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Authors: Matt Christopher
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could hardly believe that he was playing baseball now.
Man
! he thought.
Coach Stag has certainly sweet-talked me into it
!
“Don't worry about it,” the coach had said to him over the telephone when he had invited Kim to play on his new team. “You
just come to the practices and do as I say. I'll mold you into a baseball player before the season's half over.”
“But you
know
I've never been on a team before,” Kim had told him. “I've hardly played at all in my whole life.”
“I know, Kim,” the coach had said. “But I still want you to play on my team. Why don't you stop worrying about it, okay? I'm
the coach. Let me do the worrying. All I ask of you is to play. Can I have your word?”
Kim had taken a while to think about it. Finally he had agreed. “Okay, Mr. Stag. I'll play,” he promised.
“Fine! I'm calling the team Steelheads,Kim. It's a good, solid name to go with a good, solid team,” Mr. Stag had said proudly.
Then he had named the practice dates, adding that he had already made arrangements for uniforms and all the other necessary
equipment. He would even get Kim a glove if he didn't have one, he had said.
But Kim had remembered the old glove his father had sitting in the back porch closet. He had used it the few times he had
played pitch and catch. It was still in good, usable condition.
So now here he was, being “molded” into a baseball player, as Coach Gorman E. Stag had promised.
Finally the coach called it quits, breathing tiredly himself after almost an hour of continuous practice. He was the only
one wearing a baseball uniform, a plain white outfit with STEELHEADS printed across the front of the jersey. Kim had wondered when the players would be given theirs,but he wondered no longer as Coach Stag asked the outfielders to follow him to a blue car parked in the lot behind the third-base
bleachers.
A man sitting behind the wheel got out as the group approached.
“Kids, meet Bernie Reese,” said the coach. “He'll be my assistant.”
While greetings were being exchanged, Kim saw a stack of white boxes piled on the back seat. He didn't need two guesses to
know what was in them. The coach opened the door, took the boxes out one at a time, and handed them to the players.
“I've found out your sizes,” he said, “so these uniforms should fit you perfectly.”
Kim stared at him, but refrained from asking the coach any questions. He was too happy now anyway about getting a uniform—and
a brand new one, at that.
Oohs
and
aahs
bubbled from the players as they opened their boxes and dragged out their uniforms.
Coach Stag chuckled. “How about that?” he said. “Nice, aren't they?”
“They're beautiful!” Cathy exclaimed, her eyes wide and happy.
“They're far out, man,” said Kim.
“Glad you like them,” the coach replied. “Well, I've got to go. The next practice is the day after tomorrow. Same time, same
place.”
He opened the door on the passenger side of the car, and started to get in when Kim yelled to him, “Coach! Just a minute!”
“If you're wondering about our infield, Kim, they're practicing tomorrow!” called the coach as he got into the car. “See you
the day after!”
“No, Coach!” Kim said. “It's something else!”
But the car had already backed up and was swinging around toward the road. Apparently the coach hadn't heard him.
2
P UFFBALL CLOUDS FLOATED
across the sky the following afternoon as the Steelheads' infielders practiced. Jo Franklin, Cathy's friend, was alternating
at second base with Roger Merts. She was wearing a baseball cap and shorts, and handling the grounders with the ease of an
expert. As a matter of fact, Kim thought that she was even better than Roger, who acted somewhat nervous as Coach Stag's sizzling
grounders came at him.
Eric Marsh, practicing at third base,seemed uncomfortable in his position, too. He missed a few grounders before finally catching an easy hopper. Then his long,
Man
! he thought.
Coach Stag has certainly sweet-talked me into it
!
“Don't worry about it,” the coach had said to him over the telephone when he had invited Kim to play on his new team. “You
just come to the practices and do as I say. I'll mold you into a baseball player before the season's half over.”
“But you
know
I've never been on a team before,” Kim had told him. “I've hardly played at all in my whole life.”
“I know, Kim,” the coach had said. “But I still want you to play on my team. Why don't you stop worrying about it, okay? I'm
the coach. Let me do the worrying. All I ask of you is to play. Can I have your word?”
Kim had taken a while to think about it. Finally he had agreed. “Okay, Mr. Stag. I'll play,” he promised.
“Fine! I'm calling the team Steelheads,Kim. It's a good, solid name to go with a good, solid team,” Mr. Stag had said proudly.
Then he had named the practice dates, adding that he had already made arrangements for uniforms and all the other necessary
equipment. He would even get Kim a glove if he didn't have one, he had said.
But Kim had remembered the old glove his father had sitting in the back porch closet. He had used it the few times he had
played pitch and catch. It was still in good, usable condition.
So now here he was, being “molded” into a baseball player, as Coach Gorman E. Stag had promised.
Finally the coach called it quits, breathing tiredly himself after almost an hour of continuous practice. He was the only
one wearing a baseball uniform, a plain white outfit with STEELHEADS printed across the front of the jersey. Kim had wondered when the players would be given theirs,but he wondered no longer as Coach Stag asked the outfielders to follow him to a blue car parked in the lot behind the third-base
bleachers.
A man sitting behind the wheel got out as the group approached.
“Kids, meet Bernie Reese,” said the coach. “He'll be my assistant.”
While greetings were being exchanged, Kim saw a stack of white boxes piled on the back seat. He didn't need two guesses to
know what was in them. The coach opened the door, took the boxes out one at a time, and handed them to the players.
“I've found out your sizes,” he said, “so these uniforms should fit you perfectly.”
Kim stared at him, but refrained from asking the coach any questions. He was too happy now anyway about getting a uniform—and
a brand new one, at that.
Oohs
and
aahs
bubbled from the players as they opened their boxes and dragged out their uniforms.
Coach Stag chuckled. “How about that?” he said. “Nice, aren't they?”
“They're beautiful!” Cathy exclaimed, her eyes wide and happy.
“They're far out, man,” said Kim.
“Glad you like them,” the coach replied. “Well, I've got to go. The next practice is the day after tomorrow. Same time, same
place.”
He opened the door on the passenger side of the car, and started to get in when Kim yelled to him, “Coach! Just a minute!”
“If you're wondering about our infield, Kim, they're practicing tomorrow!” called the coach as he got into the car. “See you
the day after!”
“No, Coach!” Kim said. “It's something else!”
But the car had already backed up and was swinging around toward the road. Apparently the coach hadn't heard him.
2
P UFFBALL CLOUDS FLOATED
across the sky the following afternoon as the Steelheads' infielders practiced. Jo Franklin, Cathy's friend, was alternating
at second base with Roger Merts. She was wearing a baseball cap and shorts, and handling the grounders with the ease of an
expert. As a matter of fact, Kim thought that she was even better than Roger, who acted somewhat nervous as Coach Stag's sizzling
grounders came at him.
Eric Marsh, practicing at third base,seemed uncomfortable in his position, too. He missed a few grounders before finally catching an easy hopper. Then his long,
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