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Show wv I THIRD STRIKE CALLED! I B ,A K KOFOED be big enough to hold the two of us." He turned on his heel and strode back to the bench. The inf.elders took their positions and High Pockets stood in the middle mid-dle of the diamond with the ball in j his hand and remembered how he had fallen off the fence and how those Northern Michigan fellow had pinned back his ears, and knew in his heart that he wasn't lucky enough to get one past McGee. He better, though if he failed he could not excuse himself to Sally.. She wouldn't listen to that bad luck btuff any more. She would say he was given the greatest break of his life and had not been man enough to take advantage of It. Besides, High Pockets felt that if he let McGee Mc-Gee hit, he'd be delivering groceries grocer-ies for old man Hemingway back in Ishpeming next Summer instead of drawing salary checks from the Yankees. Connelly was signaling Kelley didn't know what the catcher was calling for. A curve? A fast ball? A dipsy do? What did it matter, anyway? any-way? Whatever he threw McGee was going to hit. The plate umpire took off his THE sun slanted into the bull pen where High Pockets Kelley was warming up, and caused beads of perspiration to stipple his brick-colored brick-colored forehead like raindrops. He threw the ball listlessly because there wasn't a chance in a million that he would get into the final game of the World Series. His teammate, team-mate, Slats McKeevcr, had held the Giants to three hits, and the Yankees Yan-kees led one to nothing going into the final inning. "Something always happens to me," Kelley said, "and it is seldom anything to write home about. Ai far back as I can remember, I have been the unlucklest guy In the world. When I was only seven years old, I met Sally Ryall. . . ." "If you call that bad luck," norted Pete Howard, "get me a load of It." r ain't it? Loukit this series now. Here we come to the last game, and every pitcher on the staff except McKeever and me is as healthy as If they had the cholera. And what happens? Slats makes 'em eat out of his hand while I'm here in the bull pen. The boss is wavin' for you. Luck!" Howard laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "If you gab less and look more, maybe you wouldn't feel that way. McKeever's lost his stuff. Moore singled and Wilson walked and there's Lake at the plate now. If he gets a piece of one, goodbye ball gamel Uh-huh, he walked, too. And the boss is wavin' for you." Kelley stuffed his glove in his hip pocket and pulled his cap further down over his sunburned forehead. High Pockets True put an x 1 r " lm8 little zip on his Week's 'ast baU "That's right Best but y o u o n 1 y . . got the start of Fiction a," he laid. "W e ' r from Ishpeming, Michigan, and u lot of houses out there have board fences along the back yard. I tried to make a hit with Sally by walkin' on one of them and fell off and busted a couple of ribs. When I got my first Job In the Northern Michigan League, she came to see me work. I tore a nail off a finger of my pitch-In pitch-In hand and they knocked me out of the box In two Innings. But that wasn't the worst of it. We had "What happened?" he asked, dazedly. signed a new first baseman named Frederick Longstrrth McGee. . . ." High Pockets banged the ball viciously into his glove. "Yeah, but look what luck does to me. Fred wasn't supposed to report until the next day, but he's just dumb enough to get his dates mixed and showed up In time to meet Sally. What's Clark Gable got that he hadn't got? Not a thing. And me six-feet-four, and with a pan that stopped practically prac-tically every clock in Ishpeming." "So you lost Sally to him, eh?" "Not yet. If my luck in love is as bad as it Is In everything else, I probably will. When we came up to the majors, McGee was signed by the Giants. Five minutes after he put on the slidin' pads. Smith's legs went bad, and there was McGee the regular first basernan. The Yankees took me and all I had to beat out for a job were Jones, Pearson, Talbot, Tal-bot, and Wirte." "You complain too much," said Pete, "look at me. That Connelly will go on catching till I've got a beard way down to here. All I get to do is warming up these bums." High Pockets considered that unimportant. un-important. He had his own troubles. "Sally talks that way, too. She works for a psychiatrist named Gol-enpaul, Gol-enpaul, and he says I'm obsessed by the belief that luck is the domi-natin' domi-natin' factor In my career. Well, "Good luck," he echoed scornfully. scorn-fully. "If I strike out the side, I'll bet Connelly misses the last pitch and the winning runs come over." McKeever was still waiting at the pitcher's box with all the infielders around him when Kelley shuffled up. "Somebody's makin' an awful mistake," said High Pockets. "Les-ner "Les-ner knows how unlucky I am. Does he want to lose this series?" Slats glared at him. "If the rest of the staff wasn't on the waitin' list of the hospital for Joint diseases, you wouldn't even be here. Forget that luck stuff. It's not avimportant as the hop on your fast one." "That's what you think." Kelley said. "But I'll take a double order o luck. My girl says there ain't any. Laugh that off. And for a real break Frederick Longstreth McGee Mc-Gee is battin' next. What a guy! He could trip over a cat and fall into a gold mine. This sure is a spot for a guy who ain't pitched much more this season than Shirley Temple has." McKeever's gaunt, red face expressed ex-pressed the deepest disgust. "Well, you better come outta this game with somethin' better than a bad luck alibi, or New York won't mask and bellowed, "if you can pull yourself out of that trance, Kelley, how about working at your trade? I don't want to stay here through the whole football season!" Well, there wasn't anything else to do. Then High Pockets wound up, his mind on Sally . . . and bad luck . . . and the instant the ball left the tip of his fingers he knew it didn't have anything on it but the stitches, and it was straight as a ruler and big as a balloon. He saw McGee pull back his club . . . and then there was a whack of wood against leather . . . and that was all he remembered. High Pockets woke up in a nice clean hospital bed wit a nurse taking tak-ing a thermometer out of his mouth. Pete Howard stood nearby. "The doc says you're all right," said Pete. "It's lucky you got a head like a wrestler, or they'd be tuning up the harps for you now." High Pockets twisted his neck. There was a little ache in the back of his skull, but not much. "What happened?" he asked. Howard seemed embarrassed. "Well, McGee nit a line drive that bounced off your noggin into Stone's hands and Lou made a triple play unassisted." 'Kelley sat straight up in bed. "Holy Moses! The first break I ever had in my life, and we win the World Series with it! I'll never crab any more. Wait till I see Sally!" "I wouldn't bother, if I were you," Pete said, moving toward the door. "Women are awfully funny, Sally said nobody ever got a worse break in luck than Fred McGee, and before she marries him she's going to tell Dr. Golenpaul he doesn't know what he's talkin' about." |