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  But I want to pitch, Jimmie told himself. We’re only going to play one game a week. There won’t be enough games for two pitchers. Can’t Paul understand that?

  There were footsteps behind him. Jimmie turned. Tiny Zimmer was coming down the cemented alleyway, a big grin on his moon-shaped face.

  “Hi, fellas,” he said.

  “Hi, Tiny,” Jimmie murmured. “Where’s Paul?”

  “Home.” The grin on Tiny’s face widened. “I have some news for you guys. Paul isn’t going to play with the Planets. He’s going to play with us. The Red Rockets.”

  5

  Jimmie went home. He kicked a stone in the driveway. He banged the toe of his shoe against the first step that led to the porch. Why did Paul have to play with the Red Rockets? Why?

  He went inside. His mother was in the kitchen, mending a pair of Ervie’s pants.

  “What’s the matter, Jimmie?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” said Jimmie. He went into the living room. Ervie was playing with his toy stagecoach on the thick rug.

  “Hi, Jimmie,” he said. “Will you play with me?”

  “Not now.”

  Jimmie turned away and headed for his room. He could feel Ervie’s eyes on his back.

  He sat on his bed and thought about Paul Karoski. Paul and he were such great buddies. They were like brothers. They had always played together, ever since they were old enough to walk. Sure, they would get mad at each other once in a while. Who didn’t? But it never lasted long.

  How could Paul do that? Jimmie thought. How could Paul turn his back on him, and on the Planets, to play on another team?

  Jimmie swallowed an ache in his throat and wiped his eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Jimmie?” a voice said softly behind him.

  Ervie had come in so quietly Jimmie had not heard him.

  “Nothing,” he said. He went to his desk and yanked out a drawer. He took out two sheets of heavy yellow paper and a box of crayons.

  He tried to think of something to draw. But his mind was filled with thoughts of Paul. Without Paul the Planets would not amount to anything. He could hit. He could run. And if anything ever happened to Jimmie, he could pitch.

  Well, thought Jimmie angrily, let him pitch for the Red Rockets! I don’t care!

  He pulled the drawer out again and shoved the paper and box of crayons back into it. Then he rose and put an arm around Ervie’s shoulder.

  “Come on, Ervie,” he said. “I’ll play with you.”

  6

  The Planets couldn’t practice the next afternoon. It rained off and on and the field was too wet. Thursday morning though, the sun came out nice and bright. By afternoon the field was dry.

  The team gathered at the field. They played catch for a while. Some of the boys talked about Paul.

  “Why did he quit?” one of them asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s going to pitch for the Red Rockets, that’s why.”

  “The Red Rockets? He belongs to us, doesn’t he?”

  “He doesn’t have to. He can belong to any team he wants to.”

  Jimmie pretended he didn’t hear them. He wished that they would stop talking about Paul. After all, he was their pitcher. Once he got going, he’d be even better than Paul. Just wait and see.

  Mr. Nichols arrived. He was wearing a blue baseball cap and a sweatshirt. He looked like a real manager now.

  “Hi, boys!” His gray eyes sparkled as he looked at the faces. “Where’s Paul Karoski?” he asked.

  “He joined the Red Rockets,” Wishy said. “We’re going to miss him. He was a good player.”

  “He was the best pitcher we had,” Johnny Lukon said.

  “We don’t need a good pitcher,” Wishy said. “Jimmie can pitch as well as anybody. What we need are hitters.” Jimmie looked at Wishy and felt a little better that somebody was on his side.

  “Well, Jimmie Todd can be our pitcher,” Mr. Nichols said. “I think that after some practice he’ll be just as good as Paul Karoski. Let’s hope he’ll be better!”

  Some of the boys laughed. Jimmie felt like smiling himself.

  Yet he wished that Paul was playing with them. It wasn’t right that Paul should play with another team. He belonged here—with the Planets.

  “Let’s have batting practice,” Mr. Nichols suggested. “Jimmie, take these three balls and get on the mound. Some of you boys pull that batting cage closer to the plate.”

  The cage was moved up.

  “Johnny, Alan, and Billy,” Mr. Nichols said, “you three can start to bat. Hit five and lay one down. Okay, Jimmie! Throw ’em in there!”

  Jimmie stood on the rubber, made his windup, and threw the ball. Mr. Nichols, standing behind the batting cage, watched him. The pitch was wide. Johnny let it go by.

  “Outside!” Mr. Nichols said.

  Jimmie picked up another ball, wound up, and threw.

  “Too high!” Mr. Nichols said.

  The next pitch hit the dirt in front of the plate.

  The manager gathered up the three balls and tossed them back to Jimmie. “Come on, Jimmie, boy. Take your time. Get ’em over.”

  Jimmie was careful with the next pitch. He didn’t throw it hard. It went over the plate. Johnny swung at it and the ball sailed out to left field. The next pitch was low, but it came in easy, and Johnny swung again. He missed. “Come on! Throw ’em in here, will you?” Johnny cried.

  “I wish Paul was pitching for us,” Alan Warzcak murmured softly, but loud enough for Jimmie to hear. “He puts ’em all over.”

  “I know,” Billy Hutt said. “We used to have fine batting practice when he was pitching!”

  “All right, boys. Enough of that,” Mr. Nichols cautioned. “Come on, Jimmie. Take your time, boy. You’ll get ’em in there.”

  But Jimmie couldn’t get them in there. After a while, Mr. Nichols went out to the mound himself and pitched.

  7

  They practiced all the next week. First they had batting practice, then Mr. Nichols would hit balls to the infielders and outfielders. While Mr. Nichols did that, Jimmie practiced pitching.

  He had learned to throw a drop. He was proud of it. Now, if he could only get his fast throws over the plate …

  At the Friday afternoon practice Mr. Nichols called the boys together.

  “I’ve scheduled a game with the Pirates for tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Everybody be here at one-thirty. I’ll try to get a couple more games before the league starts so that we won’t plunge into it cold.”

  Jimmie was up bright and early Saturday morning. After breakfast he went to Mose Solomon’s house. Mose’s mother came to the door and said that Mose was still in bed.

  “Who’s that, Ma?” Mose’s voice came from somewhere upstairs.

  “Jimmie Todd!” she called back. She smiled at Jimmie. “I guess he wasn’t asleep. Just lying there. You want to come in and wait for him?”

  “Thank you,” said Jimmie.

  After Mose washed, dressed, and ate his breakfast, he brought his mitt and played catch with Jimmie.

  “Give me a target,” Jimmie said.

  Mose held his mitt in front of his left shoulder until Jimmie could put a ball in that spot. Then he’d change it to his right shoulder and then in front of his chest. The ball seemed to go everywhere but where Mose held the mitt.

  “Come on, Jimmie. Come on,” Mose said encouragingly.

  “I’m trying!” cried Jimmie.

  After a while he became tired. “Let’s quit,” he said. “I’ve still got to pitch this afternoon.”

  As the hour of the game drew near, Jimmie’s stomach tightened into knots. He wanted so much to be a pitcher, but he wasn’t doing too well. If he only had control …

  He walked a man in the first inning. The next man singled, sending the runner to third. Jimmie stood on the rubber and looked at the two fingers Mose held below his mitt. Mose was signaling for a curve ball.

  Jimmie’s hands trembled. No one w
as out, and already two men were on. One was in scoring position. Everybody was looking at Jimmie. They were waiting to see what he could do.

  “He’ll walk you!” a voice shouted from the grandstand. “Just stand there with your bat on your shoulder, Mike!”

  His heart thumped in his chest. Perspiration covered his face. There seemed to be too much going on. People were shouting. … Mose was giving him a target …. The infielders were talking it up …. Two men were on bases …. He tried to think about everything at once.

  He wound up. The runner on third took a big lead. Jimmie stopped his windup, whipped the ball to third. The boy ran back. Alan Warzcak tagged him before his foot touched the bag.

  “Balk!” shouted the umpire, who stood behind Jimmie.

  Jimmie was startled. He looked at Mr. Nichols, sitting in the dugout. Mr. Nichols nodded.

  “You can’t throw a ball to a base once you’ve started to wind up,” the umpire said. “Never wind up with men on base. They can steal on you. Okay, kid!” he said to the runner on third. “Take the base!” He turned to the runner on first. “Go to second!”

  Mr. Nichols trotted out to the mound. He put an arm around Jimmie’s shoulder. “You’re all nerved up, Jimmie. Relax. Take it easy. This is just a scrub game. About that windup and throw when a runner’s on base—do you understand it now?”

  “Yes,” Jimmie murmured.

  “Okay.” Mr. Nichols patted him on the shoulder and grinned. “Just let ’em hit it.”

  The Pirates scored three runs in the first inning. The Planets tied it in the second. The third inning went by scoreless. In the fourth Jimmie walked two men in a row, and the next man hit a homer that put the Pirates way ahead again. The Pirates made two more runs in the fifth, and there the game ended. Score—8 to 3.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Nichols said as the boys gathered their bats and gloves and headed sadly for home. “We have a good team. Once Jimmie finds that plate, nobody will beat us.”

  Jimmie kept his eyes straight ahead. I’ll find it, he thought. I have to find it, or we might as well not join the league.

  8

  The Planets played a game Tuesday afternoon against the Mohawks. Jimmie felt a little more confident before the game began. He had practiced a lot. His control was improving. Mr. Nichols said so himself.

  The first two innings went by without a man reaching first base. Lou Rodell, the Planets’ shortstop, hit a grounder to short in the top of the third inning. The Mohawks’ shortstop caught it and threw it over the first baseman’s head. Lou ran to second on the play.

  Jimmie stepped to the plate. He batted fifth in the batting order. He pulled his helmet down tight on his head, gripped his bat near the end of the handle, and dug his toes into the dirt.

  The ball came in. It was low. Jimmie let it go by.

  “Ball!” cried the umpire.

  The catcher threw the ball back to the pitcher. Jimmie waited again. The pitcher stretched his hands high, brought them down. He looked over his shoulder at the runner on second, then threw the ball toward the plate.

  It came in chest-high. It looked like a strike. Jimmie stepped into it. He swung. Crack! The ball sailed toward left center field. Lou scored. Jimmie rounded second, then third.

  “Go! Go!” yelled Mr. Nichols, who was coaching third.

  Jimmie ran like a deer. He crossed the plate for a home run!

  “Thataboy, Jimmie!” Wishy Walters shouted. “Win your own ball game!”

  The homer made Jimmie feel good. They were ahead now—2 to 0. If they could just hold that lead …

  Kippy Lake flied out to center. Wishy struck out. George Bardino popped a fly to the pitcher. Three outs in six pitched balls. Boy, that was quick, thought Jimmie.

  The Planets ran out onto the field.

  Jimmie pitched. “Ball!” said the umpire.

  “Ball two!”

  “Strike!”

  “Ball three!”

  “Ball four! Take your base!”

  Jimmie trembled. He couldn’t walk any more men. He couldn’t. …

  He stretched, pitched. The batter held out his bat. He bunted the ball down the third base line. Jimmie raced after it. He picked it up, made a motion to throw to second. Too late there! He heaved it to first.

  “Out!” yelled the base umpire.

  But throwing out the man didn’t help Jimmie’s control. He became wilder and wilder. He walked in runs. When he came to bat, he didn’t feel like hitting. He wished the ball game was over. He wished they would call it off.

  Mr. Nichols talked with the Mohawks’ manager during the fourth inning. Then he came to the dugout and said:

  “This is the last inning, boys. At the rate we’re going, we’ll be playing all day.”

  The Mohawks won, 14 to 4.

  Jimmie walked home with Ervie. The rest of the team paired off by themselves.

  “You lost, didn’t you?” Ervie said.

  “Yes,” said Jimmie. “The Mohawks swamped us. But we’ll win the next one,” he added quickly. “You wait and see.”

  He thought of Paul Karoski. If Paul played with the Planets, things would be different. He’d feel more like playing if Paul was on the team.

  He missed Paul a lot. He missed Paul’s nice, quiet manners. He missed Paul’s coming over to watch television with him. Paul used to come almost every day, and Jimmie would go to visit him, too. Even Mrs. Todd missed him. Every once in a while she asked about him.

  “Do you think the Planets are good enough to play in the Grasshoppers League, Jimmie?” Ervie asked in his easy, quiet way.

  Jimmie looked at him, startled. “Why? Don’t you think so, Ervie?”

  Ervie was younger than he. He couldn’t know very much about it. But deep in his heart Jimmie knew that whatever Ervie said meant a lot to him.

  “No,” Ervie replied. “I don’t. The Planets aren’t going to win any games. They don’t have a good—I mean—” Ervie paused.

  “They don’t have a good what, Ervie?” Jimmie said, and held his breath.

  Ervie’s eyes met his squarely. “They don’t have a good pitcher, that’s why!”

  9

  The following Friday, at the supper table, Mr. Todd said, “I’m going fishing in the morning. How’d you like to come along, Jimmie?”

  Jimmie’s heart leaped. “Sure! Where are we going, Dad?”

  “To Spring Lake. The boys at the shop say the pikes are really biting.”

  Jimmie clapped his hands. “Oh, boy! We haven’t fished in weeks, have we, Dad?”

  “Last time was about a month ago,” Mr. Todd said with a smile.

  They were up at five o’clock the next morning. Mrs. Todd made a basket of sandwiches, a quart thermos of coffee for Dad, and a pint thermos of milk for Jimmie.

  “Why don’t you come along, Mom?” Jimmie asked.

  “What—and leave Ervie home?” She smiled and pulled his ear. “No, never mind. We’ll plan a picnic soon for the whole family. I’m not much of a fisherman, anyway.”

  Mr. Todd rented a boat at a place called Kam’s Boat Landing. The boat was equipped with a motor. He and Jimmie put their fishing gear into the boat and chugged out to where the lake was smooth as glass and deep.

  They baited their hooks with minnows that Mr. Todd had bought at the landing. Jimmie baited his own hook. His father had taught him how to do it. Then they cast their lines into the water and sat there and waited for the fish to bite.

  Seagulls flew in the still air around them. A crow cawed in the distance. Once in a while the sun peeked through a crack in the gray clouds.

  Jimmie grew restless. They had sat here all morning and they hadn’t caught a fish yet.

  “What happened to all the fish those men were talking about, Dad?” he asked.

  His father grinned. “I don’t know. They must have seen us coming and swum off. What’s the matter? Getting tired?”

  “Well—kind of.”

  “Have a sandwich,” his father suggested.
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  Jimmie took a sandwich out of the basket and poured himself a glass of milk. He liked this part of it. It was fun to eat out here in the boat. His father ate too, but steadily watched his line.

  Another half hour dragged by.

  Jimmie straightened his back, stretched his arms, and yawned. “We’re not going to catch any fish, Dad,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  “Now, hold your horses,” said Mr. Todd. “We’re not going home yet. Let’s try another spot.”

  They tried another spot. It didn’t seem any better.

  “I’m getting tired, Dad,” Jimmie murmured.

  “Yes, I know. And impatient, too.”

  Just then the red and white bobber on Jimmie’s line plunged down into the water! Jimmie gripped the rod.

  “I caught one, Dad! I caught one!” he cried excitedly.

  He wound the reel and felt the fish fight on the end of the line. He wondered what it was. It felt like a big one.

  Finally, a long wriggling fish leaped from the water.

  “A pike!” Mr. Todd shouted. “And a beauty, at that!”

  Mr. Todd grabbed the leader, removed the pike from the hook, and dropped it, still wriggling, into the creel.

  “See?” he said. “Isn’t this catch worth all that time you spent waiting?”

  Jimmie’s heart throbbed. He grinned happily. “It sure is!” he said.

  “Patience,” Mr. Todd said. “It’s an important thing in fishing. It’s the same in baseball or anything else. When you want something, you have to keep at it. But you can’t be in a hurry. Suppose I had become discouraged earlier the way you did and wanted to quit? We would’ve gone home with nothing. That would be a fine way to greet Mom, wouldn’t it?”

  Jimmie smiled. “I guess you’re right, Dad,” he said.

  10

  They had fish for supper. Mr. Todd had caught two, right after Jimmie had caught his, so there was plenty to go around.

  Early in the evening Jimmie began to think about Paul again. Lots of times on Saturday nights Paul would come and watch television with him. Sometimes his mother and father would come, too. Now it was more than two weeks since Paul had been here.