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Authors: Matt Christopher
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around him, but Brian had the plate covered like an umbrella.
“Out!” yelled the ump.
Barry sat there a minute, looking up at the ump, then at Brian, and finally toward first base, where Monk was poking a fist
into the air in triumph.
“Nice play, Monk!” a Junk Shop fan yelled.
Monk got T.V. out, then threw me out, Barry realized. It sure
was
a good play.
He rose to his feet, brushed the dust off his white uniform, and ran to get his glove and cap off the roof of the dugout.
As he headed for third base, he almost collided with Coach Parker.
“Hold it, speedy,” the coach snapped.
Barry froze. That voice meant business.
“Don’t tell me that you didn’t hear me yell at you to wait on third,” the coach said firmly. “I yelled it loud enough for
the whole crowd to hear me.”
“Yes, I heard you,” Barry admitted, glancing briefly at the coach. His dark, angry eyes sent shivers through him. “I’m sorry.
I … I thought I had a good enough lead.”
“You
thought.
Listen, you’re no different from the other players, Barry. You play by the same rules as everybody else. So let me do most
of the thinking here, okay?”
Barry nodded, embarrassed. Lowering his eyes, he started to trot out to left field.
“Hold it,” the coach said. “After all that running, you need to sit for a while.” He glanced toward the dugout. “Tootsie!
Take left!” the coach ordered.
A short, stout kid sitting near the middle of the dugout cried, “Yippee!” Then, pulling a glove onto his left hand and tugging
at his cap with his right, he ran to the outfield. He flashed a smile as he passed by Barry, but Barry didn’t see it. He was
heading, head bowed, toward the dugout.
“Jack, take short.” He heard the coach snap another order.
Jack Livingston, a tall, thin redhead, ran out to replace Bus at shortstop. All at once Barry didn’t feel so bad. The coach
was putting in other substitutes, too.
Barry could still hear the coach’s strong words ringing in his ears. He sure knows how to drill them into a guy, he thought.
But was the coach 100 percent right? I
almost
scored, Barry said to himself. I wonder what the coach would’ve said if I’d been safe? He probably would have clapped like
crazy.
“You play by the same rules as everybodyelse,”
the coach had said. Barry remembered the fly ball he had dropped and retrieved in time to fool everybody. Well, almost everybody.
Why did Susan have to be sitting in that particular spot on the sideline, anyway? Now he’d think about that play every time
he saw her. And he saw her a lot.
“Hey, man, can’t wait till we play you guys next week.” A strong, husky voice broke into his thoughts.
Barry turned to see a kid peeking around the edge of the dugout. A kid whose face was more familiar than any other pitcher’s
in the Summer Baseball Junior League.
“Why?” Barry asked Alec Frost, the High Street Bunkers’ fastball pitcher.
“Why?” Alec laughed. “Because you haven’t struck out yet. And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to strike you out so
bad the fans will forget they ever called you the hit-away kid.”
4
“Deeper! Deeper!”
Barry looked up and saw T.V. Adams motioning Tootsie Malone to back up toward the fence. T.V. did that a lot. He seemed to
have a real knack for predicting where the opposing batters were going to hit the ball.
As usual, he was right on the button. Arnie Nobles, the Junk Shop’s leadoff batter, had blasted a home run his first time
up, and itlooked as if he was ready to do it again. He was a tall kid and had a lot of power in his swing.
Crack!
He connected a two-two pitch for a long drive toward deep left field, just as T.V. had figured he might. If Tootsie hadn’t
played deep, the ball would have gone over his head for at least a triple. But Tootsie only had to take two steps back, raise
his gloved hand, and catch it.
Neither team scored again. The game went to
“Out!” yelled the ump.
Barry sat there a minute, looking up at the ump, then at Brian, and finally toward first base, where Monk was poking a fist
into the air in triumph.
“Nice play, Monk!” a Junk Shop fan yelled.
Monk got T.V. out, then threw me out, Barry realized. It sure
was
a good play.
He rose to his feet, brushed the dust off his white uniform, and ran to get his glove and cap off the roof of the dugout.
As he headed for third base, he almost collided with Coach Parker.
“Hold it, speedy,” the coach snapped.
Barry froze. That voice meant business.
“Don’t tell me that you didn’t hear me yell at you to wait on third,” the coach said firmly. “I yelled it loud enough for
the whole crowd to hear me.”
“Yes, I heard you,” Barry admitted, glancing briefly at the coach. His dark, angry eyes sent shivers through him. “I’m sorry.
I … I thought I had a good enough lead.”
“You
thought.
Listen, you’re no different from the other players, Barry. You play by the same rules as everybody else. So let me do most
of the thinking here, okay?”
Barry nodded, embarrassed. Lowering his eyes, he started to trot out to left field.
“Hold it,” the coach said. “After all that running, you need to sit for a while.” He glanced toward the dugout. “Tootsie!
Take left!” the coach ordered.
A short, stout kid sitting near the middle of the dugout cried, “Yippee!” Then, pulling a glove onto his left hand and tugging
at his cap with his right, he ran to the outfield. He flashed a smile as he passed by Barry, but Barry didn’t see it. He was
heading, head bowed, toward the dugout.
“Jack, take short.” He heard the coach snap another order.
Jack Livingston, a tall, thin redhead, ran out to replace Bus at shortstop. All at once Barry didn’t feel so bad. The coach
was putting in other substitutes, too.
Barry could still hear the coach’s strong words ringing in his ears. He sure knows how to drill them into a guy, he thought.
But was the coach 100 percent right? I
almost
scored, Barry said to himself. I wonder what the coach would’ve said if I’d been safe? He probably would have clapped like
crazy.
“You play by the same rules as everybodyelse,”
the coach had said. Barry remembered the fly ball he had dropped and retrieved in time to fool everybody. Well, almost everybody.
Why did Susan have to be sitting in that particular spot on the sideline, anyway? Now he’d think about that play every time
he saw her. And he saw her a lot.
“Hey, man, can’t wait till we play you guys next week.” A strong, husky voice broke into his thoughts.
Barry turned to see a kid peeking around the edge of the dugout. A kid whose face was more familiar than any other pitcher’s
in the Summer Baseball Junior League.
“Why?” Barry asked Alec Frost, the High Street Bunkers’ fastball pitcher.
“Why?” Alec laughed. “Because you haven’t struck out yet. And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to strike you out so
bad the fans will forget they ever called you the hit-away kid.”
4
“Deeper! Deeper!”
Barry looked up and saw T.V. Adams motioning Tootsie Malone to back up toward the fence. T.V. did that a lot. He seemed to
have a real knack for predicting where the opposing batters were going to hit the ball.
As usual, he was right on the button. Arnie Nobles, the Junk Shop’s leadoff batter, had blasted a home run his first time
up, and itlooked as if he was ready to do it again. He was a tall kid and had a lot of power in his swing.
Crack!
He connected a two-two pitch for a long drive toward deep left field, just as T.V. had figured he might. If Tootsie hadn’t
played deep, the ball would have gone over his head for at least a triple. But Tootsie only had to take two steps back, raise
his gloved hand, and catch it.
Neither team scored again. The game went to
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