Cool As A Cucumber

COOL AS A CUCUMBER

  By

  Russ Durbin

  Copyright © 2012 by Russ Durbin

  Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia

  COOL AS A CUCUMBER

  “He’s as cool as a cucumber.”

  Joe Raditz of [i]The Times[i] said it first. From then on, as far as the media was concerned, Kenneth Cary (Kenny) Coulson was “Cucumber Coulson.”

  It fit. Kenny was as calm and self-possessed as any rookie that I had ever seen. And believe me, I had seen a good many newcomers trying to make the jump from the bushes to the big time in my nineteen years of covering the Yanks. Most never stayed long.

  Cucumber had demonstrated oodles of confidence as he took the interviews, the big raucous crowds and the tension of a tight pennant race in stride. Nothing seemed to faze him. It was as if he were just waiting to start carving his name indelibly in the record books.

  But it was beginning to look as if Cucumber’s confidence was wasted. Called up from Triple A in the scorching late summer heat of August, Cucumber sat in the shadowed depths of the dugout collecting splinters on the bench instead of Ks (strikeouts) on the mound. There was little chance the manager would risk a rookie on the mound in the stretch drive, particularly with that crucial series with the Sox in Chicago that probably would decide the pennant race.

  We were winding up a three-game series that afternoon. We split the first two so it was a “must win” for the Yanks. Whitey Wilcox, the Yanks’ Ace, seemed rested and ready to go. The bullpen was ready to back him up.

  I was having breakfast at the players’ hotel that morning when I bumped into Cucumber’s dad, Henry. He had just driven in from Indianapolis with Dixie Dunlap, obviously the rookie’s girl friend. Tanned with short golden hair, Dixie was the kind of wholesome “girl-next-door” type that a kid from fresh off the farm goes for---until he discovers they let baseball players into the Boom Boom Club.

  Her Old Navy style couldn’t hide a wide Hoosier smile that was only a trifle short of dazzling. Somehow, I felt that Cucumber would be making a big mistake if he ever switched to the [i]haute couture[i] of Saks Fifth Avenue.

  This looked like a good opportunity for me to pick up a great color sidebar to go with my story so I invited the Coulson rooting section to join me in the press box.

  When I mentioned to Henry Coulson that we had named his son “Cucumber” he just smiled and winked at Dixie.

  “Not surprising,” he chuckled. “After all, everyone says he takes after his Old Man.”

  He waited for a moment while I managed to jot down his words on my placemat.

  “Used to play a little semi-pro ball myself, even though Mother didn’t like it. Played on Sundays for the local Brownstown Bombers. Was a catcher. Never could get me rattled,” he declared.

  “We had a lefty in those days that the big league scouts were looking at, but he was awful wild. That is, until I got behind the plate. I’d just settle down in there, adjust my mask, rock at little and give him that big mitt as a target. Always settled him right down.”

  “What happed to the pitcher, Mr. Coulson?” I asked. “Did he make it?”

  “Nope,” he said succinctly. “He was a drunk, and I could settle him down only if he was sorta sober. Which was not very often.”

  I picked up the check, got press passes for both of them and took them out to the field that afternoon. Henry took everything in as if he were going to a sandlot game. But Dixie’s blue eyes sparked with suppressed excitement when I waved them through the turnstiles on our press credentials.

  There were a few glances our way when I deposited them next to me in the press box, for we had rules against this. But nobody could really say anything; somebody always was bringing in an outsider or a girl he was hanging with. So we tolerated each other’s guests.

  We spotted Cucumber warming up in a pepper game with the third-string catcher/utility player. Henry nodded and seemed to doze a little as he waited for the game to begin. Dixie waved impulsively, and then looked around to see if anybody had noticed. I could see the catcher pointing to the press box, but Cucumber didn’t seem to notice. He just chewed on a big wad of bubble gum and waited for the chief umpire to call, “Play Ball!”

  After on-field practice, Cucumber picked up his jacket and trudged into the bullpen. Dixie’s gaze followed him as she twisted a silver friendship ring round her finger.

  “Don’t worry, honey, “Henry said calmly. “Kenny will see you right after the game.”

  She nodded, but I could see she was a different breed from the Coulsons. She had none of that cucumber coolness that characterized father and son.

  After the Star Spangled Banner was sung in a somewhat recognizable style, the Yanks took the field and Whitey began his warm-ups. The umpire behind the plate signaled for the game to begin and Whitey snapped the first pitch to the catcher. A slider caught the inside corner of the plate for a strike. For a while, I was too busy to pay much attention to my guests. From time to time, Dixie ignored what was going on down on the field and tried to catch a glimpse of Cucumber in the bullpen.

  From the looks of the game, there wouldn’t be much opportunity for her to see the pride of Indy in action, I thought. Reese was sharp for the Sox and Whitey seemed to have it for the Yanks, setting the batters down in order, inning after inning. It looked as if the game might go to the wire this way.

  Then, in the bottom of the eighth, the Sox power exploded. Whitey ran into trouble when two successive singles and an error loaded the bases. Immediately, two pitchers in the bullpen jumped up and started throwing in earnest. Losing this game probably would mean a wild card spot instead of the pennant. That would mean a tougher road to the World Series.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crawdad Cooley, a soft-throwing lefty, and Cucumber warming up in the bullpen. Cucumber was a long, lean right hander who had a crossfire motion that made it look as if he were cracking a bull whip. You had the funny feeling that you were watching a lefty, only that there was something wrong with your eyes.

  A call to the bullpen brought Crawdad on the run. He struck out the next two batters on curveballs and it looked as if he might get the club out of the jam. Then Crawdad hung a slider and the batter nailed it into the left corner for a double and cleared the bases. Sox 3, Yanks 0. Crawdad got the final out on a short pop to left but the damage was done.

  The top of the ninth was all Yanks. A single, a walk and back-to-back home runs by the middle of the batting order put the Yanks up by one.

  But the Sox weren’t dead, by any means. In the bottom of the ninth, the Yanks closer, “Fireman” Donatello, came in and walked the first man. He didn’t have his “hot stuff” that day. No control of his fast ball. The tying run was on and “Fireman” was struggling.

  He got the first out with a wicked slider; then nailed the next batter with sinker that may have missed inside but the ump called it. Two down. One to go. But the Sox most consistent hitter was up; Manny Garcia was sporting a .385 average with men on base. He topped the ball and made it to first on a swinging bunt that the pitcher couldn’t get out of his glove. The potential tying and winning runs were on and the cleanup hitter Lopez was up. Fans were on their feet, screaming.

  With reluctance, the Yanks manager called for time and waved a new pitcher into the game—none other than Cucumber Coulson! Imagine an untried rookie on the mound and the pennant at stake!

  Well, I could see that however this turned out, it would make great headlines and a great story. And I had the edge over my fellow sports writers and sportscasters with Coulson’s dad and his girl friend in my pocket.

  The Yanks fans in the crowd sank back into their seats with a collective groan. The Sox fans were going wild. The New York media people were looking
at one another with that “has-he-lost-his-marbles” look. The only ones who seemed to be enjoying the situation were Cucumber and his Dad

  Lopez had been swinging the big lumber for the Sox all season. He settled his 6-foot, 5-inch frame into the batter’s box and swung his forty-two ounce custom made bat like a contented cat switching its tail. The Sox bench jockeys hopped on Cucumber, and some of their taunts floated up into the press box. Dixie blushed and even I was a bit uneasy.

  Henry reached over and patted Dixie on the shoulder.

  “Don’t you mind ‘bout that, honey. Kenny’ll make ‘em eat their words. Remember that double-header in Indy when he came in and struck Denver out one-two-three?” Dixie nodded, but she continued to twist her ring. I thought, “Yeah, but this ain’t Indianapolis,” but I didn’t say it.

  It seemed that nothing was disturbing Henry Coulson’s little boy this day. He reared back and fired the first pitch—a 95-mph fastball. Strike.

  Yanks fans were beginning to hope. Maybe-e-e.

  The infield was talking it up loudly as Cucumber calmly peered down at the catcher for the sign. He checked the runners, then went into his stretch and delivered a curve that dropped off the table. Lopez went to one knee swinging. Strike two!

  Lopez, his face grim, snapped his bat around on Cucumber’s next pitch and slammed a vicious line drive into the left field stands, foul by a few feet.

  The crowd was in a frenzy. All 48,141 fans were on their feet. Everyone, that is, except Henry Coulson. He was smiling and rocking placidly on his seat.

  His son was rocking on the mound. Cucumber cut loose with his crossfire pitch at nearly 100-mph.

  It happened so fast that no one was quite sure of what had happened. Lopez, anticipating the pitch, blasted a line drive straight at Cucumber. The ball disappeared in his midsection and he fell over backward. From the press box, it seemed the game had been blown and the pennant hopes with it.

  Cucumber didn’t move; he was lying on the ball apparently. The catcher tore off his mask in desperation, hoping for a play at the plate that never came. Two Sox runners scored and Lopez was jumping up and down on first base. Their bench exploded onto the field in celebration.

  Kenneth Cary Coulson, alias Cucumber, rested peacefully on the verdant green of the infield, oblivious to the drama of a lost cause.

  Yank players gathered around him in a curious, silent knot. Cucumber finally stirred and then everyone saw it, including the umpire-in-chief. The ball had stuck in Cucumber’s glove. He had caught the line drive for the final out! It looked as if the Yanks had copped another pennant after all.

  The trainer raced up, clutching his bag. He examined Cucumber sympathetically, and then broke out laughing.

  “There’s nothing the matter with you, boy,” he told Cucumber. “You just fainted.”

  “Fainted! Why he got knocked out, Doc,” the players said incredulously.

  “Nope. He must have ducked away automatically, and then collapsed from the strain,” declared the trainer, adding, “You can’t tell what’s going on inside of these characters who act as cool as a cucumber.”

  I learned all of this later, because at that moment I had my hands full up in the press box. Dixie and I were trying to revive Henry Coulson. Like father like son.

  I was fifteen minutes late filing my story and the editor gave me hell!

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