Two Strikes on Johnny Read online

  by Matt Christopher

  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

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT, ©, 1958, BY MATTHEW F. CHRSTOPHER

  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: 978-0-316-09609-6

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  To my wife

  Cay

  1

  “HEY, JOHNNY! Johnny Doane! You're up!”

  The words were like an alarm clock waking Johnny. He was looking at the baseball that Butchie Long had just hit between left and center fields. Butchie was running hard to first base. The man who was on first rounded second and was running for third.

  The Mudhens' left fielder picked up the ball, pegged it in. The shortstop caught it on a bounce, spun on his heel, and threw the ball to third. The third baseman touched the runner with the ball, but Davie Randall, the runner, was already on the bag. He was standing on it with both feet, his arms crossed, and a big smile on his dark, round face.

  “Safe!” said the ump.

  “Thataway, Butchie!” the gang on the bench yelled. “Thataway to hit that apple!”

  “Ducks on the pond, Johnny!” shouted a man sitting on the stand behind the backstop screen. “Knock 'em in!”

  Johnny knew that ducks on the pond meant men on bases. The man who had yelled was Mr. Greenfield, Buddy's father. Buddy was the left fielder for his team, the Cardinals. Johnny picked up his bat and looked toward the stand. Mr. Greenfield smiled at him and clapped his hands.

  Then Johnny looked across the empty spaces of the small grandstand at his younger brother Michael. Michael was sitting on the bottom seat directly behind home plate. He had thick blond hair and light blue eyes. A batch of freckles looked like pepper sprinkled around his little round nose. He was smiling and waving his right hand.

  Johnny waved and smiled back, even though Michael could not see him. Sand, the big shepherd dog lying on the grass at Michael's feet, lifted her long snout from her front paws and flopped her white tail.

  Johnny turned and walked to the batter's box. His stomach tightened into a knot. He did not have to stand in the box to find out what he was going to do. He knew already.

  Johnny stood on the left-hand side of the plate. He heard Butchie on second base and Buddy on third. They were leaning off the bags, yelling for him to hit the ball.

  The pitch came in. Johnny didn't know whether to swing or not. The ball was coming in low. Suddenly he swung, but he swung too late.

  “Strike!” yelled the masked umpire standing behind the catcher.

  “A nice single, Johnny! Just meet it!” It was Mr. Greenfield again.

  The catcher returned the ball to the pitcher. The pitcher stepped into the box, stretched, and threw. The pitch was fast. Johnny watched it with wide eyes. It was high. He was sure it was. And then suddenly he wasn't sure. The pitch looked shoulder-high and ready to cut the heart of the plate.

  But Johnny could not move his bat. He just stood there, the bat stuck on his shoulder.

  “Strike two!” yelled the ump.

  “Aw, come on, Johnny!” Buddy yelled from third. “Hit that pun'kin.”

  Even if it was a “pun'kin,” I couldn't hit it, thought Johnny. He felt choked up inside. He wished Michael had not come. He would not have felt so bad then. But Michael always wanted to come. He wanted to sit with Sand behind the backstop screen. He wanted to hear the teams shout, the crack of the bat as it hit the ball, the pounding of feet as the men raced around the bases. But most of all he wanted to hear Johnny hit the ball. Nothing counted half as much as what Johnny did.

  I have to swing this time, thought Johnny. If that ball is anywhere near the plate, I have to swing at it, and I must hit it. I must! Or Michael —

  Johnny brushed the thought of Michael out of his mind. He dug his feet into the dirt and gripped the handle of the bat with both hands.

  The pitch came in. It was wide. Johnny let it go by.

  “Ball one!” cried the umpire.

  Johnny tugged on the brim of his baseball cap, pulled up on the belt of his pants. He watched the pitch come in. If he could only smack the ball between the outfielders, it might go for a home run. Then he would really have something, to tell Michael.

  The ball came in chest-high. Johnny stepped into it, swung. Crack!

  The ball sailed almost straight up into the air, curved, and came down near second base. The second baseman for the Mudhens stood waiting under it. He caught it easily.

  Johnny ran all the way to first base. He saw the Mudhens drop their gloves and run in, and realized that he had made the third out.

  He bit down hard on his teeth and ran out to center field. He picked up his glove, turned, and looked across the long way to the stand. Michael had a big grin on his face and he was clapping his hands like crazy.

  He must have thought Johnny had gotten a hit.

  2

  THE first batter for the Mudhens hit a ground ball to short. Shortstop Stevie Little caught the ball on a bounce, whipped it to first. The ball was high and wide. First baseman Freddie Turner stepped off the bag, nabbed the ball, then touched the runner before he reached first.

  “Out!” yelled the base umpire.

  The second batter bunted a ball down to third. Davie Randall ran hard after it. He tried to field it, but he slipped on the grass and just sat there. He pounded the ball disgustedly against the ground, then rose to his feet. The batter was standing on first base, grinning.

  “Let's get a double, Davie!” Stevie Little yelled, pounding his fist into his glove.

  Davie motioned Butchie to play in closer at third. Then he stepped into the box, made his stretch, and threw. The batter stuck out his bat for a bunt. He missed.

  “Strike one!” said the umpire.

  The runner on first had started for second.

  “Marty! Throw it down!”

  The whole infield was yelling for Marty French to throw the ball to second. Marty was short and fat. He could hardly move with his mask, belly guard, and knee guards strapped on him. But Marty had a good arm. He heaved the ball down to second. Stevie Little covered the bag. He caught the ball. The runner slid, kicking up a cloud of dust. But Stevie tagged his ankle with the ball before his foot touched the bag.

  “Out!” shouted the umpire.

  There were two outs now. The next batter walked. The fourth batter took a called strike, then hit a long fly out to center field.

  Johnny saw that the ball was going over his head. He ran back, keeping his eye on it. The ball was dropping fast. It might go for a home run.


  Johnny ran harder. He raised his gloved hand as high as he could. Plop! The ball landed right inside the pocket of the glove and stuck there!

  Johnny stopped running. He could hear his teammates shouting his name.

  “Thataboy, Johnny! Nice catch!”

  “Thataway to go, Johnny, boy!”

  Johnny pegged the ball in to the pitcher's box. The inning was over.

  “Nice catch, Johnny!” Mr. Greenfield yelled from the stands. Johnny's eyes twinkled as he ran across the diamond toward the Cardinals' bench. “Thanks,” he said.

  He looked at Michael. Michael was smiling happily and Sand was thumping her tail.

  “Thataboy, Johnny,” Michael said.

  Johnny blinked his eyes. “Thanks, Michael,” he answered. He went and sat on the bench.

  “What inning is this?” he asked Manager Davis, who was keeping score. Manager Davis was tall, wore orange-rimmed glasses and a sweat shirt.

  “Last of the third, Johnny,” he said.

  “What's the score?”

  “The Mudhens have three, we have one. You guys had better get some hits. Can't win without hits, you know.”

  Mickey Bonzell, the right fielder for the Cardinals, was first batter. He swung at two wild pitches, then waited until the count was two and two. Then he swung at one that was so low it almost hit the plate.

  “You're out!” said the umpire.

  Mickey turned and walked sadly back to the bench.

  Peter Jergens, the second baseman, was up next. He was the lead-off man in the line-up because he was the shortest man on the team. He was walked most of the time.

  The Mudhens' pitcher tried his best to put over a strike. The first three pitches were either too high or too wide. Then, “Strike one!” said the umpire.

  Everybody on the Cardinals' bench groaned.

  The next pitch was high again. Peter walked.

  Stevie Little hit a pop fly to second, then Buddy Greenfield pounded a line drive to left field. The fielder caught the ball on the first hop, threw it to third. Peter dashed to second.

  Marty French took off his equipment and picked up a bat. His pumpkin-round face and his clothes were covered with sweat and dirt. He was grinning.

  “Watch me,” he said. “I'll murder that ball. I'll plunk it out into that next cow pasture.”

  He took the first pitch for a called strike. Then he swung at a pitch and hit it Solid. The ball climbed high into the air, sailed over the center fielder's head. The Cardinals jumped off the bench and yelled as Marty rounded first, then second, then third.

  “Run! Run!” shouted the coach at third.

  “Faster, Marty! Faster!”

  Marty puffed like a tired engine going uphill as he raced for home.

  “Where's my bicycle?” he shouted.

  Everybody laughed. The Mudhens' third baseman caught the throw-in, turned, and whipped the ball to the catcher.

  “Slide, Marty! Slide!” somebody yelled.

  Marty slid. The catcher tagged him, but not in time.

  “Safe!” shouted the umpire.

  Marty climbed to his feet, walked out of the cloud of dust, and shook his head.

  “That was lucky,” he said. “I told you I should have had my bicycle!”

  Johnny Doane smiled. Marty made everybody feel like smiling. He was always cracking jokes. He couldn't run fast, because he had a lot of weight to carry. But he could hit. Johnny wished he could hit like Marty. Then he would not have to tell those little white lies to Michael.

  Oh, he didn't want to tell Michael those white lies. Not really. But Michael was sure that Johnny was a good hitter. After each game Johnny kept telling him how well he had hit the ball, and Michael believed him. Now Michael thought that Johnny was the best hitter on the team.

  How far from the truth that was!

  Marty's home run had scored Peter and Buddy, which made the score 4–3 in favor of the Cardinals. There were two outs and nobody on base.

  Pitcher Davie Randall came to bat and hit a line drive to short. The shortstop caught it, ending the inning.

  The Mudhens knocked in two runs in their top of the fourth inning.

  First baseman Freddie Turner led off for the Cardinals at their turn at bat and singled with a grounder between first and second. Butchie Long made first on an error by the Mudhens' shortstop. Freddie stopped on second.

  With men on first and second and none out, Johnny Doane came to bat. His teammates started to cheer for him again and he could hear Mr. Greenfield telling him just to meet the ball, not kill it. Mr. Green field, of course, meant for him not to swing too hard.

  But how could a guy hit a ball way out into the field if he didn't swing hard?

  Johnny let the first pitch go by.

  “Ball one!” said the ump.

  The next pitch was going to cut the heart of the plate. Johnny swung hard. Swish!

  “Strike!” said the ump.

  Johnny wished that there weren't men on bases. Maybe he could hit if the bases were empty.

  Johnny swung again. Tick! A foul tip to the catcher. Strike two.

  The next pitch was wild. The ball sailed over the catcher's head, hit the backstop screen. Both runners advanced one base each.

  The count now was two and two. Johnny waited. Maybe he would walk. The bases would then be loaded. But Mickey Bonzell was up next. And Mickey was a poor hitter, too.

  The pitch came in. Johnny stepped into it, took his bat off his shoulder. The ball was high. He didn't swing.

  “Ball three!” yelled the ump.

  Three and two. Johnny was nervous. The next pitch was the one that counted. He hoped it would be a ball.

  The ball zipped in. Johnny saw it coming nicely toward the plate. He gripped his bat hard, stepped into the pitch, and swung.

  Crack! The ball bounded to the pitcher, struck the tip of his glove, and rolled toward first! The pitcher scampered after it.

  Johnny raced for first. His foot hit the bag just a second before the baseman caught the throw from the pitcher.

  “Safe!” cried the base umpire.

  Johnny circled to the right, came back, and stood on the bag. Freddie Turner had scored, and Butchie Long was on third.

  Well, maybe the pitcher had made an error, but a run had come in, anyway. The score was tied now, 5 and 5.

  Johnny looked back and saw Michael smile and clap his hands.

  I wonder if he really knows what kind of a hit that was, Johnny thought, and shook his head sadly.

  3

  MICKEY BONZELL popped out to –.VI the pitcher. Lead-off man Peter Jergens came up and hit a grounder to second. Butchie Long darted for home.

  The Mudhens' second baseman caught the ball on a hop, tossed it to the shortstop. The shortstop touched second, whipped the ball to first.

  A double play!

  The Cardinals ran out to the field and the Mudhens came to bat. They scored run, which put them ahead, 6 to 5.

  Stevie Little led off for the Cardinals in the last inning. He grounded out to short. Buddy Greenfield got a single. Marty French hit another long one to left field, but this time the fielder caught it. Then Davie came to bat. He struck out and the game was over.

  The teams collected their bats and balls and other equipment and started for their homes. Mr. Davis took some of the boys home in his Jeep station wagon.

  Johnny took Michael's hand as they walked home. On the other side of Michael walked Sand. Sand was a big dog. Her white and sand-colored fur was thick and shiny. She had a green collar with her name and license number on it. A green leash was fastened to the collar. Michael had hold of the leash.

  Michael's pale blue eyes were looking straight ahead. He was smiling. “Did you win, Johnny?” he asked.

  “No. We lost.”

  “Did you get any home runs?”

  Johnny swallowed. “Almost,” he said. “I almost got a home run.”

  “What was it — a three-bagger?”

  “Yes. Th
at's what it was — a three-bagger.”

  Michael's smile grew wider. “How far did you hit the ball, Johnny?”

  “Between left and center fields. A line drive. I sure clouted it. A little farther and it would've been a homer.”

  “Jimminies,” said Michael. “You always hit, don't you, Johnny?”

  “Almost always,” said Johnny softly. “It's hard to hit all the time.”

  “But you hit most of the time. I know you do. That's what you've told me.”

  “That's right. I hit most of the time.”

  Suddenly a hum sounded in the distance. It grew loud quickly. Johnny looked toward the blue and white sky. A large silver plane came flying over the hill almost directly overhead. It was so low Johnny could see the windows and the numbers under the right wing. The plane had taken off from the Municipal Airport, which was about three miles from Johnny's house.

  “I bet it's a DC-3!” Michael shouted. “Is it,. Johnny?”

  “That's right. It is,” said Johnny. He was glad to get off the subject of baseball. “You can tell what they are pretty good now, can't you?”

  “Yes. The DC-3's are not as loud as the DC-4's. They don't have as much power, Daddy said.”

  “That's right,” said Johnny.

  They lived in a gray house with a green carpet of lawn around it. A lilac bush grew near one corner of the house. Its pretty leaves and purple flowers waved back and forth in the summer breeze.

  “Hi, Mom,” Johnny greeted as he entered the kitchen. “Is supper ready yet?”

  Mrs. Doane was paring potatoes at the kitchen sink. She had blond hair like Michael's, but her eyes and nose were like Johnny's.

  “Not quite,” she said. She stared at Johnny. “My! Look at that face! You'd better take a bath, young man.”

  Johnny grinned. “I will, Ma.”

  “Did you have a good time, Michael?”

  “I sure did, Morn.” Michael's face lit up brightly. “Johnny hit a three-bagger. It was almost a homer.”

  “Johnny's a good ball player,” said Mrs. Doane. “Now, Michael, why don't you and Sand go outside for a while until Johnny gets cleaned up?”