“Hey…the new meat is here!”
“Hello new meat…Does your ma know you’re at the ball park?”
“New meat??? More like fresh fish…”
“Or maybe not-so-fresh fish, if my nose ain’t playin’ tricks on me!”
The catcalls seemed to come from every corner of the locker room as the new players entered the Moline inner sanctum for their first taste of professional ball. Billy Coats, the coach who had picked them up in Chicago after they had signed their contracts, and ridden with them on the train to Moline, roared for quiet. “Take it easy boys! These are the fellows who are going to take your jobs away and send you back to following a plow somewhere, looking at the back end of a mule. Show them some respect, will you?”
In a quieter voice, Coach Coats turned and addressed the newcomers. “Don’t worry about these birds. They’ll give you more lip than the bugs in the stands will for a few days, then it will all calm down. Like I said, you might be takin’ their spots on the team away, so they have no reason to fall in love with you creatures right away.” He left the locker room, leaving the newcomers to fend for themselves.
Rocky Marino, a rookie center fielder, balled his fists up. “If any of you smart fellows wants to back up your talk with some scrapping, you know where to find me” he said through clenched teeth.
“Now there, calm down” said veteran pitcher Elmer Tebbutt. “The boys were just blowing off a little steam. Fact is, we’re glad to have the help, especially from a wide-awake bunch like you fellows. Now, let me give you a little tip. The manager will be by in a second. His name is Bob Hewitt, but he doesn’t like to be called “Mr. Hewitt”, or “Bob”, or even “Skip”. The name he likes best is “Mutt”. It’s been his nickname since he was knee-high to a caterpillar, and you’ll really get in good with him if you start using it right off.”
Most of the newcomers could smell a rat in this declaration, but when the manager did enter the locker room, one of the new bunch, Clinton Stewkley, walked up, shook the manager’s hand, and said, “Good afternoon, Mutt… pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Clint Stewkely”
An evil grin spread over the weathered countenance of manager Hewitt. “Well, well”, he said. “I see some of our less intelligent oldsters have been preying upon you innocent lambs. You see, because I’m somewhat taller than average, their little joke is that I resemble the tall fellow in the “Mutt and Jeff” comic strip. They don’t think I know this, but I’m well aware.
“Mister Stewkely, it is our tradition to put new players in charge of carrying the heavy equipment bags on our road trips. I’m of a mind to give you an extra turn at this duty, just to remind you not to be so gullible.
“And Mister Tebbutt”, he said, turning to the veterans. “I may be in error, but I believe I detect the hand of you and your primitive sense of humor in all this. Well, there’s a wagon outside with all the gear from the new fellows. I’m assigning you to unload it, by yourself. Maybe lifting all that baggage will build some strength in that arm of yours, and you’ll be of more use to me on the mound this year.
“Now, the rest of you, let’s put all this silliness behind is and get back to work on fashioning a real baseball aggregation out of you misbegotten sons of sea cooks.” And that’s what they did.