Rockets on the Mound

Super Sports, September 1954

The umpires, in their colorful ceremony, bailed out of stratojets and came floating down, calling, “Play ball!”

SUPER SPORTS

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ROCKETS ON THE MOUND A Super Sports Special

by Jim Moore Sad, sad were the hearts of the Bengals, star team of the 21st Century Leagues, when Rockets Rigby showed up with a broken arm. And their standings in the league sank as rapidly as their spirits - until Rockets showed them once more that he could do the difficult at once, and the impossible after a little time!

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HE RUNNERS edged off second and third, and the Solon twirler took a full windup. Rockets Rigby, calm and relaxed, loosened his grip on the stick slightly as the big speedballer whistled a three-quarter delivery that buzzed down the outside corner. Rockets grip tightened. He stepped out, weight onto the right foot, and swished the bat around; it crossed the dish and met the speeding pellet out in front. With a solid crack, the white sphere changed direction, describing a searing line into right-center field. The straightaway fielder sprinted, but couldn’t get it. As Rockets made the turn at first, the second and winning run was cakewalking in. There was brief cheering, as Rockets loped across the diamond and into the Bengals’ dugout, but it was the kind of applause that was matter-of-fact, almost perfunctory. For though Rockets, throwback to a 20th century athlete, tried to talk it down, the fact remained that in his four years in the midst of 2040decade sports, he had done everything there was to do—and had done it better than anyone else could do it. Thus, when he slapped

another perfectly-placed blow to win another ball game for the Bengals, it was nothing extraordinary. As a matter of fact, this was the sixth game of the 2044 season, and the fourth time that Rockets’ bat had been responsible for victory. “Oh, you Rockets!” that was Sammy DeVore, slender rookie pitcher who had benefited from Rigby’s timely blow to earn his first triumph of the year. “I’m glad you’re on my side!” “That makes it about .600 for the year, huh, Rockets?” put in Larry Steen, a guy who antedated Rockets on the club, and who could remember when baseball had been a pampered, spoiled, thoroughly dead sport— dependent upon conveyor belts on 550-foot fences. That had been before Rockets had started his Cobb tactics. Larry had been a big man in the Bengal scheme before Rockets had come along to eclipse everybody—enough to make some guys jealous. “Aw, cut it out!” That was the great man, except that he still didn’t look like a man— wife and troop of kids notwithstanding—but rather a high school player. “One of these days I’m gonna run out of horseshoes, and then I’ll

ROCKETS ON THE MOUND need this kinda talk. Can it for now, huh?” He said it good-naturedly. Pushbutton Parker, the manager whom Rockets had saved from a farm club assignment in Siberia, and who knew Rockets was responsible for the Bengals’ four straight World Series triumphs, came around to check. He clapped Rockets on the back, talked praise to the other guys, and walked on. Rockets had come to like Parker, since he’d changed from a cranky machine-operator to a real manager. As Rockets left the clubhouse and went to the parking lot to get in his hydrostatic jetmobile, he was feeling noticeably smug. He might even have had reason to ask himself if there were possibly any more worlds to conquer. He gunned the engine a few times, slipped it into gear and rapidly climbed to 15,000 feet, onto the skyway. The familiar landmarks and occasional “Slow Down” signs emblazoned in the landscape below appeared. He guessed it was about three minutes after he had passed the Rockies, on the skyway into Los Angeles, that he caught sight of the cut-down jato sports car in the rear-view mirror. Subconsciously, he marked it “danger”; actually, he paid it little heed. It kept moving up to hang right on Rockets’ tail, then fall back as they turned a corner, etc. Rockets gave the guy a go-ahead signal twice, but he wouldn’t pass. Up ahead, the turnoff for cars going into Northern California loomed up and Rockets, disregarding the car in his rear-view mirror for the moment, moved over into the left-hand skylane to stay on the Los Angeles-bound stretch. As he turned, something told him to check the mirror. Rockets’ blood froze; the crazy, guy was tooling that imported car right down the same alley, trying to cut him out. The jato had accelerated enough so that Rockets’ twelve couldn’t outrun, yet Rockets had enough lead so that the wobbling comet on his left couldn’t pass him. On the right, Rockets was hemmed in by outer lanes of another skyway. Too late, Rockets hit his air-

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brakes and wrenched the stick back to try and avoid the collision. It came, and Rockets had no time to cuss out the fool who had sideswiped him. Topheavy to the right, his own ship was spinning crazily now. Out of the corner of one eye, Rockets saw the other car wobble, right itself, and continue. Hit-and-run.

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OCKETS fought the stick, pressed buttons, yanked levers. As the car spun out of control, it sliced through other levels of flight, narrowly missing a passenger-laden jetobus just out of Pasadena. The earth was getting bigger, circling wildly below him, reaching up to claim him. Rockets knew the absorbers could stand almost anything—but 15,000 feet was a tremendous height, even for 2044. His juggling on the stick finally began to pay off. The ship snapped abruptly from its spin, leveled for a second, then nosed down and started a long, gliding dive. Rockets worked frantically; he cut open his telephonal system and contacted the Los Angeles vicinity. “Watch out for crash—might be near San Fernando Valley!” Rockets yelped. He cut speed and engine. Now the crippled ship was a dead, plummeting hulk that battled Rockets. He tried to bring the nose up to flatten the dive out. As the seconds passed and the dive’s steepness decreased, Rockets took a deep breath. Looked like he’d get out of this one with his skin after all. The ground came closer. Objects were closer under his seat, and Rockets was relieved to see he’d probably miss the many business and residential areas. Ahead, a pair of open fields loomed up. Rockets took a chance, shoving downward, nosing the ship over. It shuddered, responded, and he was headed at increasing speed for the fields. At the last second, Rockets pulled back and the ship reluctantly slowed, almost stood still, and dropped—virtually straight down. Rockets braced himself; he could hope for just minor

SUPER SPORTS injuries. The crash came with terrifying suddenness. And it was over. He had been thrown, however, heavily against the paneled door on the right, and when he tried to straighten up, his right side felt as if a knife had been driven through it. The absorbers had done all they were supposed to; automatic shutoffs had finished any chance a fire might have had. The reinforced cabin had pressured him in, prevented his being thrown. Even now, with one hand, he could force the escape door open. But the fact was there, hidden in its full meaning to Rockets through his dizzy haze, that he couldn’t move his right side. Rockets Rigby Hurt in Hit-Run Crash, the papers headlined. They added that preliminary examinations showed the ace third-sacker would probably be lost to the Bengals the rest of the year, as his right arm—his throwing one and the key to his batting stance—was virtually useless. The gloom in the Detroit Bengals’ dugout was matched only by the gloom in Rockets Rigby’s Los Angeles home the next evening. As the stunned Bengals went out and took one on the chin, 7-2, with no batting punch apparent, Rockets lay and fumed in his bed, propped on a pillow. “Rockets, you shouldn’t worry so,” Jan insisted, prettier than ever since she had become a mother. “It’s only a year; you’re still young. Next year you can come back and hit .400, just to show them you haven’t slipped. You know we can get along just fine this year without your playing. You can thank your smart wife for that. And you said women couldn’t handle bank accounts; hmph!” Her nose crinkled the same old way. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re right; you always are. But Jan, if there’s anything that’ll kill me for sure, it’s lying around in bed for months. Didn’t the doc say I could get up at all—I mean soon?” “Well, yes, now that you put it that way.

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He said that your side would probably be all right and you could do fairly normal things within a month. But that arm won’t be good for anything for four or five times that long. And you’re no southpaw, Rocky.” “Yeah. I know. But he did say I could get up in a month, huh? That’s better; a lot better. I gotta get out there and at least see those guys play. Jan, you know what I’m talkin’ about, don’t you? I love you an’ the kids, but I can’t sit around doing nothing. That’s the surest way to knock me off.” “You think I’d look for a hard way?” Her eyes twinkled. “Yes, hotshot, I know you have to be up and around, and so if you’re a good boy for this first week or so and really stay in bed, maybe you can get up even before that. Got it, Rocky? Or should I say Lefty?” Rockets grinned; it was a good thing somebody could see a bright side.

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ERHAPS they’re right when they say no man is indispensable, but the Bengals must not have known about it. Stunned, punchless, they began to reel, then to show signs of disintegration in a couple of weeks; by the end of three, they had plummeted to fourth place. Pushbutton was reportedly thinking of hiring hypnotists again, mumbojumbo men to restore confidence. Rockets’ bat—and his rifle arm—and even his basepath speed, weren’t what the Bengals missed—not most of all. Guys in the batting order who used to be taking full cuts, relaxed in the knowledge that Rockets was around to clean up anybody they left on, were pressing now. Guys like Carlos Ampara, a long-ball poker, Steen and Teddy Dale—solid .300 bangers—all tried too hard to get that single; consequently, nobody got the hits that produced runs. Even throwers like DeVore and hulking Mac O’Flynn, fireballers who could smoke the ball through in tight spots, lost confidence. Mac wouldn’t fire the live one in there for fear somebody would ride it out of the park; he

ROCKETS ON THE MOUND started experimenting with tricky stuff, and really got belted. Parker knew what was happening. Smart now, he figured they were pressing too much, but what was there to do about it? Pushbutton spent sleepless nights and finally took to ignoring the facsimile sheets entirely. The sports writers fell all over him, firing scathing criticisms for this or that strategic move. Pushbutton agreed with some of them, but when you were desperate, you grasped at straws. He would gladly have choked that hitrun driver himself. Exactly twenty-four days after his smashup, Rockets sat in the back of his recently repaired hydrostat and tried to relax as Jan wobbled it through the skies on the way to Bengal Park. He heaved a sigh of relief when she finally signaled for a landing and brought the ship in. He told her he felt strong enough to drive it home himself, mopping perspiration from his brow. The Bengals were going through the motions of warming up when Rockets appeared in owner Don Santucci’s box. The scattered early fans yelled as they recognized the short, close-cropped sandy hair. Rockets waved a greeting left-handedly at them. “Hey, Rockets, you bum!” That was O’Flynn, who had been hitting lazy fungoes to the pitchers in the outfield. The big, husky Irishman fairly vaulted the railing of the box; he grabbed for Rockets hand for an instant, realized his error, and sheepishly took the left paw. “Gee, Rockets, we could sure use you out there,” he said. “Fine bunch of players you guys are,” Rockets growled as the others crowded around him. “Just because I get a couple of scratches, you throw in the towel. If you’d look at the statistics, you’d find I wasn’t knocking in all the runs, or stealing the bases, or anything; it’s all in your minds.” That one was met by disbelieving silence. “What I can’t figure,” he continued, “is why you big apes can’t knock in those runs

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like you were doing when I was in there. An’ you chuckers giving up one or two extra runs a game—that would be bad even if I was playing. I wasn’t enough help down there at third base to make a run difference every game; so help me. Why can’t you win?” “Eef we knew; we’d win,” growled Ampara. “I teenk we all have no fait’ in odder guy, thass trouble.” “Well, you gotta get over it. I still want a cut from the series dough, you know; it’ll be enough work for me watching you guys’ on FV an’ not being able to play.” “Rockets.” This time it was rookie outfielder Joe Cordery, a skinny lad who had always reminded Rockets of himself four or five years ago. “Can’t you use your right arm at all?” “If I was a lefty like Iacovetti here, yeah,” he grinned sourly. “I could use it to catch the ball back from whoever I was playin’ catch with.”

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ORDERY, a slender, bony youngster who looked awkward but who covered plenty of outfield, looked up again. “Gee, Rockets, we’d get a lift out of it if you’d only play catch with us—lefty, if you had to.” It wasn’t diplomatic, but there it was and Rockets didn’t know what to say about that kind of tribute. It was a capsule admission that the whole team depended on Rockets for their drive. Nobody said anything more; in the stillsparsely populated stands, only the infrequent pop of fungo bat hitting ball broke the stillness. “Holy cow, guys; I appreciate that. If I thought—” He stopped and felt the tingle of his free-wheeling mind springing into action. Throw lefty? Not good, but he bet he could learn how well enough to take part in practice. Who knew? It might give them a spur of some kind. Then he realized they were still waiting for him to finish the sentence. “I—guess it’s a good idea. You got a ball, Joe?” Rockets started to scale the box

SUPER SPORTS screening, then paused and leaned back to kiss Jan. “You watch and see. Sure, I’m well enough; this might turn out to be fun.” He jumped lightly over the railing and onto the field in his tweed plyolon suit. Cordery had a ball and once Rockets picked up a glove, the rook lobbed one to him. Rockets backed up a step. Twenty-four days was a long time away. He paid little attention then, but the other Bengals had gone back to warming up, and there was lots of pepper out there where there had been none before. Rockets dropped the ball into his left hand. It felt funny. How do you throw a ball lefthanded? Rockets tried to puzzle it out. He mentally tried to re-enact each motion he made throwing normally, only with the portside hand. It wouldn’t do the same; Rockets just threw. The ball hit the ground 15 feet in front of Cordery and took two erratic hops before the kid could corral it. “How lousy can I get?” he howled. Cordery smiled, yelled a word of encouragement, and lobbed it back easily. A steady half hour went past before Rockets could control his left-handed lobs enough to insure Cordery’s taking it on the fly, not on the bounce, but Rockets was getting a kick out of it. He was still throwing, the ball going more where he wanted it to every time, when the umpires, in their colorful ceremony, bailed out of stratojets and came floating down, calling, “Play ball!” Rockets got back in the stands, halfwatching, the rest of the day. Jan saw him cupping the ball in that previously-unused hand, flipping it up in the air and catching it incessantly; she liked the determination around his mouth. In extra innings, the Bengals pulled that one out to snap a losing streak; they remained mired in fourth place, however. Jan was destined to see little of her supposedly-convalescent hubby in the next days, for Rockets lived at Bengal Park. When the Bengals were at home, he and Cordery

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worked constantly, for the rookie was playing only part-time—alternating against left andright handed pitchers with Steen. When they were on the road, he persuaded some of the front-office guys to play catch. Somewhere, Jan suspected, Rockets harbored a crazy idea to get into action throwing left-handed. Somebody had told her there hadn’t been a left-handed third baseman in 110 years, but things like that had always meant little to Rockets. Three more weeks passed and the Bengals were back from a West Coast trip that had seen them do little better than in their first weeks without Rockets. While they almost broke even, it wasn’t enough to hold fourth place from the spurting Seattle Bombers, and the Bengals now found themselves in the unprecedented position of topping the second division. The sheets howled for Parker’s scalp.

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ORDERY yipped, “You’re getting good!” Rockets’ left am had just whipped a semi-sidearm delivery in there, and from where he stood, Rockets imagined it might have broken a bit. Funny. He couldn’t throw a curve right-handed, so he certainly couldn’t manufacture one southpaw. Nobody else was on the field at this hour to confirm if it had done anything or not. “But cut out the trick stuff; you’re no pitcher,” Cordery added. “I didn’t put any stuff on it.” “Listen, Rockets, not even Christy Matthewson could break off a fadeaway without trying to do it. Just fire away. You want to toughen up that arm, not play around. Or do you really mean you’re doing this just to get practice?” Rockets began to wonder. He swung back into the motion he had found best-suited to his left-handed delivery and came through with a straight three-quarters fast one. Just a peg, across the infield. Yet, the ball dipped as if it had hit an iron bar, just as Joe reached for it. The ball rolled off the edge of his glove.

ROCKETS ON THE MOUND “Cut it out, I tell ya!” “I didn’t put a thing on it!” He got the ball back, looked at it. Unmarked. He shrugged, reared back and fired the straight peg again. It broke the same way, this time eluding Cordery’s lunge completely. The skinny kid chased it down and came back frowning. “I know what you’re going to say,” Rockets protested. “But that’s a straight ball the way I’m throwing it.” Cordery was silent, thoughtful. “Try a few other deliveries. I mean sidearm, overarm, that stuff. Then try to throw a curve. Only tell me which one you’re going to curve.” He flipped the ball back to Rockets. As soon as Joe was ready, Rockets tried that sidearm. He moved, came around jerkily, more underarm. The ball kept rising as it bore down on Cordery, finally winding up almost head-high. Well, nothing alarming about that. He tried it again, only started it lower. It should have wound up waist-high, but it rose unaccountably and Joe had to jump to catch it. Rockets got the ball back, puzzled. This time, he fired straight overhand. The ball stayed on course until Cordery started to brace for the catch, then it was as if somebody had let air out of it. Except that it didn’t fall slowly, but like it was under remote control, almost straight down at the goggle-eyed rookie’s feet. Rockets threw it once more, with similar effects. “I’m going to try a curve this time,” Rockets called. He couldn’t yet believe what was happening. He gripped the ball the way a curve was supposed to be gripped, wound up awkwardly and dispatched it at the footshifting Cordery. The ball zigged and zagged, finally zigging when Joe guessed it would zag, going completely past him. Instead of chasing it, Joe ran toward Rockets. “Rockets, you got stuff I never saw before! You’ll be a great pitcher!” “I’ve never seen it before, either,” Rockets confessed. “Did you ever hit against anybody with

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that kind of stuff?” “I guess not.” “Yer darn’ right,” said Cordery. “Nobody else has that kind of stuff. Rockets, you’re gonna be a pitcher!” Cordery was fairly dancing with joy. “How come I can’t do this right-handed, though?” “I don’t ask questions; all I know is that you’re throwing it! The club has gotta hear this, Rockets. They’ll go all the way if you decide to pitch. They’re tired of losin’; all they need is one spark and they’ll go. Even if you get belted out once or twice you gotta pitch.” Cordery was fairly frothing at the mouth. And so, Rockets decided to pitch. At a time like this, anything he could have done would have helped the Bengals. After that first lift that Rockets had given them, they had slipped back. Spirit or no spirit, you can’t control a curve that has just the right break on it, or a ball that’s hit over your head, or a double-play ball when you’re trying to score. The Bengals were now steamed up just fine, but their best wasn’t enough. That, more or less, was a slap in the face to Santucci, who realized he hadn’t furnished Pushbutton Parker with an adequate supporting cast while Rockets was healthy. Now, when all the howling was for Parker’s hide, Don knew it was his fault. What can you do but wait ‘til next year, because other teams were so busy climbing over the Bengals’ prostrate form, that they were in no mood to reactivate the corpse by any deals.

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HE BENGALS were in St. Louis for a three game stand with the lowly Pixies, and Parker was almost napping in the hot Mound City sun, ostensibly poring over his batting order, when Rockets came clattering into the dugout. Cordery, a big catcher’s mitt on his hand, waited above. “Hey, Mr. Parker,” Rockets started cautiously, “can I talk to you a minute?” Parker came out of his doze, shuffling the

SUPER SPORTS cards importantly. “Er—yes, Rockets. What about?” “Well, it’s kinda crazy. But—” “Why the glove on your right hand? I thought you couldn’t use that hand.” “I can’t—for throwing. And that’s what I want to tell you, Mr. Parker. Joe Cordery and I have been working hard this last week or two, and I’m convinced of something. I think I can pitch winning ball for this team—lefthanded!” Parker’s frown deepened. “Are you serious, Rockets? What we need now is your bat back in there—and your fielding, too. But not pitching; we’ve got a flock of good pitchers.” “Who’s doing any winning?” Parker paced to the other end of the dugout. “They’re not winning because they’re not getting any support.” “Like in that 11-3 game last night, huh? Old Spud sure didn’t get any support, and he only gave up 16 hits, or something like that.” “That’s an exception. Confound you, Rockets; of all people, I should know you’re almost always right, but this is too fantastic. You couldn’t pitch right-handed, so how can you pitch left-handed?” “That I don’t know, Mr. Parker; willya come and watch me warm up, though? If you still don’t think much of the idea, I’ll clam. Okay?” Parker decided he had nothing to lose except his job—which was going fast anyhow—so he lumbered out of the dugout. Rockets ran gleefully down to the bullpen, whooping it up with Joe as they ran. The pushbutton-minded manager’s eyes began popping soon afterwards, as Rockets’ awkward southpaw delivery, looking like one of those robot pitchers that had been used years before, began to pour magical stuff into Cordery’s mitt. Parker got his notebook out and started making notes; after Rockets had thrown about two dozen times, he held up his hand for a halt.

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“Do you know how many different kinds of pitches you’ve thrown?” he was mumbling, half to himself. “Twenty-one different pitches out of twenty-four balls. Rockets, how are you holding that ball?” “Pretty bad, I think; I haven’t tried a curve yet.” Parker’s mouth fell open. “What do you call those things?” “I just throw ‘em.” Cordery, mitt in hand, was grinning toothily. “Mr. Parker, I don’t think Rockets can throw a straight ball; everything he tries has some kind of stuff on it.” Parker’s frown vanished. “There used to be pitchers like that, I’ve heard. Some pitcher about a hundred years ago—Orange, or Grapefruit, or some name like that. Pitched for Cleveland, I think.” “Rockets is better,” Cordery bubbled. “Why don’t you let him start tonight?” Parker thought. “Hey, Rockets—then it’s true that you don’t know where the ball is going when you let it go.” “Very true.” “How can I ask any catcher to go in there and get smashed up?” “I’ll catch,” Cordery countered. “We need you in center; left-hander going for the Pixies.” “Oh, f’r Pete’s sake. Steen can hit those guys as well as I can. That percentage bunk—I beg your pardon—theory, isn’t always right.” “Can you throw out a runner trying to steal?” Parker asked, a little angered. “Nobody’s gonna get on to try to steal,” Cordery chortled. Parker’s hands went into the air. “All right; you win; I’m so desperate I’ll try it. Joe, you hit in the catcher’s spot and I’ll put Steen in there. But if he gets up there in a tight spot and that lefty curves him—” Cordery grinned as Parker stomped away. “Keep tossin’, Rockets, and don’t worry about where they’re going. Let the hitters worry!”

ROCKETS ON THE MOUND

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BOUT TWO thousand fans—who had come more to get out into the night air than anything else—perked up when they heard Rockets’ name announced in the Bengal lineup as the pitcher. That was a surprise, but the little guy who was warming up in the visitor’s bullpen was Rockets Rigby, all right; and with his glove on the wrong hand, too. As Rockets toed the rubber, and the first Pixie hitter stepped in there, he felt his confidence oozing away. Who said he could pitch, anyway? Cordery, his buck teeth offsetting the catcher’s mask’s bars in a kind of checkerboard pattern, howled encouragement. The Pixie shortstop, a slightly-built redhead, stepped in. Rockets gripped the still-shiny ball tightly; he knew Joe wouldn’t give him any sign, so he reared back and fired. It happened to be a three-quarter delivery and it started like a grooveball, battingpractice style. In the split-second it was en route, Rockets saw the batter’s grip tense, and the body square to give this ball a good ride. But just as he started his swing, the ball behaved as though it suddenly had remembered an appointment elsewhere, and took off in the general direction of the Bengal dugout. Cordery dived to get it and the leadoff’s swing went through. The crowd yelled and groaned simultaneously. Rockets felt better. Cordery whipped the ball back with a yelp and Rockets looked in. The hitter was knocking dirt from his spikes, his face a deep red. Rockets took an eggbeating windup and disgorged the ball. This time, it went around the other way, coming down the groove via the dugout. The batter blinked a pair of glazed eyes as it nipped the inside corner. Rockets took the ball back and started another windup immediately. A sidearm delivery started toe-high, climbed rapidly, and passed the batter’s letters as it crossed the plate, going ever up. The hitter went after it like a man with a fly swatter. As the crowd

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buzzed, he shook his head and went back to the dugout. Baseball seemed like a pretty good game once more; life was good; and Rockets grinned all over. In no time, he had disposed of the Pixie batting order, and the Bengals, running with lots of zip, came into the dugout—ignoring the conveyor belt completely. “Hey, Rockets,” one called, “why didn’t you do this before? They look like they’re swinging at an aspirin tablet!” Others yelled and slapped each other on the backs. The Bengal dugout echoed with confident yells as it once had done. That inning, with big Ampara leading off with a ringing double off the left-field boards, the Bengals threatened to blow it open. Dale brought him home with a single and another run had come across with two down and a pair on base when Rockets’ turn came. The nowalive St Louis crowd cheered frantically as he walked to the plate. But Rockets knew he couldn’t move that bat off his shoulder, let alone deliver one of his patented clothes linesingles. The Pixie hurler treated him with respect, though, going to 3-2 before putting one down the inside corner that Rockets made a pitiful effort to get. The rally was over, but the Bengals surged out full of life. “That’s okay, Rockets!” Dale hollered; “you fire ‘em in there, and we’ll get the runs for you.” Rockets would have liked that hit, though. But there would be next year, he reminded himself. All pitch; no hit, no field, for now; he warmed up briefly. Six and a third innings went by, and 19 consecutive Pixies had gone down, 12 on strikes: now the crowd was silent as Rockets’ magic poured in there again and again. The Bengals had long since socked it away, 9-0. “Attaboy, Rockets,” Cordery called from behind the plate as the sandy-haired catcher stood waiting for the next hitter. Rockets had time to think. Nobody on base yet; holy cow,

SUPER SPORTS I’m pitching a no-hitter! It hadn’t occurred to him, but now it was clear. Nobody had talked to him for three innings now. Eight more hitters and he would have tossed a perfect game. Rockets thought of Jan at home in front of the FV set; she was probably nervous as a cat. The stocky first-sacker for the Pixies was standing stolidly and Cordery, tenser than he usually was, was waiting for the delivery. Rockets studied the hitter. Be careful; he fingered the ball a little more studiedly than before, wound up and fired. The ball got to the point where it broke— and then didn’t break. The Pixie, twice a strikeout victim, looked stunned, then recovered and brought the wood around. A solid smash sounded and the crowd ohhed and ahhed. The ball, describing a rising arc, fell beyond the rickety stands in left field. Cordery walked out slowly. “What’d ya do?” he growled. “I tried to throw a curve,” Rockets stammered, gulping. “Don’t try any more; just throw.” Cordery walked back. Rockets forgot his no-hitter that had been and just threw. The remaining eight batters went down, five swinging futilely. Rockets got credit for the 12-1 victory in his first outing, one-hitter to boot, and 17 strikeouts: The Bengals fairly mobbed him as he walked off the hill after fanning the last man. Only Cordery failed to pummel him. He caught up with him in the showers. “Doesn’t pay to start thinking, does it?” “That’s only for pitchers,” Rockets grinned sheepishly.

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HOUGH Rockets tossed only every five days, the Bengals reacted with the same magic that he threw. They barreled through that Pixie series and went on to sweep three more in Chicago, a feat which gave them a secure hold on fourth place for the first time. Pushbutton Parker got out the standings and

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looked them over, a thing he hadn’t done before. New York led the pack, four games ahead of the Los Angeles entry. Three games further back of the Pioneers were the Chicago Larks, five and a half games ahead of the Bengals. That meant three separate leads to overcome, but the sum total that counted was 12 ½ games. A big order for most teams at the start of August—but most teams didn’t have Rockets Rigby. Rockets cooled down after that first performance, mainly because he was learning about the art of pitching, instead of just throwing, the ball. When he needed to be, however, Rockets still was the unhittable scatter-armer that had almost bowed into the Hall of Fame his first time out. The result was sure death to opposing hitters. By the time he had thrown seven times, winning all of his starts, he had four shutouts to his credit and a total of 108 strikeouts, averaging about 15 per contest. By August 24, the Chicago bulge had disappeared, and in a crucial tilt, Rockets turned back the desperate Larks on three scattered singles for his seventh win. The Larks were through, never to threaten again, and Pushbutton realigned his sights; five games ahead of Los Angeles rode New York, serenely viewing the scurrying beneath them. The Pioneers had four games on the Bengals. Nine games to the top now, and Rockets began to throw every fourth day. Still below-par at the plate, the Bengals were now getting superb pitching. Stirred by Rockets’ presence as a stopper, O’Flynn, DeVore and the other Bengal chuckers began to buckle down. They pointed toward a midSeptember series-opener with the Pioneers in Los Angeles. Even as their jetobus landed in Southern California, headlines screamed that Rockets was going to try and knock their beloved Pioneers out of the race. The Bengals had cut the Los Angeles margin to half a game, and only five-and-a-half games further away glided the New York Sonics.

ROCKETS ON THE MOUND All this time, Rockets had been exercising his rapidly-healing right arm. This had been undercover, sort of secret stuff, since Rockets still wanted to help the Bengals with his bat before the season ended. Now it was no longer a dead weight, though he still couldn’t throw with it. He had had kids throwing “pepper” to him before the games, and he was getting his eye back and a reasonable facsimile of his swing back, too. Rockets was extra happy as he walked to the hill for the crucial game, for it wouldn’t be long before he could really break up some contests. The first Pioneer hitter dug in. Rockets wound up, sidearmed. It broke down this time, as it did every third or fourth time, and the Pioneer beat it into the dirt. Rockets came off the mound, grabbed it, made the peg to first, almost pulling the man off the sack as his peg curved slightly. The next two Pioneers also met the ball, lifting harmless flies to the outfield. The Bengals got him a run in the top of the second and Rockets had a lead to protect as he took the mound in the bottom of the second. The cleanup swinger was first. Rockets fired three-quarters with all his speed. The ball zipped in, wavered a bit, didn’t break when it should have. The batter swung. At the last second, the pitch veered off sharply and he didn’t meet it with all his force. Back in left field, Ampara went to within two steps of the bleachers and pulled it down. Rockets got the ball after it went around the infield. He rubbed it slowly; that ball should have broken more sharply. Rockets exercised caution on the next two hitters and got them on eight pitches. Until the fifth inning, Rockets’ scatterarming had never been better. His unintentional curves again broke at impossible angles, and the Pioneer hitters couldn’t touch him. They trailed by 3-0 now. With one down in that middle frame, however, Rockets’ stuff suddenly began to fade. A steaming overhand delivery that not only didn’t break, but flattened out

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considerably, was turned into a standup double by the Pioneer swinger. It would have been a gopher pitch if the swinger hadn’t hit on top of it slightly. Moments later, the runner scored as Rockets’ again poured a gut-ball and it was shot into center for a clean single. Cordery called time and came out. “Gettin’ tired? It’s pretty hot.” Rockets’ thermostatically-regulated plastisuit took care of the heat, so that was no excuse. “No, just grooved ‘em. I don’t know why; I’m throwing the same stuff I’ve been throwing.” Cordery shrugged, clapped him on the shoulder, and trundled back to the plate. Rockets Rigby wondered if the rookie thought that Rockets’ miraculous ‘stuff’ was leaving. The rest might have done something to pull him together, for Rockets worked out of the inning in good shape and had only one more rough spot the rest of the game. The cleanup swinger parked one into the bleachers in the eighth, but it didn’t alter the outcome. The 5-2 victory put the Bengals into second place, and the Pioneers never got it back. But the next time out, Rockets was on the verge of being belted out for the first time in his career. In the San Francisco Jet park, Rockets’ stuff completely deserted him on two occasions. Once, the Jets-shoved two runs in and had a pair more in threatening positions before a brilliant running catch by Larry Steen cut them off. Again, in the late innings, nothing Rockets tried veered from center, and the Jets hammered three runs around before sub third-sacker Doyle Fry snagged a sizzler. Even this hammering of their ace, however, didn’t cool down the smoking-hot Bengals, for they went on a 17-hit spree, their first hit parade in weeks, to hang up a 12-5 victory. That made it nine in a row for Rockets, and the win moved them to within four games of the Sonics.

T

HEY WERE at dinner in Rockets’ Los Angeles home, Jan and Rockets and Joe Cordery, and the Bengals were going on a

SUPER SPORTS road trip that would wind up the season and see them engage the Sonics in a series that would settle the championship. Dinner was quiet, and that was an achievement in the Rigby household. “Joe, it’s funny,” Rockets said. “Back when I started to throw, and I really had it, nobody noticed it. Now I’m just limping through these games and I get headlines— when I’m losing my stuff.” “Who said you were losing anything?” Cordery asked. “You know it like I know it. Funny. My right arm is getting stronger every day; I can almost feel the strength flowing back into it, and away from my left arm. You think there’s anything in that? Ever since it started to heal and I started to exercise it, I’ve been losing stuff left-handed. It might even be that when I get all my strength back, I won’t have anything at all lefty.” “Well, you can pitch right-handed then.” “You never saw me try right-handed. I couldn’t beat a junior high school team. Know something? I’m afraid if I have to go in one of those games with the Sonics, I’ll get torn apart; I don’t have it.” “Does Parker know?” Joe asked, serious now. “No.” “Anybody else on the squad?” “Except you.” “Look, Rockets, everybody’s high as the sky now. They know that they wouldn’t be up here, knocking at the door, without you. So if you told ‘em, right like that, that you didn’t have it any more; it might ruin everything.” “What you suggest?” Rockets asked. “Well, I don’t know. I think you’re a mental case for convincing yourself you’re all shot when you still haven’t lost a game. Wait a minute, I think I’ve got it.” “Shoot.” “You and I and Parker are gonna get together. And we’re gonna work out a deal where you go onto relief-pitching. I think the

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pitchers are in good enough shape where they can carry the load—if they know that you’re around to help ‘em if they need it—and chances are, they won’t. Catch?” “More or less. Except if they do need me, and I get clobbered, what?” “Just hope it doesn’t happen.” “Joe, you’re as crazy as I am—and that’s pretty crazy—so I’m just gonna agree with you for now. Anyhow, pretty soon I’ll be able to walk out there with a bat on my shoulder instead of a glove on the wrong hand.” The Bengals had been on their road trip for ten days, and their big four, headed by O’Flynn, had worked clocklike, with Rockets still cooling in the bullpen. While they pitched, he was running, strengthening his legs, playing pepper, taking a litt1e batting practice. Strange though, that the strength was draining from that left arm, and making him feel so good; the left was the wing they depended on. The Sonic series was coming now, three days off, and in the searing stretch drive, the Bengals had hacked away to a point where they were only two games behind the seasonlong Sonic pace. Rockets was swinging lazily, meeting the ball as Joe worked with him, to get that eye back. The wood biting into the ball felt good to him. Here on the very eve of the crucial series, maybe he could get in there. Over in the dugout, though, something was wrong; Rockets heard the yelp of pain and he and Cordery dashed to the railing. O’Flynn, face down on the stone floor with a crowd already around him, was lying on a grotesquely twisted leg. Broken. That’s what everybody’s face said. “Irish, you bum, how did you do it?” Cordery rasped to the big beet-faced man as they lifted him onto the stretcher. “Just because I’m happy—I try a respectable Irish jig. Some bum leaves a pair of cleats for me to slip on.” He twisted his face with pain.

ROCKETS ON THE MOUND “Crazy guy,” Rockets mumbled after they had taken him off. “That might lose the pennant for us.” “Your turn today,” Parker said, pointing the finger at Rockets.

T

HE GAME wasn’t with the Sonics, but they were all crucial these days, and Rockets had never felt more alone on the diamond than he did when he walked into the full sunlight to face the first Bullet hitter. It’s one thing, he thought, when you have a fighting chance. But when you’re being led to the slaughter... After warming up with nothing on the ball, Rockets was as ready as he’d ever be. He tried the incurve right away—he had to try and throw ‘em now, because they didn’t come automatic. It missed the corner; another missed. Rockets squared his shoulders and grooved one. The hitter’s shoulders meshed and he brought the stick around crisply. The ball hopped into right field on the first bounce, a clean single. Rockets feared it would be a mighty long day. He took the stretch and looked down to the next hitter, who crowded in on the plate. Rockets’ mind clicked. They used to dust off a guy like that. Rockets’ gaze left the plate and centered near where he wanted to put the ball. Not a beanball, but mighty close. He cranked, fired. No stuff, straight as a string—but right where he wanted it. The hitter’s stance locked for an instant, then he almost came apart at the seams in his haste to get out of the road. Rockets grinned to himself as the guy got up, white-faced. He worked on the outside corner and got the guy to hit into an easy double play two pitches later. Joe was yelling encouragement every pitch, and he needed it. In the third, they got to him for a run. Again in the fifth, and in the sixth. The Bengals had been able to do no better with the Bullet hurler, so going into the final three frames, it remained, 3-3. Rockets felt there was a limit beyond

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which you could be so smart it hurt, and yet if that ball didn’t come in there with something on it—blooey! He was right, for the leadoff in the seventh slashed a first ball to left for a single. And the next man sent one through the box. Men on first and second, with nobody gone and heavy stickers coming. Rockets wished for some of that magic stuff; if he only had a broken right arm, or something. He worked carefully, got a 2-2 count on the next man, and then blazed one on the inside corner. The hitter’s wrists spun perfectly, catching the ball out in front. Rockets didn’t need to look to see where the ball had gone. The hitter circled the bases slowly, and in a mighty important contest, the Bengals trailed by 6-3, with time running out. He managed to get the rest of the side out of there with no further scoring. For the first time since their spurt, Rockets sensed gloom in the Bengal dugout as he came in, sweat-caked even under the thermo outfit. “It’s only three runs,” Cordery was saying. “You can get ‘em any day; you been gettin’ eight or nine a game the last couple weeks. Not too much.” “Yeah, we’ll get ‘em,” a voice answered, but it didn’t carry much weight. Rockets’ head was hanging, for he felt this was the end of the line. Another magnificent try that had failed. “Dale, Ferrari, Menges, and Cordery. Maybe Rigby,” Parker was droning off the order for that inning. Teddy Dale clambered out of the dugout and got a bat. He walked up there slowly. Rockets’ personal black cloud hovered low. “What were you gonna do with the Series check?” somebody asked quietly at the other end of the bench. “Thought I’d go into business, home; guess it’s off.” “Always next year, though.” “Yeah, next year.” Rockets had graduated from the phenom class to a leader’s position, and he felt it was his fault—with a hit-run driver’s help—that

SUPER SPORTS these guys’ futures had to be postponed, or maybe even dashed, because that “next year” sometimes was a pretty nebulous thing. Dale’s solid smack didn’t bring him out of it. The rhythmically-moving outfielder made a turn at first and went back as the throw came in. The Philly crowd was apathetic. This one was in the bag. Nate Ferrari, a pinch-hitter, was next, and the Bullet infield played back. They got a bunt, however, and the third sacker couldn’t catch his fleeting steps across first in time. The crowd yelled, and Rockets looked up. “You taught ‘em that one, Rockets.” O’Flynn, cast and all, was sitting next to the chunky guy, grinning. The tying run, Earl Menges, was at the dish, and Parker was playing no chances. Menges, too, laid one down, but this time the hot-corner guardian knew it was coming and got him with time to spare. But the sacrifice had worked and Cordery was coming up there, still the tying run. Rockets stirred. He might get a chance to hit; he dashed out of the dugout and began selecting a bat.

H

E SWUNG them methodically, and the crowd, recognizing him, yelled some more. The right arm felt good, but Cordery was the man right now. He had a 1-1 count, and Rockets pulled for him. Rockets swung on the next one from the circle, getting his timing. Good. Cordery also swung, lifted it high, high and deep toward left-center. An easy catch, but it meant that Dale would come in. He did, and Ferrari had to hold second. It was now 6-4, and the tying run still at the plate. Rockets stepped in, and the crowd buzzed louder. The bit pitcher took the stretch, peeked in, then fired. Rockets watched it—close—all the way as it hooked inside. A ball. He fidgeted a little, waited for the next pitch. It came down, on top of him before he was ready. His late swing only made him mad and he stepped out to knock imaginary dirt from his spikes. On

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the 1-1 pitch, the hurler, hooking again, just missed again. Ferrari moved off second and the pitcher cranked again. Rockets set. It came down. It was the right pitch. Rockets felt his muscles automatically tense, start the swing. It was going to be late. But the ball bit in—solidly, even though late. As he tossed the wood away, running fast down the line he looked up. The ball was heading for that big hole in rightcenter, not hanging up, but dipping in. It hit, bouncing. Rockets looked away, spiked the first base bag with his foot and tore for second. Ferrari was in now, and Rockets brushed second, going at top speed, head down. As he closed in on third, he looked for the signal. The playcaster on the coaching line was blank. On a wild hunch, he hit third wide, wheeled down the line. Back over his shoulder, he saw the ball on its way in. It needed a relay, though. He sprinted. It had been so long since he’d run one out, it seemed like a mile to home plate. Out of a blur, the catcher and ump blended into a greyblack picture as Rockets launched himself into a slide: As he hit, barreled along the ground, he felt the pain surging up. “Yeah, I said how good can you pitch with your right arm?” Cordery’s grinning face, a little anxious, materialized slowly as Rockets regained consciousness. A throbbing in his left elbow hid everything else. “Because man, that south wing ain’t gonna be good for nothin’ but hangin’ onto a bat while you hit inside-the-park homers.” “What did I do to it?” “Doc says it’s just a sprain, but you can’t throw with it,” Parker interjected. “But can I hit?” “Boy, can you hit,” Parker smiled. “That Ampara went out and belted one ten miles over the roof in left, said it was just to prove you aren’t the only homer-hitter.” The Sonic hurler looked around him. Fry,

ROCKETS ON THE MOUND Ampara, and Dale danced off the bases. Rockets Rigby gripped the wood solidly—at least with his right hand. He grinned. The Bengals were ready to go over the top on the next pitch, and the memories of R. Rigby, pitcher were just that—memories, now.

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The pitch rode in and Rockets swung. The solid connection rippled through his body. Rockets was running, running, down the line and the ball was soaring, soaring. Yes, things were once more normal.