The Winning Stroke Read online

  Copyright

  Text copyright ©1994 by Matthew F. Christopher

  Illustrations copyright © 1994 by Karin Lidbeck

  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

  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.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09449-8

  To Richard and Kathleen

  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

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  1

  “Come on, Billy, come on, big guy,” came a voice from behind.

  As Jerry Grayson adjusted his grip on the bat, he could hear the catcher calling out encouragement to the mound.

  But Billy Wolfson, the pitcher, was taking his time.

  With a count of three and 0, he knows I can afford to swing at anything that looks halfway decent, thought Jerry. Too bad, Billy, but even with a two-run lead, you'd better not take any chances. After all, I'm already two for three this game.

  Jerry knew that his teammates were hoping he would get on base. It was the bottom of the ninth. They had two outs, and there was no one on base. The next pitch could save the game and start a winning rally.

  Billy stretched both arms behind him as he started to wind up for the pitch. He glared at Jerry, then let the ball fly.

  The pitch looked as though it would be a little high and outside. But as the ball sizzled forward toward the plate, it began to curve, inward.

  That's just how I like 'em, Jerry thought. He drew back for an instant, then swung.

  Crack!

  It was a clean hit over the shortstop's head.

  Jerry took off like a shot. He made it easily to first base before the left fielder had grabbed hold of the ball.

  “Hold, Jerry! Hold!” shouted his teammates.

  Why should I hold? Jerry thought. I'm one of the fastest runners on the team. I can stretch that hit to a double, no problem!

  But Nick Dodson, the left fielder, was faster on the draw than Jerry realized. The ball was in the air and on its way to second in a flash. Jerry had to slide — or else he'd be tagged out.

  A cloud of dust rose from his sneakers as he skidded toward the base.

  Standing like a mountain of humanity on second base was Harry “Hulk” Harrison. Hulk was never much of a threat at bat or on the field, but his size could be intimidating. His huge body blocked the sun as he reached for the incoming ball. When it made contact with his mitt, he wheeled to tag Jerry. But his foot caught on the base and, off balance, he fell.

  At any second, Jerry had expected to feel contact between the base and the sole of his sneaker. He had stretched his right leg as far as it would reach in the direction of the base.

  Instead, he felt a sharp pain shooting up and down his leg as a wall of weight came crashing down on it. Hulk Harrison had tagged him out by landing on him full force.

  As the dust cleared, Hulk rolled off him into the dirt. The big second baseman got up and shook off his large form. Raising his left arm, he brandished the ball still trapped in his mitt.

  “Out!” Hulk shouted. “I gotcha! You're out, Jerry! We win!”

  Oh, yeah? thought Jerry, all set to argue. “No way!” he shouted from down on the ground.

  Suddenly, the pain in his right leg shot through his entire right side.

  But he had to get up. He had to out-shout Hulk and prove he had gotten to second base safely. He leaned on one elbow and tried to raise his body from the ground. He was okay as long as the weight was on his left knee. Then he tried to move his right leg. The pain exploded, and a screaming white light filled his body before everything turned black.

  Jerry woke with a start when an awful ammonia smell hit his nostrils. He opened his eyes and saw an emergency medical technician leaning over him, a concerned look in his eye.

  Terrible as the smell was, it cleared his head. He was wide awake when the stretcher was carefully placed underneath him and he was carried into the wailing ambulance. Still, he could feel every jolt during the ride through downtown Bolton to the hospital.

  His mother was waiting outside the Emergency Room. Inside, it seemed as if a hundred different people looked at him, poked around, and asked the same stupid questions over and over. And all the while his leg throbbed with pain.

  He was just about to shout out loud that he was in agony, when a nurse came in and gave him an injection in his arm.

  It took a few minutes, but the pain in his leg faded away gradually. He was feeling better when they wheeled him into another examination room.

  Dr. Gold, who looked as though she might be the same age as his mom, was staring at some X-rays of his leg.

  “Hmmm, pretty nice break you have there,” she said.

  “Aw, come on, it can't be broken,” he said. “Is it really?”

  “To be specific, you have a mid-shaft fracture of the tibia and the fibula,” said the doctor. She pointed to a spot between his knee and ankle.

  “Wow, sounds pretty bad,” he said.

  “It's not good,” she went on. “What happened? You crash into a brick wall?”

  “No,” said Jerry. “It came crashing down on me.” He told her about the accident.

  “So it's a sports injury, my specialty,” she said, moving over to the examination table. She lifted the light bandaging that covered most of his leg. Since he was flat on his back, he couldn't see what it looked like.

  “What do you think?” asked Jerry. “Can you fix it pretty fast?”

  “We should be able to do something,” said Dr. Gold.

  Jerry breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  “Let's see now,” she said, “how old are you?”

  “Twelve,” he replied.

  “Hmmm, and about five feet seven, one hundred and twenty pounds,” she went on. “Do you smoke?”

  “Never!”

  “Drink lots of milk?”

  “Gallons!”

  “Do your homework on time?”

  Jerry hesitated. “Usually,” he said.

  Dr. Gold laughed. “I think we'll be able to put you back together, then.”

  “Great!” said Jerry. “We still have a few more games left, and the team really needs me.”

  “The team?” said Dr. Gold.

  “Our sandlot baseball team,” said Jerry. “I'm the number one hitter.”

  “That's nice,” said Dr. Gold. “But I can't see you playing baseball for a while.”

  “Why not?” asked Jerry.

  “Because you're going to be in a cast and have to use crutches for about eight weeks.”

  “What? No way!”

  “Okay,” said the doctor. “Then just hop off that table and get out of here.”

  Even with the soothing effect of the shot, Jerry knew that he couldn't move his bad leg. The slightest touch still sent shivers of pain all along the right side of his body.

  “Eight weeks,” he moaned. “I m
ight as well jump off a cliff.”

  “That's another option,” said the doctor. “Or, we can go ahead with the cast.”

  Jerry sighed. “But after eight weeks I'll be okay?” he asked. “I'll be able to play baseball? It'll be a little early for the school team. Maybe I'll play basketball. Still, if the ground isn't frozen —”

  “Not so fast,” said the doctor. “When you get out of the long cast, we'll put you into a shorter one.”

  “Another cast! Why don't I just crawl into bed and stay there forever!”

  “Oh, the short cast is a lot easier. You'll be able to walk around on it without the crutches.”

  “Sure, but I bet I'm not going to be shooting hoops in it — or shagging ground balls. How long will I have to wear the darn thing?” Jerry asked.

  “I'd say, about four weeks.”

  “And then I'll be able to play sports again?”

  “Maybe,” said Dr. Gold.

  “Maybe!”

  “Look, young man, we're not magicians,” said the doctor. “I don't have a crystal ball that's going to tell me exactly how well you're going to heal. Once we take the second cast off, there'll still be a lot of work to do.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Jerry. “Do anything you have to. Just let me know when I can play ball again.”

  “I didn't say we were going to do the work,” the doctor said. “It's going to be up to you.”

  “Me?”

  She nodded her head.

  “You.”

  2

  Three months and two weeks after the day he broke his leg, Jerry sat in a whirlpool in the local rehabilitation center. The most recent X-rays showed that the bones had set, but after the short cast had come off, Doctor Gold had ordered a program of physical therapy.

  Jerry, anxious to be back on the baseball field practicing with his buddies, had told her he didn't need the therapy.

  “You don't think so?” she'd asked. “Just take a good look at that leg.”

  With the cast off, Jerry could see what had been covered up for twelve weeks. His leg looked terrible. Compared to the normal color of his left leg, the skin on his right was all white and scruffy. Thin blue veins showed through. And Jerry could tell without even flexing that the muscles were weak from lack of exercise.

  “Now, here's what you're going to do,” Doc Gold had said. “First of all, you're going to use this.” She handed him a cane. “And second, you're going to report to Bob Fulton at this address, three times a week for two hours, for physical therapy.”

  Jerry stared at the cane and the slip of paper she held out. He was ready to explode with frustration. Three days a week for two hours? So much for batting practice!

  But then his eye fell on his leg. All right, he figured, I'll go along with what she says. But I'll decide how much of this therapy I need to do to get back to full strength.

  So, three days a week, right after school, Jerry reported to Bob Fulton at the rehab center. At first, he just tried to breeze through his exercises. But soon, he realized that Mr. Fulton didn't stand for any goofing off. He was giving his all — and expected nothing less from his patients. Jerry respected his straightforward manner and, even more important, he felt Mr. Fulton really cared if his leg improved.

  Even so, after two weeks of the same routine of exercises, Jerry was getting bored. Relaxing in the whirlpool was nice, but he itched to be doing something more strenuous than leg lifts. He missed the action of the baseball field and the friendly joking of his teammates.

  So today, after he finished his session of exercises, he confessed his frustration to Bob Fulton. His therapist looked thoughtful.

  “Well, I can't let you back on the baseball field quite yet, because your leg wouldn't stand the pounding of running on hard turf. But I have been considering some optional therapy for you. There's still a little stiffness around your knee and ankle, and those leg muscles need more of a workout than you're getting here. So, starting Monday, you'll be meeting me at the swimming pool at Bolton Middle School. You can swim, can't you?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Jerry “I learned at the Y when I was a little kid. Gee, I never thought of swimming as therapy. I figured it's just something you do at the Y or at the beach.”

  “Believe me, there's a lot more to swimming than just clowning around in the water,” said Mr. Fulton. “I ought to know. I've been coaching for fourteen years.”

  Jerry felt a little foolish. He hadn't meant to knock the sport of swimming. He really had never thought much about it.

  “Well, uh, then I guess I'll see you at the pool,” said Jerry. “When do I start? And what am I supposed to do?”

  “You start next Monday,” said Mr. Fulton. “Come down to the pool and see me as soon as school lets out. I'll put you through your first round of exercises, and then you'll be on your own.”

  “See you at the pool, then,” said Jerry.

  That evening, after his eight-year-old brother, David, and four-year-old sister, Lucie, had gone to bed, Jerry told his parents about the doctor's and therapist's newest plan.

  “I mean, swimming!” he said, grunting. “Why couldn't it be something like … like … like hockey!”

  “Oh, sure, skating around on nice slippery ice,” said his mother, putting down her newspaper. “That's just what you need to build up your leg.”

  “Right,” said his father. “When your leg buckled under, the other team could skate right over you. And then you'd end up in a full body cast.”

  “Probably for a year,” said his mother.

  “At least one,” said his father. “Maybe two years. Could I have the business section, Liz? I want to check out my investments in plaster of paris.”

  “All right, all right,” Jerry grumbled. “I'll do the swimming.”

  When he arrived at the school pool Monday, Jerry felt uncomfortable. He was used to knowing his way around sports arenas. The baseball diamond was like a second home to him. But the pool was like a foreign country. None of the guys he knew went out for swimming as a sport. He'd just have to play it really cool and get this pool stuff over as quickly as possible.

  Mr. Fulton stood in the shallow end of the school swimming pool. Jerry splashed awkwardly down the ladder beside him. The cool water raised goose bumps on his arms.

  “The purpose of these exercises is to adjust your leg to different forms of stress gradually,” Mr. Fulton explained.

  He showed Jerry each exercise. Then he waited to make sure Jerry had them right.

  At the end of the last one, Jerry clung to the edge of the pool with his fingertips while his body floated behind him just below the water.

  “Now,” Mr. Fulton went on, “do you have all the counts?”

  “I think so,” said Jerry. “I do fifty of these —” he demonstrated a kick under water. “Then I do fifty pushing with the other leg, the good one.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Fulton. “And then?”

  Jerry went down the complete list of pool exercises, which ended up with swimming a half dozen laps up and down the pool.

  “How long is all this going to take?” he asked.

  “About a half, maybe three-quarters of an hour,” said Mr. Fulton. “That should get you out of here before swimming practice begins. Even if some of the kids get here early and do a few extra laps, you won't be in the way.”

  “Oh, great,” Jerry mumbled.

  “What's that?” asked Mr. Fulton.

  “Nothing,” said Jerry. “Just thinking out loud.”

  “Never mind thinking,” said the coach. “Start those exercises.” He hoisted himself out of the pool and slipped into a pair of white rubber thongs. Toweling off, he pulled a gray Bolton sweatshirt over his head and left the pool area for his office next to the locker room.

  As soon as he was gone, Jerry let go and floated out toward the middle of the pool. Now that his body was used to the temperature, the water felt good.

  But not as good as sweating in the hot sun on a baseball diamond. Darn t
his leg, Jerry thought angrily. More exercises! And I still might not be ready for baseball season.

  Suddenly, a voice broke through his thoughts. “You'll never get that leg strong enough to do anything if you don't start doing your workout.” It was as if Bob Fulton had read his mind. Jerry hadn't heard him return to the pool area. He hastily paddled back to the edge of the pool and went to work.

  “Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight —”

  Jerry counted out loud, his voice echoing through the silence of the pool area. But before he had finished, excited calls and loud splashes told him he was no longer alone.

  “Hey, Fred, wanna see my new butterfly kick?”

  “How'd you do in the hundred yard?”

  “Don't forget to lift your head, Sally.”

  Just what I need, Jerry thought. A bunch of real swimmers watching me paddle back and forth. Well, the heck with them. I'm only here for therapy, anyhow.

  Still, he hesitated to start his laps. Their strokes looked so smooth.

  “Hi, Jerry,” came a voice nearby.

  It was Tanya Holman. They had known each other since kindergarten and were in the same class at school. Tanya had tucked her short, honey-blonde hair under a bathing cap. She had on a blue-and-white diagonally striped bathing suit. The others on the swimming team were wearing similar suits. Jerry had on his usual aloha print boxer-type swimming trunks. There was no mistaking him for a member of that team.

  “Hi, yourself,” he said. “I didn't know you swam — I mean, on the team.”

  “I haven't really made the first team yet,” she said. “But I'm trying. I baby-sat at the beach club last summer and practiced in their pool after work.”

  “But hasn't the season started?” he asked.

  “Uh huh. We've already won two meets — and lost two,” she said. “But sometimes people drop off for one reason or another. And Coach Fulton always knows who's ready to come in as a replacement.”

  With that, she dived into the green depths and began her laps.

  Anxious to get out of there, he got down to the same business himself. In his usual seaside fashion, he swam back and forth, paying no attention to anyone or anything. He did a nice, easy crawl that sliced neatly through the water. When he finished, he pulled himself up to the edge of the pool. To his surprise, he felt tired all over, and his leg ached. He sat for a moment to rest. Tanya swam up to him.