Baseball Turnaround Read online

  To Matthew F., who batted .300, at least

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1997 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark

  of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09375-0

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Matt Christopher®

  THE #1 SPORTS SERIES FOR KIDS: MATT CHRISTOPHER®

  Prologue

  The ball was coming straight toward him, right down the middle. It looked like it was doing ninety miles an hour. He had to go for it.

  Sandy Comstock, center fielder for the Newtown Raptors, lifted his left foot, pulled his bat back, then swung at the round white missile.

  Crack!

  He felt the vibration of the bat as it hit the ball squarely and shot it into right field.

  “Go, Sandy, go!”

  “Dig it out! Dig! Dig!”

  The cries from the bench and from the stands urged Sandy past first and on to second. He slid in a split second before the second baseman nabbed the throw-in.

  “Safe!” the umpire called.

  Sandy stood up and dusted off his pants, a wide grin on his face. Nothing felt better than playing good baseball on a sunny day. The past year had taught him that. It was something he hoped he’d never have to relearn, because it had been a painful lesson.

  As he readied himself to react to the next play, he thought back to where he had been the year before. Back then, his jersey had read Grantville Raiders. Although it was only the next town over, Grantville seemed like a world away from Newtown.

  There was no way to explain to anyone in Newtown what Grantville was like. Or what it had been like to grow up there. Newtown, with its neatly painted houses and freshly mowed lawns, sometimes seemed like another planet to him.

  In Grantville, most of the houses were duplexes or triple-deckers split into apartments. Sandy’s family had occupied a five-room apartment on the top floor of a three-story building that housed six other families. Besides the kitchen—dining room combo and living room, there were two bedrooms. One had been partitioned to make space for Sandy’s twin sisters to sleep on one side. His bed was on the other.

  With such cramped quarters, it was a relief to be outside. That’s where Sandy and the other Grantville kids had spent most of their time. Only the worst weather kept them indoors. Instead they’d played on the streets and in the dusty backyards.

  The only real patch of green worth playing on in Grantville was the ball field near the elementary school. Sandy had always loved the feel of the grass under his feet in early spring. He loved being out in the open space of the field with the warm sun blazing down on him. That was why he’d gone after an outfielder’s slot on his first team.

  It was hard to remember that he had come close to throwing all that away. But he had. And it would have been no one’s fault but his own if he had lost it forever.

  1

  You’re up first, right?” asked Skip Chessler, the Grantville Raiders’ left fielder. He and Sandy were trotting toward the team dugout at the bottom of the final inning of their game with the Daytown Dazzlers. The Dazzlers had managed to hold on to a one-run lead as the game wound down to its conclusion.

  “No, I’m on deck,” said Sandy. “Billy leads off.”

  “That’s a sure out,” murmured Skip, taking his seat on the bench.

  Sandy laughed harshly. “Yeah, but what can you do? He’s our one southpaw pitcher. We gotta play him.”

  Billy Ligget had pitched a solid game, but his hitting wasn’t as good. He made Sandy tense every time he came to the plate.

  “Do your best, Billy,” said Coach Samuels. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  The rest of his team settled back to watch him fly, foul, or fan out in three pitches. Billy surprised everyone. He connected with the first pitch. The ball soared just over the head of the first baseman. It dropped in front of the right fielder, and Billy managed to trundle his way to first for a stand-up single.

  The Raiders’ fans went wild. Sandy Comstock, their leading hitter, was coming up next.

  Sandy took a few swings with the two bats he’d been holding in the on-deck circle, then tossed one away. He strode to the plate, adjusted his batting helmet, and choked up on his bat. Then he narrowed his eyes and stared down the pitcher.

  The Dazzler returned the stare, shook off two pitches, then reared back and released. It was a wild pitch coming straight at Sandy’s head. Sandy jerked back. The catcher scrambled to retrieve the ball, then called time out.

  “Tell your pitcher to watch it,” Sandy muttered fiercely as the catcher started down toward the mound. He noted the catcher’s look of surprise with satisfaction. Bet he will tell him, too, Sandy thought. What a wimp.

  After time in, the next pitch started down the middle. But it curved midway and ended up well outside the strike zone.

  “He’s afraid of you!”

  “Eye on the ball, Sandy!”

  “You’re ahead of him now!”

  C’mon, give me something I can hit, Sandy thought, gritting his teeth. This time, the pitcher did. It was a little high and a little bit of a reach, but Sandy raised his bat and swung.

  Crack!

  Billy took off from first base as the ball soared into the air between center and left fields. It landed between the two outfielders, who both scrambled for it. Billy rounded second and made it safely to third moments before the ball thudded into the third baseman’s mitt.

  Sandy landed on second base with no trouble. He nodded over at Billy, who was giving him a thumbs-up sign. He didn’t bother looking into the stands, though. He knew that no one from his family was there.

  Skip, a solid hitter, was up next. Sandy took a few steps off the base, ready to sprint. Hit it, Skip. Send me home so we can send these losers home.

  Four pitches came and went without a hit. Then, with a count of 2 and 2, Skip sent the next pitch out to the center field wall, just short of going over. He trotted down to first base as Billy, then Sandy, crossed home plate for the win.

  The Raiders yelled and cheered.

  “We showed them, didn’t we? We sure showed them who was boss! They thought they could push us around, but we showed them,” Sandy cried over and over. The ferocity in his voice drowned out all the others.

  2

  Sandy replayed each moment of the win on his way home. But once he walked up the steps to his family’s apartment, he stopped thinking abo
ut it. It had been a long time since anyone here had asked him about baseball. He no longer tried to tell them about it.

  He had barely set foot in the door when his mother shushed him.

  “Shhhhh! Sandy, quiet!” she hissed, raising her finger to her lips. “The twins are asleep!”

  She shut the door to the bedroom, then pulled him into the kitchen. Whispering, she explained.

  “I don’t think it’s serious, but they both came home from school feeling sick to their stomachs,” she said. “They looked flushed, too, so I took their temperatures. Margaret has a slight fever, but Mary’s is normal. I put them to bed, and they just nodded off a few minutes ago.”

  “They don’t sound so sick,” said Sandy.

  “No, and I’d like to keep it that way. So try not to make any noise,” said Mrs. Comstock. “I have a million things to do before I get dinner going, so please don’t bother me.” She picked up the phone with one hand and shut the door to the small room she used as a study with the other.

  Don’t bother me. Try not to make any noise, Sandy mimicked to himself. Whatever happened to “How was your day?”

  He dropped his school things next to the bedroom door. So what am I supposed to do, anyhow? I can’t move in this crummy apartment without bumping into something, and the walls are so thin I can practically hear the twins breathing.

  He stood for a moment, listening to his mother laughing on the phone. Then he left the apartment, resisting the temptation to slam the door after him.

  The sun had dropped behind the treetops now. Although it was mid-spring, it was chilly outside. Sandy tugged his Raiders baseball cap down lower over his ears. He decided to wait for his father to come home before going back inside.

  There was only a fifty-fifty chance of that happening anytime soon. Mr. Comstock had been working extra hours for over a year now. Business at the trucking company that he managed was good, and, as he said, “You have to make it while you can.” His overtime pay went into a special account — savings for a house someday, he told Sandy.

  “Someday” seemed pretty far away.

  Sandy slumped down on the steps in front of the apartment building. For a few minutes, he watched cars go by. But that was boring. He had to do something. He decided to take a walk to the convenience store and check out the magazines. He didn’t have any money to buy anything, but using your eyes was free, wasn’t it?

  But when he got to the store, he had trouble getting near the magazines. A tough-looking group of kids was hanging out right in front of them. One of them, a muscular boy with red hair, seemed to be the leader. Sandy thought he looked a little familiar and wondered if he went to Grantville Middle School.

  Sandy saw a magazine he wanted to look at, but the redhead was standing right in front of it. He tried to muscle his way to the sports rack, but the kid moved as if to block his path. Exasperated, Sandy finally just reached behind him. When he pulled the magazine free, his elbow brushed the kid in the head.

  The redhead yelped and spun around, an angry look on his face. “Watch it!” he said dangerously.

  “I barely touched you!” Sandy replied hotly.

  The redhead narrowed his eyes. “Then I’ll barely touch you,” he said. With a lightning-quick move, he shoved Sandy backward. Hard.

  Sandy careened into the rack. Magazines flew everywhere. The one in his hands tore in half as he tried in vain to keep from falling to the floor.

  The store manager came running over. “Out! Out, all of you! I told you punks before to stay out of my store. I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave.” The boys made a few wisecracks, then split up and sauntered down the aisles. A few looked over their shoulders.

  Sandy picked himself up, his baseball cap askew and the torn magazine still in his hands. “Give me that and get out,” the store manager said angrily. “Go join your buddies and cause trouble elsewhere.”

  Sandy didn’t bother telling the manager that the boys weren’t his “buddies.” He just hurried outside. He turned the corner toward home, then stopped short. There in his path stood the group of kids. The redhead stepped out in front of them.

  Sandy tensed, his face forming a deep scowl. “What’s the big idea?”

  “Relax, baseball boy,” the redhead said. “We just wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  The kid laughed harshly. “If you hadn’t come along, we would have had to figure out a way to make off with all this stuff.” After glancing around surreptitiously, each boy quickly showed Sandy items concealed in his jacket: a handful of magazines, a bag of candy, a bottle of soda. The redhead had a package of cigars. “Instead we had the perfect fall guy — you!”

  Sandy blinked. “You stole that stuff?”

  “We had to get supplies for our hangout. It’s not like our parents are going to give us money to pay for stuff like this, you know? That guy’ll never miss it. And even if he does, we’ll be long gone! But first —”

  The redhead grabbed the magazines, leafed through them, then pulled one out. It was a copy of the same sports magazine Sandy had been reading. “Here, take it.” He tossed it at Sandy.

  Sandy looked at the magazine in his hands. Deep down, he knew what he should do — return the magazine and go home. But the store manager thought he was a “punk” and wouldn’t believe him. And he wasn’t about to let this gang see him making nice with someone who had insulted him.

  “So what do you do with all this stuff?” he asked the redhead.

  “We bring it back to our hangout and divvy it up. Why, you interested in seeing it firsthand?”

  Sandy hesitated. Then he thought about what his mother had been like when he got home.

  What the heck, he said to himself. If I don’t feel like sticking around, I’ll just leave. At least I’ll have something to do before dinner, whenever that’s going to be.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. Then he stuffed the magazine in his back pocket and trailed behind the group.

  The boys’ hangout was nothing more than an abandoned storage shack behind one of the neighborhood apartment buildings. A rickety wooden table in the middle and a collection of old vegetable crates made up all the furniture. Piles of tattered magazines and newspapers were stacked in one corner. There were no windows or electricity, so one of the kids took some matches from his pocket and lit some candles.

  The other boys joked about how they had fooled the store manager. Then they passed around the candy and opened the soda. The redhead lit one of the cigars and started puffing. Soon the others were doing the same. One offered Sandy a puff. When Sandy didn’t take it, the redhead laughed his harsh laugh.

  “Well, get him,” he said to his buddies. “Thinks he’s too good to give it a try. Is that it? Are you too good to give it a try, baseball boy?”

  The taunts made Sandy angry. “I just remembered something I gotta do,” he said, sidling around the table to the door. “See ya.”

  “What’s the rush?” asked a tall boy with curly brown hair and a million freckles. He was one of the biggest of the kids. His body blocked the doorway.

  “Gotta get home for dinner,” said Sandy, suddenly uneasy.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s for dinner? Maybe we’ll all come over and have some,” said the redhead. The others all laughed at his suggestion.

  “Yeah, right,” said Sandy with a small laugh.

  “Baseball boy’s gotta keep his energy up so he can hit little white balls with sticks,” said one of the other guys, giving Sandy a push as he passed by.

  Automatically, Sandy pushed back at him. “Keep your hands off me,” he warned.

  “Aw, let him go,” the redhead called over. “We already got what we needed out of him.”

  But the kid who had pushed him took another poke at Sandy’s back. Sandy stumbled and collided with the table. The candles rocked dangerously.

  Sandy’s temper flared. He spun to face the boy who had pushed him. “I said, Keep your hands off me.” With one quick move, he pushed
the big kid into the table and ran out the door. The boys followed him, shouting angry words and threats.

  The noise brought people inside the apartments to their windows.

  “That’s it — I’m calling the cops!” one man yelled from his back stoop. He switched on an overhead light, reached into his doorway, and pulled out a phone.

  Sandy rushed past him, giving the man a glance before disappearing into the shadows. Once there, he broke into a sprint. He didn’t stop until he’d reached his own doorway. With shaking hands, he fumbled for the key.

  That’s when he heard the sirens and smelled the smoke.

  3

  Sandy, hat off at the dinner table,” said Mrs. Comstock. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  Sandy hung his Raiders cap from the back of his chair. He pushed his string beans around the crumbled remains of the slice of meat loaf on his plate. After the game, he had been so ravenous, he could have eaten a grizzly bear. Now he had no appetite.

  Bzzing! Bzzinggg! The door buzzer sounded. Mrs. Comstock went to the speaker and pushed the button.

  “Hello?… Yes. Yes, I’m his mother. … Yes. … Well, I suppose so. I mean, of course, please come up.”

  She turned to the table with a dark look on her face. “Sandy, why would two police officers want to speak to you?”

  Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. A policeman in a blue uniform and one in ordinary clothes came into the living room. They introduced themselves as Officer Hughes and Lieutenant Nolan.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” said Lieutenant Nolan. “Early this evening, there were two disturbances. The first was a robbery at the corner convenience store. The second was a fire. An old shack behind a building not too far from the store went up in flames. You were seen leaving both places.”

  Sandy stared at him, his heart in his mouth. “Me? What makes you think it was me?”

  Lieutenant Nolan plucked the Raiders cap from the chair. “Not too many kids around with one of these. We got a roster of the team from the paper and a description of you from the witnesses. With the help of some team photos and newspaper clippings, we put two and two together.”