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Authors: Matt Christopher
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game for the Braves, 7 to 6.
Chico trotted in from the outfield. He heard someone shout his name, then say things that sank deeply inside him and hurt.
“Where were you playing for that man?Behind shortstop?” It was String Becker. His face was red with rage.
“I was playing my right position,” murmured Chico.
“Right position, my eye!” shouted String. “You weren’t playing deep at all. If you were playing where you should’ve been,
you would’ve caught that ball easy.”
Chico stared at the others around him. One by one they turned and looked away.
Chico could see they all felt as String did. They blamed him for losing the game.
3
C hico,” said Coach Day, “help me put this equipment away, will you?”
“Okay, Coach.”
They put the catcher’s equipment, the bats, and the balls into the large canvas bag.
“Don’t take to heart what String and the other boys say,” advised the coach. “They don’t really mean it.”
Chico frowned and stayed silent.
“They just forget themselves for a minute,” said the coach. “They get kind of excited. I’ll talk to them about it.”
“No, Coach. Please. Don’t say anything to them.”
“Why not?”
Chico shrugged. The sun shone brightly in his eyes, making him squint. “I don’t want them to think I spoke to you about it.
They — they wouldn’t like that.”
Coach Day smiled. “Okay. If you say so. Want a ride home?”
“No, thanks,” said Chico. “I just live two blocks away.”
The coach got into his station wagon and drove off. Chico walked, his glove swinging from his wrist.
He got to thinking about the way String had yelled at him and the way the other boys had looked at him.
Every little mistake I make, they make it sound much worse.
He was walking by Jim’s Ice Cream Shop when a voice from inside yelled to him.
“Hey, Chico! Come in. Have a sundae.”
Chico looked through the screen door and saw six or seven members of the Royals sitting at the bar, enjoying sundaes. It was
Buddy Temple who had called to him.
Chico glanced over the faces. He saw String Becker, and that was enough.
“No, thanks!” he said, and started walking faster.
A moment later Buddy was out on the sidewalk, yelling to him. “Chico! Hey, Chico!”
But Chico walked on, not looking back once.
He reached home, went to the back porch, and sat down. His heart pounded as if he’d been running. His forehead was covered
with sweat. He wiped it with his arm.
Then he looked at the glove in his hand and sucked in his breath.
This wasn’t his glove!
He rose to his feet, trembling. Whose glove was it? And what had happened to his?
A lump rose in Chico’s throat. What an opening day this was for him! He had been blamed for the loss of the Royals’ first
game. Now he had come home with somebody else’s glove.
The door behind him opened on squeaking hinges. He turned around. His mother smiled at him.
“Chico! When did you get home?”
“A little while ago,” said Chico. He turned and sat down again, his lower lip quivering.
She came and sat beside him. “Chico, is something wrong?”
He told her about the game, and the glove. Her dark-brown eyes looked at him sadly. She put an arm around his shoulder and
pressed him to her.
“Don’t worry,” his mother said. “You’llfigure out who owns the glove, and you’ll find yours. It was only a mistake.” She stood up. “Come inside, Chico. You must
be hungry.”
Chico washed, changed into other clothes, then sat at the table in the dining room. On the wall behind him was a large white
cloth on which were embroidered the Spanish words D IOS BENDIGA NUESTRO HOGAR . And underneath it, in English, G OD BLESS OUR HOME .
Chico’s father came in from the living room. His hair was black and wavy. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, were brown
and smiling.
“You look sad, Chico,” Mr. Romez said. “You lost the ball game?”
“Yes,” said Chico. “A home run over my head
Chico trotted in from the outfield. He heard someone shout his name, then say things that sank deeply inside him and hurt.
“Where were you playing for that man?Behind shortstop?” It was String Becker. His face was red with rage.
“I was playing my right position,” murmured Chico.
“Right position, my eye!” shouted String. “You weren’t playing deep at all. If you were playing where you should’ve been,
you would’ve caught that ball easy.”
Chico stared at the others around him. One by one they turned and looked away.
Chico could see they all felt as String did. They blamed him for losing the game.
3
C hico,” said Coach Day, “help me put this equipment away, will you?”
“Okay, Coach.”
They put the catcher’s equipment, the bats, and the balls into the large canvas bag.
“Don’t take to heart what String and the other boys say,” advised the coach. “They don’t really mean it.”
Chico frowned and stayed silent.
“They just forget themselves for a minute,” said the coach. “They get kind of excited. I’ll talk to them about it.”
“No, Coach. Please. Don’t say anything to them.”
“Why not?”
Chico shrugged. The sun shone brightly in his eyes, making him squint. “I don’t want them to think I spoke to you about it.
They — they wouldn’t like that.”
Coach Day smiled. “Okay. If you say so. Want a ride home?”
“No, thanks,” said Chico. “I just live two blocks away.”
The coach got into his station wagon and drove off. Chico walked, his glove swinging from his wrist.
He got to thinking about the way String had yelled at him and the way the other boys had looked at him.
Every little mistake I make, they make it sound much worse.
He was walking by Jim’s Ice Cream Shop when a voice from inside yelled to him.
“Hey, Chico! Come in. Have a sundae.”
Chico looked through the screen door and saw six or seven members of the Royals sitting at the bar, enjoying sundaes. It was
Buddy Temple who had called to him.
Chico glanced over the faces. He saw String Becker, and that was enough.
“No, thanks!” he said, and started walking faster.
A moment later Buddy was out on the sidewalk, yelling to him. “Chico! Hey, Chico!”
But Chico walked on, not looking back once.
He reached home, went to the back porch, and sat down. His heart pounded as if he’d been running. His forehead was covered
with sweat. He wiped it with his arm.
Then he looked at the glove in his hand and sucked in his breath.
This wasn’t his glove!
He rose to his feet, trembling. Whose glove was it? And what had happened to his?
A lump rose in Chico’s throat. What an opening day this was for him! He had been blamed for the loss of the Royals’ first
game. Now he had come home with somebody else’s glove.
The door behind him opened on squeaking hinges. He turned around. His mother smiled at him.
“Chico! When did you get home?”
“A little while ago,” said Chico. He turned and sat down again, his lower lip quivering.
She came and sat beside him. “Chico, is something wrong?”
He told her about the game, and the glove. Her dark-brown eyes looked at him sadly. She put an arm around his shoulder and
pressed him to her.
“Don’t worry,” his mother said. “You’llfigure out who owns the glove, and you’ll find yours. It was only a mistake.” She stood up. “Come inside, Chico. You must
be hungry.”
Chico washed, changed into other clothes, then sat at the table in the dining room. On the wall behind him was a large white
cloth on which were embroidered the Spanish words D IOS BENDIGA NUESTRO HOGAR . And underneath it, in English, G OD BLESS OUR HOME .
Chico’s father came in from the living room. His hair was black and wavy. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, were brown
and smiling.
“You look sad, Chico,” Mr. Romez said. “You lost the ball game?”
“Yes,” said Chico. “A home run over my head
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