[SelzShoes]

If patience really is a virtue, Dixie Walker felt he must be one of the sainted. Not the damn Catholic kind; but real ones that walked with Our Lord Jesus. After almost two weeks with the Royals the burden of minor league lifestyle was beginning to wear. All because of Durocher and those two damned n-----s.

Aside from the cold Montreal nights, Dixie understood the situation could be worse. Manager Clay Hopper was a fellow son of the South, and could see the grave injustice being laid at the feet of such a great hitter. Every night Clay would ask, “you want to go tonight,” and, depending on how he felt (and what teams’ scouts were said to be in attendance) Dixie would make his choice. Shotton and the other Dodgers’ brass were pressuring Hopper to play Walker every day to justify his major league salary while in the International League. Hopper had too much respect for Walker as a player—as a man—to do such a thing.

Not like Durocher, that cocksure bastard. Durocher had, in Dixie’s opinion, overplayed his hand—a bluff had been called. The checks from the Dodgers were the same no matter where in their organization they tried to bury him. All those threats about Salt Lake City evaporated when it was clear the Saints did not have the players or the money to trade for a hitter of Dixie’s caliber. Word through the grapevine was the Reds and the Columbus team was trying to move all their n-----s just to add his bat.

It is just a matter of waiting for the Dodgers to make their move before the tedium of all these IL trips wore him down.