The count was two and two. Spraddle-legged in the batter's box, Yankee Shortstop Gil McDougald figured he was going to have to swing on the next one. In the split second that it takes a ball to travel 60 ft. 6 in. from the pitcher's mound to the plate, Gil noted with surprise that Cleveland Southpaw Herb Score had failed to lean into his usual fluid follow-through. A fat pitch floated up, just knee-high. McDougald lashed it back, a string-straight drive that ended in the sickening sound of a baseball meeting human bone. Pitcher Score crumpled. Blood burst from his nose...
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