Great American Baseball Stories by Jeff Silverman

Author:Jeff Silverman [Silverman, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyons Press
Published: 2018-11-07T16:00:00+00:00

The Crab

GERALD BEAUMONT

Not until the orchestra at 11:30, with a cheery flourish from the clarinets, launched into a quaint little melody, did the Crab’s expression of disapproval change. Then his eyes sought a velvet curtain stretched across one end of the room. The drapery parted to admit a slip of a girl in a pink dress who came gliding down between the tables, slim white arms swaying in rhythm with her song. The Crab, obeying a sentiment he did not try to analyze, eyed her just as he had done every night for a week.

Those at the tables who had been there before nudged newcomers and whispered, “Watch her smile—it’s the whole show.”

It was a bright little tune—soothing as a lullaby. She sang the second chorus, looking straight at the Crab:

“Smile a-while, and I’ll smile, too, What’s the good of feeling blue?

Watch my lips—I’ll show you how:

That’s the way—you’re smiling now!”

A spotlight from the balcony darted across the room and encompassed the girl and the man to whom she was singing. Amid general laughter and applause, the Crab squirmed, reddened and achieved a sheepish grin.

The singer passed to other tables, the light playing on her yellow hair and accentuating the slimness of her figure.

“I’m the Smile Girl, so folks say—

Seems like smiles all come my way.

Want to smile? I’ll show you how: That’s the way—you’re smiling now.”

People continued smiling and humming to the tuneful melody long after she had declined further encores. The Crab stared into the bottom of his empty glass. His face was still very red. Her fingers had brushed the Crab’s sleeve as lightly as a butterfly’s wing but he was exalted by the contact.

Coast League fans said of Bill Crowley that if he ever learned to moderate his crabbing, the majors would one day be bidding for the greatest third baseman in history. He was chain lightning on his feet and could hit around .290 in any company. Moreover, he had perfect baseball hands, an arm of steel, and the runner was yet to wear spikes who could scare him into exposing even a corner of the bag if the play was close.

But Bill was a crab by instinct, preference and past performances. He was hard-boiled in the dye of discontent, steeped in irritability—a consistent, chronic, quarrelsome crab, operating apparently with malice aforethought and intent to commit mischief.

Naturally the fans rode him. It is human nature to poke sticks at a crab and turn it over on its back. In time, a crustacean becomes imbued with the idea that it was born to be tormented, hence it moves around with its claws alert for pointed sticks. That was the way with Bill Crowley, third-sacker extraordinary, and kicker plenipotentiary to the court of Brick McGovern, sorrel-topped manager of the Wolves. Looking for trouble, he found it everywhere.

At that, Bill the Crab was not without a certain justification. A third baseman has enough woes without being affiicted with boils on the back of his neck. Such ailments belong by the law of retribution to the outfield.

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