's uncle patiently. "It's a military secret,
anyhow. I'll thank you to forget the very words, because
heaven knows what the General would think if he found
out Anyway, forget it. What about you, Boley? Do you
still say you can hit any pitcher who ever lived and strike
out any batter?"
"Anywhere," agreed Boley, leaning back in the deep
cushions and watching the room go around and around.
"Any time. 111 bat their ears off."
"Have another glass of wine, Boley," said the owner's
uncle, and he began to take things out of the black suit-
case.
Boley woke up with a pounding in his' head like Snider,
Mays and Mantle hammering Three-Eye League pitching.
He moaned and opened one eye.
Somebody blurry was holding a glass out to him. "Hurry
up. Drink this."
Boley shrank back. "I will not. That's what got me into
this trouble in the first place."
'Trouble? You're in no trouble. But the game's about
to start and you've got a hangover."
Ring a fire bell beside a sleeping Dalmation; sound the
Charge in the ear of a retired cavalry major. Neither will
respond more quickly than Boley to the words, "The
game's about to start."
He managed to drink some of the fizzy stuff in the
glass and it was a miracle; like a triple play erasing a
ninth-inning threat, the headache was gone. He sat up,
and the world did not come to an end. In fact, he felt
pretty good.
He was being rushed somewhere by the blurry man.
They were going very rapidly, and there were tail, bright
buildings outside. They stopped.
"We're at the studio," said the man, helping Boley out
of a remarkable sort of car.
"The stadium," Boley corrected automatically. He
looked around for the lines at the box office but there
didn't seem to be any.
"The studio. Don't argue all day, will you?" The man
was no longer so blurry. Boley looked at him and blushed.
He was only a little man, with a worried look to him, and
what he was wearing was a pair of vivid orange Bermuda
shorts that showed his knees. He didn't give Boley much
of a chance for talking or thinking. They rushed into a
building, all green and white opaque glass, and they were
met at a flimsy-looking elevator by another little man. "This
one's shorts were aqua, and he had a bright red cummer-
bund tied around his waist.
"This is him," said Boley's escort.
The little man in aqua looked Boley up and down.
"He's a big one. I hope to goodness we got a uniform to
fit him for the Series."
Boley cleared his throat. "Series?"
"And you're in it!" shrilled the little man in orange.
"This way to the dressing room."
Well, a dressing room was a dressing room, even if
this one did have color television screens all around it and
machines that went wheepety-boom softly to themselves.
Boley began to feel at home.
He biinked when they handed his uniform to him, but
he put it on. Back in the Steel & Coal League, he had
sometimes worn uniforms that still bore the faded legend
100 Lbs. Best Fortified Gro-Chick, and whatever an
owner gave you to put on was all right with Boley. Still,
he thought to himself, kilts!
It was the first time in Boley's life that he had ever
worn a skirt. But when he was dressed it didn't look too
bad, he thoughtespecially because all the other players
(it looked like fifty of them, anyway) were wearing the
same thing. There is nothing like seeing the same costume
on everybody in view to make it seem reasonable and
right. Haven't the Paris designers been proving that for
years?
He saw a familiar figure come into the dressing room,
wearing a uniform like his own. "Why, Coach Magill,"
said Boley, turning with his hand outstretched. "I did not
expect to meet you here."
The newcomer frowned, until somebody whispered in
his ear. "Oh," he said, "you're Boleslaw."
"Naturally I'm Boleslaw, and naturally you're my pitch-
ing coach, Magill, and why do you look at me that way
when I've seen you every day for three weeks?"
The man shook his head. "You're thinking of Grand-
daddy Jim," he said, and moved on.
Boley stared after him. Granddaddy Jim? But Coach
Magill was no granddaddy, that was for sure. Why, his
eldest was no more than six years old. Boley put his hand
against the wall to steady himself. It touched something
metal and cold. He glanced at it.
It was a bronze plaque, floor to ceiling high, and it was
embossed at the top with the words World Series Honor
Roll. And it listed every team that had ever won the
World Series, from the day Chicago won the first Series of
all in 1906 untiluntil
Boley said something out loud, and quickly looked
around to see if anybody had heard him. It wasn't some-
thing he wanted people to hear. But it was the right time
for a man to say something like that, because what that
-  crazy lump of bronze said, down toward the bottom, with
only empty spaces below, was that the most recent team to
win the World Series was the Yokahama Dodgers, and
the year they won it in was1998.
1998.
A time machine, thought Boley wonderingly, I guess
what he meant was a machine that traveled in time.
Now, if you had been picked up in a time machine that
leaped through the years like a jet plane leaps through
space you might be quite astonished, perhaps, and for a
while you might not be good for much of anything, until
things calmed down.
But Boley was born calm. He lived by his arm and his
eye, and there was nothing to worry about there. Pay him
his Class C league contract bonus, and he turns up in
Western Pennsylvania, all ready to set a league record for
no-hitters his first year. Call him up from the minors and
he bats .418 against the best pitchers in baseball. Set him
down in the year 1999 and tell him he's going to play in
the Series, and he hefts the ball once or twice and says,
"I better take a couple of warm-up pitches. Is the spitter
allowed?"
They led him to the buUpen. And then there was the
playing of the National Anthem and the teams took the
field. And Boley got the biggest shock so far.
"Magill," he bellowed in a terrible voice, "what is that
other pitcher doing out on the mound?"
The manager looked startled. "That's our starter,
Padgett. He always starts with the number-two defensive
lineup against right-hand batters when the outfield shift
goes"
"MagUI! I am not any relief pitcher. If you pitch Bole-
slaw, you start with Boleslaw."
Magill said soothingly, "It's perfectly all right. There
have been some changes, that's all. You can't expect the
rules to stay the same for forty or fifty years, can you?"
"I am not a relief pitcher. I"
"Please, please. Won't you sit down?"
Boley sat down, but he was seething. "We'll see about
that," he said to the world. "We'll just see."
Things had changed, all right. To begin with, the studio
really was a studio and not a stadium. And although it
was a very large room it was not the equal of Ebbetts
Field, much less the Yankee Stadium. There seemed to
be an awful lot of bunting, and the ground rules con-
fused Boley very much.
Then the dugout happened to be just under what seemed
to be a complicated sort of television booth, and Boley
could hear the announcer screaming himself hoarse just
overhead. That had a familiar sound, but
"And here," roared the announcer, "comes the all-
important nothing-and-one pitch! Fans, what a pitcher's
duel this is! Delasantos is going into bis motion! He's
coming down! He's delivered it! And it's in there for a
count of nothing and two! Fans, what a pitcher that
Tiburcio Delasantos is! And here comes the all-important
nothing-and-two pitch, andandyes, and he struck him
out! He struck him out! He struck him out! It's a no-
hitter, fans! In the all-important second inning, it's a no-
hitter for Tiburcio Delasantos!"
Boley swallowed and stared hard at the scoreboard,
which seemed to show a score of 14-9, their favor. His
teammates were going wild with excitement, and so was
the crowd of players, umpires, cameramen and announcers
watching the game. He tapped the shoulder of the man
next to him.
"Excuse me. What's the score?"
"Dig that Tiburcio!" cried the man. "What a first-string
defensive pitcher against left-handers he is!"
"The score. Could you tell me what it is?"
"Fourteen to nine. Did you see that"
Boley begged, "Please, didn't somebody just say it was
a no-hitter?"
"Why, sure." The man explained: "The inning. It's a
no-hit inning." And he looked queerly at Boley.
It was all like that, except that some of it was worse.
After three innings Boley was staring glassy-eyed into
space. He dimly noticed that both teams were trotting off
the field and what looked like a whole new corps of play-
ers were warming up when Manager MagiU stopped in
' front of him. "You'll be playing in a minute," Magill said
kindly.
"Isn't the game over?" Boley gestured toward the field.
"Over? Of course not. It's the third-inning stretch,"
Magill told him. "Ten minutes for the lawyers to file their
motions and make their appeals. You know." He laughed
condescendingly. "They tried to get an injunction against
the bases-loaded pitchout. Imagine!"
"Hah-hah," Boley echoed. "Mister Magill, can I go
home?"
"Nonsense, boy! Didn't you hear me? You're on as
soon as the lawyers come off the field!"
Well, that began to make sense to Boley and he
actually perked up a little. When the minutes had passed
and Magill took him by the hand he began to feel almost
cheerful again. He picked up the rosin bag and flexed his
fingers and said simply, "Boley's ready."
Because nothing confused Boley when he had a ball or
a bat in his hand. Set him down any time, anywhere, and
he'd hit any pitcher or strike out any batter. He knew
exactly what it was going to be like, once he got on the
playing field.
Only it wasn't like that at all.
Boley's team was at bat, and the first man up got on
with a bunt single. Anywa-y, they said it was a bunt single.
To Boley it had seemed as though the enemy pitcher had
charged beautifully off. the mound, fielded the ball with
machine-like precision and flipped it to the first-base
player with inches and inches to spare for the out. But
the umpires declared interference by a vote of eighteen to
seven, the two left-field umpires and the one with the
field glasses over the batter's head abstaining; it seemed
that the first baseman had neglected to say "Excuse me" to
the runner. Well, the rules were the rules. Boley tightened
his grip on his bat and tried to get a lead on the pitcher's
style.
That was hard, because the pitcher was fast. Boley ad-
mitted it to himself uneasily; he was very fast. He was a
big monster of a player, nearly seven feet tall and with
something queer and sparldy about his eyes; and when
he came down with a pitch there was a sort of a hiss and
a splat, and the ball was in the catcher's hands. It might,
Boley confessed, be a little hard to hit that particular
pitcher, because he hadn't yet seen the ball in transit.
Manager MagiU came up behind him in the on-deck
spot and fastened something to his collar. "Your inter-
com," he explained. "So we can tell you what to do when
you're up."
"Sure, sure." Boley was only watching the pitcher. He
looked sickly out there; his skin was a grayish sort of
color, and those eyes didn't look right. But there wasn't
anything sickly about the way he delivered the next pitch,
a sweeping curve that sizzled in and spun away.
The batter didn't look so good eithersame sickly
gray skin, same giant frame. But he reached out across
the plate and caught that curve and dropped it between
third-base and short; and both men were safe.
"You're on," said a tinny little voice in Boley's ear; it
was the little intercom, and the manager was talking to
him over the radio. Boley walked numbly to the plate.
Sixty feet away, the pitcher looked taller than ever.
Boley took a deep breath and looked about him. The
crowd was roaring ferociously, which was normal enough
except there wasn't any crowd. Counting everybody,
players and officials and all, there weren't more than three
or four hundred people in sight in the whole studio. But
he could hear the screams and yells of easily fifty or sixty
thousand There was a man, he saw, behind a plate-
glass window who was doing things with what might have
been records, and the yells of the crowd all seemed to
come from loudspeakers under his window. Boley winced
and concentrated on the pitcher.
"I will pin his ears back," he said feebly, more to
reassure himself than because he believed it.
The little intercom on his shoulder cried in a tiny voice:
"You will not, Boleslaw! Your orders are to take the first
pitch!"
"But, listen"
"Take it! You hear me, Boleslaw?"
There was a time when Boley would have swung just
-._to prove who was boss; but the time was not then. He
stood there while the big gray pitcher looked him over
with those sparkling eyes. He stood there through the
windup. And then the arm came down, and he didn't
stand there. That ball wasn't invisible, not coming right
at him; it looked as big and as fast as the Wabash Can-
nonbaU and Boley couldn't help it, for the first time in
his life he jumped a yard away, screeching.
"Hit batter! Hit batter!" cried the intercom. "Take your
base, Boleslaw."
Boley biinked. Six of the umpires were beckoning him
on, so the intercom was right. But still and all Boley
had his pride. He said to the little button on his collar,
"I am sorry, but I wasn't hit. He missed me a mile, easy.
I got scared is all."
"Take your base, you silly fool!" roared the intercom.
"He scared you, didn't he? That's just as bad as hitting
you, according to the rules. Why, there is no telling what
incalculable damage has been done to your nervous sys-
tem by this fright. So kindly get the bejeepers over to first
base, Boleslaw, as provided in the rules of the game!"
He got, but he didn't stay there long, because there was
a pinch runner waiting for him. He barely noticed that it
was another of the gray-skinned giants before he headed
for the locker room and the showers. He didn't even re-
member getting out of his uniform; he only remembered
that he, Boley, had just been through the worst experience
of his life.
He was sitting on a bench, with his head on his hands,
when the owner's uncle came in, looking queerly out of
place in his neat pin-striped suit. The owner's Uncle had
to speak to him twice before his eyes focused.
"They didn't let me pitch," Boley said wonderingly.
"They didn't, want Boley to pitch."
The owner's uncle patted his shoulder. "You were a
guest star, Boley. One of the all-time greats of the game.
Next game they're going to have Christy Mathewson.
Doesn't that make you feel proud?"
"They didn't let me pitch," said Boley.
The owner's uncle sat down beside him. "Don't you
see? You'd be out of place in this kind of a game. You
got on base for them, didn't you? I heard the announcer
say it myself; he said you filled the bases in the all-
important fourth inning. Two hundred million people were
watching this game on television! And they saw you gpt
on base!"
"They didn't let me hit either," Boley said.
There was a commotion at the door and the team came
trotting in screaming victory. "We win it, we win it!" cried
Manager Magitt. "Eighty-seven to eighty-three! What a
squeaker!"
Boley lifted his head to croak, "That's fine." But no-
body was listening. The manager jumped on a table and
yelled, over the noise in the locker room:
"Boys, we pulled a close one out, and you know what
that means. We're leading in the Series, eleven games to
nine! Now let's just wrap those other two up, and"
He was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream from
Boley. Boley was standing up, pointing with an expression
of horror. The athletes had scattered and the trainers were
working them over; only some of the trainers were using
pliers and screwdrivers instead of towels and liniment.
Next to Boley, the big gray-skinned pinch runner was
flat on his back, and the trainer was lifting one leg away
from the body
"Murder!" bellowed Boley. "That fellow is murdering
that fellow!"
The manager jumped down next to him. "Murder?
There isn't any murder, Boleslaw! What are you talking
about?"
Boley pointed mutely. The trainer stood gaping at him,
with the leg hanging limp in his grip. It was completely
removed from the torso it belonged to, but the torso
seemed to be making no objections; the curious eyes were
open but no longer sparkling; the gray skin, at closer
hand, seemed metallic and cold.
The manager said fretfully, "I swear, Boleslaw, you're
a nuisance. They're just getting cleaned and oiled, bat-
teries recharged, that sort of thing. So they'll be in shape
tomorrow, you understand."
"Cleaned," whispered Boley. "Oiled." He stared around
e the room. All of the gray-skinned ones were being some-
how disassembled; bits of metal and glass were sticking
out of them. "Are you trying to tell me," he croaked, "that
those fellows aren't fellows?"
"They're ballplayers," said Manager Magill impatiently.
"Robots. Haven't you ever seen a robot before? We're
allowed to field six robots on a nine-man team, it's per-
fectly legal. Why, next year I'm hoping the Commission-
er'11 let us play a whole robot team. Then you'll see some
baseball!"
With bulging eyes Boley saw it was true. Except for a
handful of flesh-and-blood players like himself the team
was made up of man-shaped machines, steel for bones,
electricity for blood, steel and plastic and copper cogs for
muscle. "Machines," said Boley, and turned up his eyes.
The owner's uncle tapped him on the shoulder wor-
riedly. "It's time to go back," he said.
So Boley went back.
He didn't remember much about it, except that the
owner's uncle had made him promise never, never to tell
anyone about it, because it was orders from the Defense
Department, you never could tell how useful a time ma-
chine might be in a war. But he did get back, and he
woke up the next morning with all the signs of a hangover
and the sheets kicked to shreds around his feet.
He was still bleary when he staggered down to the
coffee shop for breakfast. Magill the pitching coach, who
had no idea that he was going to be granddaddy to Magill
the series-winning manager, came solicitously over to
him. "Bad night, Boley? You look like you have had a
bad night."
"Bad?" repeated Boley. "Bad? MagiU, you have got no
idea. The owner's uncle said he would show me some-
thing that would learn me a little humility and, Magill, he
came through. Yes, he did. Why, I saw a big bronze tablet
with the names of the Series winners on it, and I saw"
And he closed his mouth right there, because he re-
membered right there what the owner's uncle had said
about closing his mouth. He shook his head and shud-
dered. "Bad," he said, "you bet it was bad."
Magill coughed. "Gosh, that's too bad, Boley. I guess
I mean, then maybe you wouldn't feel like pitching an-
other couple of inningswell, anyway one inningtoday,
because"
Boley held up his hand. "Say no more, please. You
want me to pitch today, Magill?"
"That's about the size of it," the coach confessed.
"I will pitch today," said Boley. "If that is what you
want me to do, I will do it. I am now a reformed char-
acter. I will pitch tomorrow, too, if you want me to pitch
tomorrow, and any other day you want me to pitch. And
if you do not want me to pitch, I will sit on the sidelines.
Whatever you want is perfectly all right with me, Magill,
because, Magill, Ihey! Hey, Magill, what are you doing
down there on the floor?"
So that is why Boley doesn't give anybody any trouble
any more, and if you tell him now that he reminds you
of Dizzy Dean, why he'll probably shake your hand and
thank you for the complimenteven if you're a sports-
writer, even. Oh, there still are a few special little things
about him, of coursenot even counting the things like
how many shut-outs he pitched last year (eleven) or how
many home runs he hit (fourteen). But everybody finds
him easy to get along with. They used to talk about the
change that had come over him a lot and wonder what
caused it. Some people said he got religion and others
said he had an incurable disease and was trying to do
good in his last few weeks on earth; but Boley never said,
he only smiled; and the owner's uncle was too busy in
Washington to be with the team much after that. So now
they talk about other things when Boley's name comes
up. For instance, there's his little business about the pitch-
ing machinewhen he shows up for batting practice
(which is every morning, these days), he insists on hitting
against real live pitchers instead of the machine. It's even
in his contract. And then, every March he bets nickels
against 'anybody around the training camp that'll bet with
him that he can pick that year's Series winner. He doesn't
bet more than that, because the Commissioner naturally
doesn't like big bets from baUplayers.
But, even for nickels, don't bet against him, because he
isn't ever going to lose, not before 1999.