The Team That Stopped Moving Read online

  Books by Matt Christopher

  Sports Stories

  THE LUCKY BASEBALL BAT

  BASEBALL PALS

  BASKETBALL SPARKPLUG

  TWO STRIKES ON JOHNNY

  LITTLE LEFTY

  TOUCHDOWN FOR TOMMY

  LONG STRETCH AT FIRST BASE

  BREAK FOR THE BASKET

  TALL MAN IN THE PIVOT

  CHALLENGE AT SECOND BASE

  CRACKERJACK HALFBACK

  BASEBALL FLYHAWK

  SINK IT, RUSTY

  CATCHER WITH A GLASS ARM

  WINGMAN ON ICE

  TOO HOT TO HANDLE

  THE COUNTERFEIT TACKLE

  THE RELUCTANT PITCHER

  LONG SHOT FOR PAUL

  MIRACLE AT THE PLATE

  THE TEAM THAT COULDN’T LOSE

  THE YEAR MOM WON THE PENNANT

  THE BASKET COUNTS

  HARD DRIVE TO SHORT

  CATCH THAT PASS!

  SHORTSTOP FROM TOKYO

  LUCKY SEVEN

  JOHNNY LONG LEGS

  LOOK WHO’S PLAYING FIRST BASE

  TOUGH TO TACKLE

  THE KID WHO ONLY HIT HOMERS

  FACE-OFF

  MYSTERY COACH

  ICE MAGIC

  NO ARM IN LEFT FIELD

  JINX GLOVE

  FRONT COURT HEX

  THE TEAM THAT STOPPED MOVING

  GLUE FINGERS

  Animal Stories

  DESPERATE SEARCH

  STRANDED

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT © 1975 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.

  Back Bay Books / 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

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09448-1

  To Sharon, Steve,

  Eric, and Jason

  Contents

  Books by Matt Christopher

  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

  Chapter 13

  1

  HIS FINGERS played a nervous tattoo on the receiver as Dick Farrar asked himself for the umpteenth time Should I or shouldn’t I? Why can’t I make up my mind?

  Quickly he snapped up the receiver as if this time speedy action would solve his problem. But again he struggled with his thoughts and had to put it back down.

  “Man! That’s the second time you picked up that telephone and changed your mind,” a voice said, startling him. “What’s eating you?”

  Dick turned and met the elfish grin of his younger sister, Cindy. “I need two more players to make up a baseball team, and the league starts in two weeks, that’s what,” he said, somewhat bitterly. “The only guys I know of who aren’t on a team yet are Art Walker and Stan Parker. Stan is good, but I heard he and his coach had a fight last year so he’s sitting out this year. Maybe he’ll play for us, but you know how Stan and I get along.”

  “Yeah. Like cats and dogs,” said Cindy. “Why don’t you call up Art and someone else besides Stan?” she suggested.

  “Oh, sure. Haven’t you seen those two? They’re like Siamese twins. One doesn’t go anywhere without the other.”

  Cindy shrugged. “In that case you’ll either have to put up with ‘em or forget about having a team.”

  Dick’s lips pressed into a straight, firm line. “Not me,” he snapped. “I’m not going to give up that easy. I’m going to start up a new team and build it up into the winningest one in the league. That’s my resolution and I’m not going to back down — even if it means having that bigmouth Stan Parker on my team.”

  His sister laughed. “How come you’re so sure he’ll want to play with you?”

  “I’ll bet on it,” he said. He picked up the receiver for the third time, and this time went through with it. He dialed, got Art, and explained what he wanted to do.

  “Have you asked Stan?” Art asked when he was finished.

  Dick shot his sister a didn’t-I-tell-you-so? look. “No, I haven’t,” he answered.

  “Well, ask him first, then call me back. Okay?”

  Dick glared at the receiver, felt like plunging it down hard to burst Art’s eardrum, but controlled himself.

  “Okay. I’ll give Stan a ring,” he said, anger mounting like a volcano inside him. He called Stan, and it ended up just as he thought it would. Stan said that he’d play if Art did. He also wanted to choose his own position — shortstop — which, to keep the peace, Dick also agreed to.

  “Well, you’re all set,” said Cindy, after he told her the outcome of his phone calls. “Now all you need is a coach and a sponsor.”

  “I’ve already got them,” said Dick. “Steve Banks, a former semipro ballplayer, is our coach. I told him that I wanted to form a new team to enter in the league and would he coach it if I did. He said sure. The Cool Acres Restaurant will sponsor us. They’ll get us our uniforms, caps and balls.”

  “Well!” said Cindy, brushing back a strand of loose hair that had fallen over her face. “Guess you’ve been busy! What are you calling the team? I suppose you’ve already thought of that, too?”

  “Of course. I’m calling it the Tigers.”

  “Tigers? Why so original?”

  Dick glared at her. “Because with so many other teams already in the league, we had little to choose from. That’s why, smarty!”

  At the Tigers’ first practice, Coach Banks let the boys choose their own positions, although most of them didn’t care where they played. They were pleased enough just to be playing.

  For two hours every day before the league started, the Tigers were at one of the two baseball fields in town, practicing diligently under Coach Banks’ direction in order to be a strong contender in the baseball league. Dick fretted after the first few days, however. Beyond a doubt Stan Parker was the best athlete on the team. His catches at shortstop and his throws to first base were those of a guy who had played a lot of baseball. And Stan had. He had four brothers, all of whom had played baseball with him since he was eight years old. None of the other boys were within miles of his ability. The question was : Would Stan stay on the team if he realized that he was a far better player than the other guys?

  When Coach Banks said that he had scheduled a practice game with the Panthers, who had finished second in the league last year, Dick shuddered to think of what might happen.

  “We’ll lose twenty to nothing,” he said.

  He was almost right.

  On the day of the game the Tigers’ roster was as follows:

  Mark Patten — second base

  Ben Cushing — third base

  Stan Parker — shortstop

  Andy Michaels — left field

  Dick Farrar — first base

  Eddie Zimmer — catcher

  Jim Tanner — center field

  Tony Berio — right field

  Art Walker — pitcher

  The subs were Mike Withey, outfield; Clyde McPherson, infield; and Pat Hammer, pitcher.

  The Tigers had first raps. Tiny Phil Sandsted pitched for
the Panthers. All he did was throw balloonlike pitches over the plate, or somewhere near it. And all the Tigers did was hit them directly at an infielder or an outfielder, as if that was Phil’s intention (which it was). They were out in rapid order — one, two, three.

  Art’s pitches were so well controlled that it seemed he was throwing the ball through a tube. Just the same, the Panthers enjoyed a hard-hitting first inning, scoring four runs, and repeated the assault in the second inning, scoring six runs. In the third they scored two, and in the fourth, three. It was a regular merry-go-round.

  “I guess they’re getting tired of running around the bases,” Dick said after catching a pop fly behind first base for the third out that ended the fourth inning.

  “I think we should give up,” Stan remarked as he plunked himself down on the bench beside Dick. “All we’re doing is making clowns of ourselves.”

  “Oh, come on. Give up without a fight?” Dick tried hard not to raise his voice. “Is that what you want, Stan?”

  “It’s not what I want,” Stan blurted. “But I don’t like making a fool clown out of myself, either.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have joined …” Dick stopped short, realizing how stupid a remark that was. “I’m sorry, Stan. I didn’t mean that.”

  “I hope you didn’t,” Stan said, his eyes snapping. “Because if you did …”

  “Hey, cut it out,” Ben Cushing broke in. “We’ll never have a team if we start fighting among ourselves.”

  “Right,” said Eddie Zimmer in that soft, almost inaudible voice of his.

  “Well! Look who woke up!” Stan leaned halfway off the bench and pinned his eyes on the small but strong-armed catcher. “I thought you did nothing but catch and throw the ball, Eddie!”

  Eddie’s face turned crimson.

  Dick bristled. Darn Stan. He knew as well as anybody what a shy, sensitive kid Eddie was. Why did he have to embarrass him in front of all the guys with that remark?

  “Lay off him, Stan,” said Dick. “He’s doing just as well as anybody else on the team.”

  A chuckle rippled from Stan as he slid back on the seat. “Never before have I heard of a catcher who didn’t open up his trap once in a while,” he said, loud enough for the entire bench to hear.

  “That’s enough, Stan,” piped up Coach Banks. “Eddie’s doing just fine. Grab a bat, Dick. You’re second man up.”

  Dick gave the little catcher a friendly tap on the knee, then got off the bench and selected his favorite bat, one with a taped handle. He heard the crowd yell as Andy Michaels, at the plate, knocked a pitch out to deep left. The yell died almost instantly as the fielder made a one-handed catch.

  “Come on! Let’s get up on the scoreboard!” Art shouted.

  Dick stepped to the plate and waited for Phil’s first pitch.

  The score was Panthers 15, Tigers 0.

  2

  THE PITCH floated in like a lazy balloon.

  “Ball one!” shouted the ump.

  The next sliced the inside corner of the plate, but Dick let it go by. The third pitch was the real teaser. He swung at it and drilled it over the pitcher’s head. The ball sailed out to center field in a hard, shallow drive, and Dick sped to second base for a clean double.

  Eddie, up next, lashed a streaking grounder to second. The second baseman fumbled the ball, and Eddie was safe at first and Dick at third.

  “Nice going, Eddie!” Dick yelled across the diamond at him.

  Eddie, smiling, waved a “thank you” to him.

  Jim Tanner fouled the first pitch, then missed the next two for a strikeout. The Tigers groaned as they saw their chances for getting up on the scoreboard going down the drain.

  Right fielder Tony Berio came to the rescue, drilling a sharp grounder through short that scored Dick. Eddie raced around to third, but perished there as Art flied out to left. Nevertheless, a small roar and a thunder of feet in the stands went up as the Tigers broke the barrier. The score was now 15-1.

  “We’re a bunch of dingalings,” Dick heard Stan say to Art as the pair started out to their positions. “And I’m the chief dingaling.”

  “You think it’s too late to quit?” Art said.

  Stan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, let’s.”

  Dick listened carefully, finding himself heading toward second base instead of first in order to catch Stan’s reply.

  “No, we’ll wait,” Stan said. “Coach Banks wouldn’t like us to quit right off the bat. Of course, Dick wouldn’t either, but who cares what he …”

  Dick glanced over at Stan just as Stan glanced over at him. Stan’s face pinked, and his lips tightened as he looked away.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” he muttered half under his breath.

  The Panthers picked up two more runs, one from a line drive at Dick that was too hot for him to handle. 17-1.

  In the top of the sixth, the Tigers’ last chance to redeem themselves, Mark Patten uncorked a triple to left center field, and scored on Ben’s single. That brought another happy roar from the faithful Tiger fans who apparently felt that their green team, with some luck, might still run up seventeen runs to beat the Panthers.

  Stan’s cannonball shot over second kept up their faith. The blow advanced Ben to third. Andy’s hot drive to short resulted in a double play — second to first. Two outs. One man left on.

  “Wake up, Dick,” Stan said as the plate umpire looked toward the dugout for the next batter to appear. “You’re up.”

  Dick shook himself loose from the dream like state into which the Tigers’ scoring spree had put him. He picked up his bat and hurried to the plate, his heart pounding, his face hot and sweaty. The first pitch drifted in so slowly that Dick could see the colored threads.

  “Strike!” boomed the ump.

  “C’mon, Dick!” Stan cried. “Don’t just stand there! Swing!”

  Phil Sandsted delivered the next pitch almost in the same spot. This time Dick swung. Smack! A hard blow to left field! The ball soared like an eagle as Dick dropped the bat and raced for first base. He touched the bag and headed for second. But a groan sprang from the fans — the familiar, disappointing sound that meant only one thing, an out. He looked out to left field and saw the fielder come running in, the ball nestled in the pocket of his glove.

  The game was over. The Tigers lost it, 17-2.

  “Oh, so what?” Eddie said as he, Dick, and two other guys helped Coach Banks pile the equipment into a couple of canvas bags. “We had a lot of fun, anyway. I know I did.”

  “Trouble is, Eddie, everybody doesn’t feel as you and I do,” Dick said sadly.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Coach Banks said. “We were hitting pretty good in that last inning. That ought to be a good sign. It was only a practice game, anyway.”

  Dick’s parents and Cindy walked home with Dick. The elfish smile on Cindy’s face warned Dick that she was just bubbling over with funny things to say to him. Funny to her, he thought, but not to me. She was only waiting for their parents to stop talking a minute. They were both trying to make Dick feel better about the lopsided loss.

  Her chance didn’t come until they arrived home. “You guys would have looked better in clown outfits,” she said, grinning mischievously. “With your noses painted barnyard red.”

  “Why, you snail!” Dick snarled, and looked around for something to throw at her. When he saw that he was near her tropical fish tank, he lifted the front cover, dipped his hand into the water, and lifted out a wiggling red swordtail.

  “Oh, no! Please put it back! Pleeeease!” Cindy cried frantically. “I take it all back! Just please … !”

  His anger subsiding, Dick dropped the fish back into the tank, closed the cover and tromped into the kitchen to dry his hand.

  His mother looked at him curiously. “What happened, Dick?”

  “Sometimes that sister of mine is just too much,” Dick answered stiffly.

  Mrs. Farrar put a comforting arm around his shoulders an
d smiled. “Oh, don’t let her get under your skin. Sisters are like that. They like to kid their brothers. Deep down inside they’re for you all the way.”

  “Then why doesn’t that ‘deep down inside’ come up once in a while?” he said, his anger practically burned out now.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. It will.”

  A half hour later Cindy was hitting Dick grounders and pop flies in the backyard. It had taken him a while to consent to her offer, but when he realized that she was really serious about it he yielded.

  Eddie, who lived next door, came over with a fielder’s glove and joined them.

  “You’ll have to get a catcher’s mitt,” Dick advised him.

  Eddie shrugged. “If my brother hadn’t left me this I wouldn’t have any glove.”

  Five minutes later Eddie’s mother, barely taller than he, stepped out onto the back porch and called to him, “Eddie! I told you that I don’t want you to be playing baseball! You’ll injure your fingers and that’ll be the end of your piano playing!”

  “Oh, Mom!” Eddie cried, more embarrassed than disappointed. “I’m wearing a glove!”

  “Don’t argue with me,” his mother replied sternly. Even though she was small — probably weighing less than a hundred pounds —her voice had power. “Come inside. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Job? What job?”

  “Never mind. Come in.”

  “Oh, all right. See you later,” he said to Dick and Cindy as he crossed over to his yard and went into the house.

  “Man, I feel sorry for him,” Cindy said softly. “He’s such a nice kid, but you can count the number of friends he has on two fingers.”

  “And he’s nuts about baseball,” Dick added. “I hope his mother doesn’t insist that he quit. I don’t know what we’ll do without him.”

  He was to find out at their first league game against the Foxes. Eddie didn’t show up.

  3

  COACH BANKS had Clyde McPherson, the infield sub, catch in Eddie’s place.

  The Tigers had first raps. Right off Mark drew a walk. Ben walked, too, and it looked as if the Tigers were off to a good start.