The Cincinnati Red Stalkings Read Online Free PDF Page A

amount of playing time. Heinie Groh had given me the chance to play regularly during the early part of the season, when he tried to set a record for the longest holdout by a National League third baseman. Shortstop Larry Kopf was barely batting .200 and had slowed down considerably in the field. Cocky young rookie Curt Stram had the talent to be one of the best second basemen in the league, but his fondness for the nightlife often left him unable to play the next day.
    After the pepper, I was about to head into the dugout when I spotted Dave Claxton hitting fungoes to the outfielders. The wiry old coach was an institution in Cincinnati baseball, having played or coached here since the 1880s.
    I walked up to him as he hit a fly to Rube Bressler. “Say, Clax,” I said, “You go back a ways, right?”
    “Am I old?” he snapped. “Is that what you’re asking, if I’m old? Take a look at me, boy—the answer’s yes. So what of it?”
    I’d caught him in one of his better moods. “I was wondering if you knew another fellow played for Cincinnati some years back. Dick Hurtey—was with the ’69 Red Stockings.”
    Claxton grunted as he hit one to Greasy Neale. “Ain’t that damn old. Wasn’t but a boy in ’69.”
    “I was just curious if you ever heard what happened to him.”
    He handed me the bat. “Here. You hit ’em a few.” With a dour smile, he added, “At my age, I got to save my strength, you know.” I took the fungo bat and hit a pop-up to Bressler. The coach went on, “Don’t think I ever heard what become of Hurley. I remember when he disappeared there was some talk, but I don’t know where he ended up.”
    “What kind of talk?”
    “Well, I was about eleven at the time, and like most boys that summer I followed the Red Stockings pretty close. None of us could ever understand why Hurley left the club in mid-season. He was with the most famous team in baseball—why would he give that up?” Claxton took the throw from Bressler and flipped me the ball. “Anyway, the story going around was that it had to do with a girl.”
    I hit another that Edd Roush and Neale let drop between them. “What girl?”
    “Hell, I dunno if there even was a girl. Maybe it was just some way to make sense of him leaving like he did. There a reason you want to know?”
    “Not really. Saw a picture of him yesterday and got to wondering is all.”
    Roush complained loudly about making him run too far on the next hit, and Claxton took over again. I didn’t get another chance to hit for the rest of the day.

    The door to Oliver Perriman’s office was half-open. I was one step inside when I saw that Perriman already had a visitor—and it wasn’t a friendly one.
    “How long you going to drag this out, Ollie?” Lloyd Tinsley demanded. “Figure out how you want to display this crap, and do it!” He slammed his palm on the center table, causing a bat to roll off onto the floor. Perriman quickly bent and scooped up the bat, cradling it like a baby that had fallen from its crib.
    I started to retreat from the doorway when the Reds’ business manager spotted me. “Rawlings,” Tinsley said. “Come in. We’re just having a little discussion about scheduling.”
    Tinsley was about fifty years old, with short salt-and-pepper hair that was mostly salt. His face matched descriptions that I’d read of Piltdown man—an otherwise normal head, but with an apelike jaw and large prominent teeth. His quiet pin-striped business suit covered a physique as powerful as his jaw.
    While Tinsley appeared impervious to the sweltering atmosphere in the room, Perriman wasn’t faring so well. Sweat beaded his forehead and ran down his cheeks. His jacket was off, and his shirt stuck to his broad body in several places. He smiled at me, looking relieved that his “discussion” with Tinsley had been interrupted.
    I’d stopped in to see if I could get a few more cards for Patrick Kelly, but didn’t want to ask in front of Tinsley. “I,