No Arm in Left Field

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1974 by Matthew F. Christopher

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

  form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information

  storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from

  the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages

  in a review.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09579-2

  to Kenny VanSickle

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  1

  TERRY DELANEY took a couple of steps closer to Mick Jordan to make sure his throw wouldn’t fall short, and winged the ball. The worn, dirt-stained sphere arced through the air and landed in Mick’s outstretched glove. A short throw didn’t bother him, but he just didn’t have the arm for throwing a long distance.

  “Who’d you play with on Long Island?” Mick asked, pushing his long black hair out of his eyes.

  “The Fall City Tigers.” Terry smiled. “Know where we finished up? Next to last!”

  Mick laughed. Terry had been telling him about the small town on Long Island where he had lived before moving to Forest Lake, a suburb in eastern Pennsylvania. Terry’s father, an engineer, had taken a job with a mining concern and brought his family here in the middle of the winter. Within weeks Mrs. Delaney had joined the Great Books Club in Forest Lake, and Connie, Terry’s fifteen-year-old sister, had become a varsity cheerleader. The family settled easily into the life of their new town.

  Terry, himself a junior high student, had liked winter sports but was pleased that at last summer had finally rolled around, for with it had come his favorite sport, baseball.

  “You have a league here?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said Mick, reaching forward to grab Terry’s soft throw. “I play with the Forest Lakers. We’re having practice in a little while. Want to come with me?”

  Terry’s eyes brightened. “You don’t have to ask me twice!” he replied happily.

  Just then a voice shouted from across the street. “Hey, Mick!”

  Mick held up his throw, turned, and looked at the kid who had yelled. Terry looked, too. A tall, dark-haired boy wearing a knit sweater and bell-bottom pants came running across the street. He stopped on the sidewalk, let his gaze linger a while on Terry, then motioned to Mick.

  “Come here, will ya?” he said.

  His voice was commanding. Terry felt a sudden change in the atmosphere, as if it had become charged with electricity.

  Mick tossed the ball to Terry. “Just a second, Terry,” he said, and trotted over to the newcomer.

  “Who’s the Negro kid?” Terry heard the newcomer ask plainly.

  Terry’s face grew hot, but his eyes narrowed and he stared at the boy. He didn’t hear Mick’s response, nor could he hear anymore of what the newcomer said. He had a good idea of the gist of it, however, and that was enough. He shook his head and looked away.

  After a minute Mick’s voice was loud enough for Terry to hear. “Come on. He’s okay, I tell you.”

  Terry looked at them, and noticed that the newcomer had a baseball glove and was wearing sneakers.

  Terry turned and started for his house, tossing the baseball into the air and catching it as it came down. He wasn’t going to wait around all day. He whistled in order to drown out the voices behind him.

  It had happened again, he thought, his stomach churning. A white kid who doesn’t like a black kid. But I bet that one of his favorite baseball players, or football players, is black.

  “Hey, Terry! Wait a minute!”

  He paused without turning around, and heard Mick’s footsteps pounding up behind him.

  “Terry.” Mick stopped before him, breathing hard. “Terry, I’m sorry.”

  Terry smiled. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve seen his kind before. He on your team?”

  “He’s our shortstop.”

  “Is he good?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Terry looked over his shoulder, saw the kid begin to walk briskly away and then pause near a bush to look back.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Terry said. “Better get going.”

  “Aren’t you coming?” Mick asked.

  “No.” Terry flashed a grin. “Go on, Mick. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

  Mick shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Terry. I wanted him to meet you. I was surprised when he said he — he didn’t want to.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I feel funny, Terry.”

  Terry chuckled. “I know. That’s because it’s brand new to you. Not to me, though I’ll never get used to it. Go ahead, he’s waiting. I’ve got things to do, anyway.” He turned and headed for the porch.

  “See you later, Terry,” Mick said.

  “Sure, Mick.”

  Terry opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. He closed it and saw Mick running across the lawn toward the kid who was waiting for him. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the kid smile.

  Connie met him as he stepped into the house. Even though she was three years older she was only an inch taller than her athletic brother.

  “Who’s the kid with Mick?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Mick didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask him.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “To the ball field. Their team’s practicing.”

  He started past her and she grabbed his arm. Her eyes were hard as she looked at him. “I know you want to play, Terry. Why didn’t you go with Mick?”

  He reached over and gently lifted her hand from his arm. “Because I’m black, my dear sister, and that other kid just don’t like black.” A smile cracked his face. “You’ve heard of that before, haven’t you?”

  Connie didn’t flinch. “Maybe that kid’s the only one who feels that way. There are other black families in this town.”

  “I know. But that kid is sure to have friends, and his friends are likely to go along with him. You should’ve heard him. ‘Who’s the “Negro” kid?’ he asked Mick in that tone they use and loud enough so I can hear. Right away I pegged him. He’s a leader, Connie. He’s the type guys follow.”

  “You’re just guessing, Terry. You don’t know for sure.”

  “Okay, I don’t know for sure. But I’ll bet on it.”

  The sun was dropping toward the western horizon when a knock sounded on the door. Mrs. Delaney answered it.

  “Terry, it’s Mick,” she said.

  Terry left the TV set where he had been watching a sports program and met Mick at the door. Mick’s hair was tousled and his face shiny with sweat.

  “Hi, Terry,” he greeted him. “Got some news for you. We need an outfielder.”

  Terry crossed his arms. “Don’t look at me,” he said.

  “But you said that you’d like to play!” Mick exclaimed. “And there’s nobody else. Come on, Terry. Please come to our next practice. I’ve told Coach Harper about you.”

  Soft footsteps sounded behind Terry and he looked over his shoulder. The warm, pleasant face of his father grinned at him.

  “Hi, Mick,” Mr. Delaney said. “I heard what you said to Terry. I think it’s a good idea
.”

  “What about that kid who was here earlier?”

  “Tony Casterline? He can lump it for all I care!”

  Terry laughed. Still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to join a team on which even one member had a grudge against a black boy’s playing. And, as he had said to Connie, there could be others.

  He finally agreed, however, when Dad, Mom and Connie put in their nickel’s worth. He would give it a try, at least. Who knew but what his playing — if he could only perform well — might make Tony Casterline forget his prejudice and turn him into a friend? Such things happened. If only his arm were stronger…

  The next afternoon Mick stopped at the house. Together they walked to the ball-field where Terry was introduced to Coach Don Harper and the members of the Forest Lakers baseball team. Some nodded their greeting, some shook hands. Tony Casterline was one of the former.

  Terry couldn’t help but feel conspicuous. He was the only black boy in the group. He noticed, though, that there was another boy whose skin was darker than the others, whose features suggested a nationality from, he guessed, a country in South America. The boy’s name was Caesar Valquez.

  Terry wondered briefly how Caesar was accepted when he had first come to Forest Lake. Or was he born here?

  “Okay, guys,” Coach Harper said, carrying a bat and ball to the plate. “Outfielders, hustle out there. Terry, get out in left. Infielders, play catch.”

  Coach Harper’s hits to the outfielders ranged from line drives to sky-reaching blows. Terry didn’t have a miss and welcomed the coach’s praises of “Nice going, Terry!” and “Hey, weVe got an outfielder!”

  Batting practice turned into a lot of fun, too. The team batted twice around and Terry knocked his share of grounders and long flies to his usual corner, deep left. His bunting, though, suffered.

  “We’re having a practice game with the Boilers tomorrow afternoon,” the coach said to Terry when practice was over. “Like to have you here.”

  Terry smiled, “f 11 be here,” he promised.

  He almost forgot Tony Casterline’s coldness as he walked home with Mick. All he could think about was telling Mom, Dad and Connie that the coach liked his playing and wanted him at the practice game tomorrow.

  Then he remembered something else, and he turned to his friend. “Thanks, Mick,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be playing baseball.”

  Mick’s eyes glimmered. “Aw, forget it, Terry,” he said. “Somebody would’ve asked you to play.”

  A hot June sun blazed down on the baseball field the next afternoon. The teams tossed a coin to see who would bat last, and the Boilers won. Pitching for them was a red-headed left-hander, Lefty Wallace.

  The first three batters for the Forest Lakers were Jeff Roberts, Tony Caster-line and Terry Delaney. Terry couldn’t believe it. Third batter!

  Lefty’s speed worked like magic. Both Jeff and Tony popped up to the infield. After fouling two pitches Terry struck out on a high, outside throw.

  “That was over your head, man!” Tony cried.

  Terry ignored him as he dropped the bat, got his glove, and ran out to his position.

  The first pitch Mick Jordan delivered to the Boilers’ lead-off man was hit through the hole between first and second base. The man held up at first as right fielder Caesar Valquez fielded the ball and pegged it to second.

  The second batter failed on two bunt attempts, then drilled a long fly to deep left. Terry backpedaled for it, caught it, then whipped it to third base. The ball barely reached the halfway point between him and the infield. The runner on first — after tagging up — ran to second, then bolted to third.

  Third baseman Ed Caliel rushed out to receive the throw in, but the runner was safely on base by the time he got it and turned to throw.

  “Hold it!” Mick yelled.

  A second voice sliced through the air, and Terry’s ears filled with its terrible ring.

  “Hey! See that? Terry hasn’t got an arm! He can’t throw worth beans!”

  2

  TERRY TWINGED. He couldn’t rid himself of his poor throwing arm. It was his big weakness.

  Once, a couple of years ago, he had played second base, where he didn’t have to throw very hard. But his coach had discovered that Terry was better at catching flies than grounders, and so had transferred him to the outfield. Terry liked that better and had played there ever since, even if he did have trouble when a long fly was hit while men were on base.

  He saw the angry look on Tony’s face, and heard a chuckle come from center fielder Rich Muldoon.

  “Why don’t you trade in that arm, Terry?” the tall, skinny kid hollered at him. “You sure can’t get a worse one!”

  Terry grinned. “I’ll make up for it in other ways, Rich!” he yelled back.

  With one out, Mick pitched to the next batter. The Boiler smashed a hot, sizzling liner directly at Ed Caliel at third. The runner on third started toward home, then stopped. He slipped as he tried to get back to third, and Ed doubled him up. Three outs.

  “Nice play, Ed,” Terry said as he trotted up beside the stocky third baseman.

  Ed glanced at him, nodded, and looked away.

  “Muldoon, Philips, Caliel,” Coach Harper announced. “Get on, Rich.”

  Rich put on his protective helmet, stepped to the plate, took his swings and struck out. Bud Philips hit a high bouncer to the pitcher for the second out and Ed grounded out to short.

  Mick held the Boilers hitless. Then, in the top of the third, Stu Henderson drilled Lefty Wallace’s second pitch through the pitcher’s mound, forcing Lefty to dance a momentary jig. It was the Forest Lakers’ first hit of the game and the guys got excited.

  Caesar Valquez stepped to the plate, dug his sneakers into the soft dirt as if he were going to wallop one of Lefty’s pitches into no man’s land, and then stuck the bat out for a bunt.

  Foul.

  Caesar stepped out of the box, glanced at the coach and stepped back in again. Another bunt, and again a foul.

  “Hit away, Ceez!” Coach Harper yelled.

  Caesar blasted the next pitch to center for an easy out. Mick, last man in the batting order, removed the metal doughnut from the fat part of his bat, plodded to the plate, dug his sneakers firmly into the dirt, and watched the first pitch breeze by him.

  “Strike!” yelled the ump.

  “Clout it, Mick!” Terry cried.

  The pitch, and Mick swung. A hot grounder to second base! The Boiler second baseman caught the hop, snapped it to second for the first out, the shortstop whipped it to first. A double play.

  The Boiler fans roared as the teams exchanged sides.

  Bottom of the third. Hope nobody knocks one too deep in left, Terry thought as he ran out to his position. I don’t want Tony Casterline to be able to embarrass me again.

  A high pop fly to Stu accounted for the first out and Terry breathed a sigh of relief. Then Mick drilled a pitch over the heart of the plate and the Boiler batter drilled it back at him like a rifle shot. It knocked Mick’s glove off and bounced out to center for a hit.

  Man on first and one out.

  Mick toed the rubber and threw. Crack! A hefty clout to deep left. Terry turned and bolted back toward the fence, then looked over his shoulder, lifted his glove and snared the ball — a spectacular, one-handed catch. He stopped in his tracks and pegged the ball in to Tony Casterline, throwing it as hard as he could. The ball dropped short, as he expected, and he saw the Boiler runner bee-line to second.

  “Old no arm!” Tony yelled as he ran out to get the throw in. The runner held up at second.

  Terry’s heart pounded. Not only from running, but because of Tony’s sarcastic remark. Old no arm! That darn guy didn’t even give him credit for the catch!

  A shot over short scored the Boilers’ first run. Terry ran up, caught the ball on a bounce and pegged it successfully to Jeff Roberts at second. The hitter held up on first. Coming in closer to Tony, Terry was able to see a scowl on the short
stop’s face.

  The Forest Lakers settled down. Stu, crouched behind home plate in his catcher’s gear, tried to liven up the team with his peppery chatter. Although this was just a practice game, the guys were serious about every play. Terry wondered how much more serious they could be when league play actually started.

  Mick worked the next Boiler batter to two balls and two strikes, then fanned him with a curve.

  Jeff, leading off for the Lakers in the top of the fourth, struck out. Tony then laced a pitch through short for a single. Terry came up, hoping to redeem himself for his first strikeout. Lefty threw two inside pitches, then fired one high and outside, which Terry liked.

  He swung — and missed. Another high, outside pitch. Again he swung — and missed.

  “Two… two!” the ump bellowed.

  Terry stepped out of the box, rubbed the bat firmly around its skinny handle, then stepped in again and lambasted Lefty’s next pitch to left center field. Tony raced around to third and Terry held up on second for a clean double. Standing on the bag Terry noticed Tony looking at him appraisingly.

  The handful of Forest Laker fans cheered Terry, and he felt pleased. He had put himself and Tony in scoring position. Now it was up to the next batters.

  Rich Muldoon didn’t help. His pop-up to third made it two outs. It was up to Bud Philips. Bud, a lanky, light-haired, left-handed batter, strode to the plate in that lazy fashion of his and watched the first pitch sail by him as if he were watching a parade. He didn’t look as if he were going to swing at the next pitch either until after the ball had left Lefty’s hand and was halfway to the plate.

  Crack! A bullet drive to right center, and both Tony and Terry scored! Ed grounded out to end the rally. Forest Lakers 2, Boilers 1.

  The change in the lead seemed to have affected the Boilers. They weren’t able to get a man on first base in their half of the inning. In the fifth Stu, Caesar and Mick went down one, two, three. So did the Boilers.

  Jeff, leading off for the Lakers in the top of the sixth, singled on the first pitch and scampered to second base on Tony’s scratch single. Terry, hoping to knock in at least one run, swung hard at a high, outside one — and missed. He let a low pitch slide by for strike two, then swung hard again at another one he liked — high and outside.