12 Sports Aces, May 1943 — page 74: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

72 | | 12 SPORTS ACES OF ee ne 1 ee eee Peer Phe epee Poort PrP DOD D1 D9 GOOD OD oo Por re D+ to up here. Ili work hard to make good.” The manager nodded. “Whitey Bimm gaid you'll do. So you must have some- thing. We’ll see soon enough once you get out there.” He put his hands together and pondered a moment. “Okay, Mellick., Go downstairs and check out a suit. Then repert to Hymie Winters for signals.” “Right,” Jeff said. In the hallway he took out a penny postcard and scribbled a note to his broth- er, Private Tom Mellick, at Camp Grant: Tom: Okay, so far. Just talked to Tuffy Turner. He doesn’t suspect anything—yet! Wish me luck. And meanwhfle, lots of the same to you with those Gesmans and Japs. Affectionafely, your brother, ~ EFF An hour before game time he’d already met most of his new teammates. Hansen, the lefty moundsman, fatro- duced him te “Cheeky” Graham, left fielder. The big gardener lived up to his name. He looked Jeff over with swagger ing condescension. “You're the Tom Mellick that hit so good in AA last summer!’ There was seorm and amusement in Graham’s voice. Jeff saw more than a trace of suspicion, too, in Graham’s veiled eyes, and wondered if the big man had somehow been tipped to the screwy setup, . He said, ““Fhat’s me,” and added negii- gently, “Glad to know you.” “You won't be.” Graham’s tone was mocking. “You may have been hitting for hell down in double A, but up here is dif- ferent. ’m King Hit on this ball club.” Jeff said, looking straight at him, “Ad- ways wanted te meet you, Cheeky, and find out where you picked up that nick- name.” The big outfielder flushed. “I blow off some. If a man’s good, I say, admit it. The difference between me and some others is I back up what I claim—at the . plate.” True, Jeff. thought. Cheeky Graham was hitting fer .869 with the season half finished. He was a flawless fielder. Jeff safd carefully, I always figured a guy’s best bet was to let his actions do ali his talking for him.” “Yeah?” Graham’s voice was heavy. “You’ll get your chance, busher.” He got it, all right. When the game started he was out there, patrolling the center pasture. “No use stalling,” Tuffy had told him. “You’re prob’ly stiff from your long ride, but 1 gotta find out whether or not we can fit you into this line-up.” “Suits me,” Jeff sated a bit limply. The stocky manager looked up at him. “Frankly, you haven’t impressed me much, Mellick. You’re too jittery, nervous. I know how it is with you kids coming up to the big show. I been through afl that. But for Pete’s sake, get a hold of yourself before you go ont there.” “I’m all right,” Jeff said. “Whitey Bimm said fn his wire you were twenty-two. That right, MellickT® Jeff felt a pitching sensation in his stomach. He tried to keep his voice from skyrocketing. “I leok pretty young for my age, Mr. Turner.” “Look it and act it,” the manager cor- rected. “I hope you can handle this job, ’cause we need your hitting, But talk won't help you any, Okay, get out there.” QO he was in there. Playing with the —” famed Grays, the team he’d dreamed about all through the past six summers. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure it was true, but discarded the gesture as childish. He was supposed to be twenty-two years oid. He didn’t look it. But at least he could act it. Cheeky Graham crouched with his hands on his knees in left field. Jeff watched the big fielder move up as the first Bison strode to the platter. Jeff took his cue from Graham and did likewise. Graham gianeed over. “If you took a real interest in baseball, you’d know these hitters, busher. No matter what league you been playin’.” Jeff winced. It was true what Graham said. It made him look silly in the eyes of the others. But he couldn’t blame hime | self, really. He was no outfielder. For comicbook (EO)