Lucky Seven Read online

  Jamie enjoyed the fuss they made over him. He could single out voices asking him to hit a home run—or just to pole one out somewhere. It was what they expected of him. Lots of them came just to see him hit. What a sad case it would be if he let them down!

  Bunt? Who ever heard of real hitters bunting? What was Ted thinking of, anyway?

  “C’mon, Jamie, ol’ boy! Hit that apple!”

  “Drive it over that fence, Jamie!”

  He stood at the plate and watched the first pitch come in, just cutting the outside corner. He let it breeze by.

  “Strike one!” called the umpire.

  The next pitch came in chest-high, where he liked ‘em. He stepped into it, cut viciously and heard the wood connect with a solid thud.

  Loud cheers filled the warm August air as Jamie rounded first. A thin smile tugged at the corners of his lips. From what he could judge by the feel of his bat against that ball, the ol’ pill was probably still going.

  Then a tremendous roar exploded from the stands. Jamie, racing toward second, glanced up. The centerfielder had made a sensational catch and was heaving the white sphere back toward the infield!

  Jamie’s heart sank.

  “Oh, you—” he said, stopping dead. He glanced at Artie Castner who had been on second. Artie had tagged up after the ball was caught and was tearing up the dirt for third. He arrived there safely. Jamie was thankful for that. At least his disobeying Ted’s orders had not made any difference. Ted had wanted Artie to get on third, and that’s where he was.

  “That was a good try, Jamie,” Ted Salin said coldly as he approached the dugout. “But I told you to bunt. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  “I guess I was trying to be smart,” Jamie answered contritely. He ducked under the roof of the dugout and squeezed in between Harold Jones and Petey McMinnis, second baseman and shortstop respectively.

  “Maybe this ball club’s too good to have a manager,” Ted said softly.

  Jamie crossed his arms and slouched down on the bench, still chewing the gum. Why should Ted be sore? He had advanced Artie, hadn’t he? Jamie shrugged. It was really a silly thing to argue about, he thought.

  He saw Steve Johnson get the signal from Ted before going to the plate. Steve was a tall, black-haired boy, usually a pretty good sticker.

  He laid the first pitch down, a perfect bunt. He dropped his bat and raced for first, while Artie Castner made a beeline for home. The Blackbirds’ pitcher fielded the ball and heaved it in. Artie slid, swirling dust up and around the plate.

  “Safe!” cried the man in blue.

  The run broke the tie. The Magpies went ahead, 4 to 3.

  Marty Abrams held the Blackbirds hitless in the next two frames and the Magpies tucked the game in the bag.

  On the bus going home Marty sat with Jamie. The boys had showered and changed into street clothes and now looked fresh.

  Marty said, “Ted’s pretty sore you didn’t listen to him. You should’ve seen his face when you cut at that ball instead of bunting.”

  “I guess I was wrong, not doing what he told me,” Jamie said, looking away from the window. “But you know, yourself, it was crazy to have me bunt. I’m a hitter, not a bunter.”

  “It isn’t that, Jamie,” Marty said quietly. “Ted’s manager, and he knows his stuff. He’s played a lot of ball.”

  “Well, I won’t worry about it,” replied Jamie confidently, turning back to the window. “He knows he can’t keep me out of a game.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Marty said.

  “Well, I am,” retorted Jamie stubbornly. He reached into his pocket for a fresh stick of gum, stripped the wrappings off it and poked it into his mouth.

  At game time Saturday afternoon, Jamie Wilcox got the surprise of his life. Ted Salin omitted him from the lineup. Dickie Stutz, the utility outfielder, was in his place.

  “How come I’m not playing, Ted?” Jamie asked the manager after gathering the nerve to approach him. Jamie just couldn’t figure it. He was the Magpie’s big gun at the plate.

  Ted’s blue eyes met his. His jaw squared. “I’m manager of this ball team, Jamie. When the season started every one of you asked me if I’d take the job. I said I’d be glad to, on the condition that nobody disputed my orders. You were one of the strongest in supporting that condition. Then last Thursday you hit when I told you to bunt. You’ve been playing good ball all season. All of you have, or we wouldn’t be fighting for the pennant. But you’ve got the idea in your head that you’re the star of the team, that you can do what you want. I don’t want that, Jamie. I don’t want any stars. I just want a good, fighting ball club with each man doing the best he can. A team that plays together and takes orders when I think they should be given.”

  He paused, as if waiting to see whether Jamie might have something to say. Jamie didn’t. There were too many things to think about.

  Jamie knew suddenly that Ted was right. Everything Ted said hit home. He truly hadn’t realized that the ball club had come pretty far since the season had started, and the reason for the players’ success had a lot to do with the way Ted had managed them.

  “Guess maybe you’re right, Ted,” Jamie finally said, the words barely squeezing past the lump in his throat.

  He turned and went to the dugout, feeling Ted’s look boring into his back. He half-hoped Ted might change his mind, but when the game started against the Bluejays Dickie Stutz was playing left field.

  The game got a slow start. Neither team scored until the third, when the lead-off man for the Magpies, Harold Jones, banged a double, followed by three singles in a row by Petey, Artie, and Steve Johnson. Steve was batting clean-up today.

  The game ended with the lopsided score: Magpies 11, Bluejays 3.

  Jamie, on the bench, had never suffered through a longer game in his life.

  The win placed the Magpies one game away from the pennant. It was now between them and the Catbirds, the only other team who had suffered just one defeat all season.

  The final game pitted the two top contenders and was played on a neutral diamond. What a terrible surprise it was to Jamie when he discovered that again Ted Salin had left him out of the lineup.

  He felt deeply hurt. Was Ted deliberately humiliating him in front of the team? And this—the big game of the year!

  He tried to be reasonable about it. Maybe Ted was right in doing this. Maybe Ted meant to show that a manager was there for a definite purpose and orders were given to be obeyed.

  The game got under way. Marty Abrams, on the mound for the Magpies, shot the ball in like a bullet and kept the Catbirds scoreless for the first two innings. In the bottom of the second Johnny Myers, the Magpies’ fleet-footed centerfielder, banged out a single. Kenny Schatz walked. Danny Myers, Johnny’s tow-headed brother, connected with a terrific double that brought in two runs. In the next inning they scored two more on errors.

  The fans went wild. The only person who felt glum was Jamie Wilcox, who sat with his arms crossed and chewed gum very slowly.

  Something surprising happened in the top of the third. It was as if the Catbirds had been playing possum all this while. They got to Marty and started hitting him all over the lot. No matter what he threw, they hit it.

  Ted took Marty out while they were still ahead, 4 to 3.

  Bernie Dingle, the tall, long-armed redhead who replaced Marty, wasn’t much more effective. The Catbirds scored three more runs before the Magpies could get them out.

  Score: Catbirds 6, Magpies 4.

  Artie led off with a walk in the bottom half of the third. Then Steve got a scratch hit, putting himself on first and Artie on second.

  Dickie Stutz was walking toward the plate when Ted’s voice boomed from the dugout: “Dickie, wait a minute!”

  Ted came over and looked at Jamie. A grin spread across his even white teeth. “All right, Jamie. You’re back in the game! Get up there and lay one down!”

  Jamie’s heart, rising in the knowledge he was back in the game
, hit rock bottom again at Ted’s last three words.

  “What—again?” he exclaimed.

  Ted laughed. “Again, Jamie. They’ll expect you to hit away. Only, we can’t take a chance of hitting into a double play. We’ve got to advance those runners. It’s a surprise attack, Jamie. We need it—and you can do it.”

  “Oh—all right!” Jamie said despairingly. “You’re the boss!”

  He sprang from the bench, picked up his favorite bat and strode to the plate.

  The pitch came in. His right hand slid down to the fat part of the bat.

  A beautiful bunt!

  The runners advanced one base. Jamie was thrown out at first, but that didn’t matter. Johnny Myers doubled and the ball game was tied up, 6-all.

  Both teams continued to play heads-up ball. The game remained deadlocked until the top of the sixth, when Artie flied out and Steve grounded to short for the second out.

  The crowd tensed. The Magpies’ fans were shouting for a hit, the Catbirds’ for a strikeout.

  Once again it was Jamie’s turn to bat. From behind he could hear his teammates urging him to send one out of the lot.

  “Hit it!” he heard Ted Salin say. “Hit it, Jamie!”

  He watched the first one breeze in. It was chest-high. He swung.

  He connected solidly and started running around the bases. The tremendous roar that exploded from the grandstand told him it was a home run.

  The Catbirds went down, one… two… three. The Magpies won, clinching the pennant.

  Ted Salin shook Jamie’s hand afterwards, holding it in both of his. “I figured you’d pull out that plum sooner or later!” he grinned.

  Jamie smiled warmly, sorry that he had ever thought Ted didn’t know what he was doing.

  “I guess sitting on the bench did me good!” he laughed.

  Stop That Puck!

  TIM COURTNEY braced himself in front of the net, his hockey stick gripped in both gloved hands. His eyes peered intently through the slot of his face guard. What a game! Nine to two in favor of the opponents, the Beavers. Good thing there were only a few minutes left in the game, or the Beavers would turn the game into the biggest slaughter the Bobcats had ever known.

  The Beavers’ speedy left forward, Monk Thomas, came skating toward the goal, dribbling the puck. Tim waited breathlessly. Chip Flint, the Bobcats’ strong left forward, glided in from Monk’s left side and tried to steal the puck. Monk passed to another Beaver. Before Tim could move, the puck sailed past his left skate into the net for another score.

  “Come on, Tim!” Chip yelled. “You’ve got to move faster than that!”

  Nobody had to tell Tim that. Of course he had to move faster. He just couldn’t, that’s all.

  He glanced at the clock. One minute and twenty seconds to go, plenty of time for the Beavers to score another point or two. A poor attitude to take, but that’s the way things were going. The Beavers were gnawing their way to a one-sided victory just because the Bobcats had a poor goalie.

  The face-off. The referee dropped the puck between the two centers. Chip stole it from the Beaver center and dribbled it across the Bobcats’ blue line. But a second later the ref blew his whistle. Fats Bailey, the Bobcats’ chubby right guard, was off side.

  A face-off in the Beavers’ attacking zone. Chip and a Beaver forward struggled for the puck. Chip got it again. He smacked it across the center line. Nobody got it. It struck the boards and glanced behind the Beavers’ goalie before a Beaver touched it.

  The referee’s whistle shrilled again. The official folded his arms, indicating the icing infraction, and the puck was brought back into the Bobcats’ defensive zone for another face-off.

  Left guard Jack Towns and a Beaver forward squared off for the puck. Their sticks clashed as they fought for control. Suddenly the puck skidded across the ice toward the net and Tim struck it with his stick, sending it against the boards at the right side.

  “Thataway, Tim! Nice Save!” shouted the fans.

  Oh, sure, he thought. Nice save, and we’re trailing 10 to 2. Was somebody being funny?

  The game finally ended, and he wished he could cut a hole in the ice and crawl into it. He skated to the locker room, hoping he wouldn’t be seen in the crowd. Yet he heard someone yell, “Tough luck, Tim! Get em’ the next time!”

  Coach Jim Higgs had little to say. “The Beavers were on today and we were off,” he said. “See you Tuesday night at practice. Are you going to make it, Tim?”

  Tim had avoided his eyes. Now he looked up. The coach was eyeing him. “I’ll try to,” he said.

  “You were at only one practice last week,” reminded Coach Higgs. “If you want to play, you’ll have to practice too, Tim. It’s not fair to the other boys.”

  Tim’s face colored. “I’ll be there,” he promised.

  The game was the topic at the supper table. Mom, Dad, and Janie, Tim’s younger sister, always attended the games and talked about them afterward. After a while the conversation changed to the skiing contest held on Berry Peak at the same time the Small Fry Hockey League played its games. Tim wished that he could have seen it.

  “Cathy Erickson won it, I heard,” said Janie. “Next week she’s competing in the finals.”

  “She ought to be good,” said Tim. “She practically lives on those skis.”

  Janie’s large brown eyes swung around to him. “Maybe if you’d practice more you’d be good too,” she said.

  The remark stung, and Tim made a face at her. “I was too busy to practice much last week, and anyway, why aren’t you in the skiing contest, competing against Cathy?” he snapped back at her.

  “I haven’t skied as long as she has, that’s why,” replied Janie. “But next year I will. You wait and see.”

  “Okay, kids,” said Mom, tapping a fork against the table top. “Better end it right here before things get any hotter.”

  “And melt both the ice and snow,” added Dad. Janie and Tim laughed, then looked at each other.

  “Well,” Tim admitted, “Janie’s right. I don’t practice enough.”

  The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Janie. She went to answer it and a moment later returned with a broad smile on her face. “It’s Uncle Al!” she cried happily. “He and Aunt Marge are coming over this Saturday!”

  “Good,” smiled Mom. She looked beyond Janie toward the phone. “Janie, is Uncle Al still on the phone?”

  “Oh, I forgot, he wants to talk to you, Daddy.”

  Tim looked at her and shook his head. What a crazy sister, he thought—forgetful, blunt and honest.

  Suddenly Janie’s words echoed and re-echoed in his mind. “Uncle Al and Aunt Marge are coming over this Saturday.” His spirits dropped. Why did they have to come this Saturday?

  Tim didn’t need a second guess. They were coming because Uncle Al wanted to see the Bobcats play hockey, or rather, he wanted to see Tim play hockey. He had been a hockey star in college, had played professional hockey for a few years, and still played it to keep in shape. One look at me as a goaltender and he’ll be ashamed to claim me as a nephew, Tim thought. Why did I ever start playing hockey, anyway? Why wasn’t I satisfied just to skate?

  When Tuesday rolled around Tim joined the practice session in the rink. The A Line played the B Line, with Tim playing for the A’s. Butch Sales tended goal for the B’s. After working out for half an hour, the lines rested. Butch, Tim noticed, was still at the net.

  “Come on, some of you guys!” Butch yelled. “Try to drive that little black puck by me! Just try to!”

  Chip grinned. “I think he wants to steal your job, Tim,” he said.

  “He can have it,” replied Tim.

  Chip stared at him. “What’s the matter? I thought you liked playing goalie.”

  “I did. I don’t anymore.”

  He still did, but he wasn’t going to admit it to Chip. He kept looking at Butch. What did Butch think he was going to do, anyway? Take over as first-string goalie? Talk about being slow—a snai
l could move faster than Butch!

  The Bobcats practiced the next two nights. Butch and Tim were there both times. After a hard half-hour workout, Butch was still there in front of the net, challenging the guys to try to drive the puck past him. He was improving a lot, too. Tim watched him, a doubtful smile on his lips. Butch was too tall, too awkward. He’d never make a really good goalie.

  Tim hated to see Saturday come. But it came, and so did Uncle Al and Aunt Marge.

  “Had to see the Bobcats play before the season ended,” said Uncle Al. “What’s your team’s record, Tim?”

  “Won three, lost four,” Tim answered soberly. “Nothing to brag about.”

  “Not bad. Win today and it’ll be even up.”

  “Yeah,” said Tim, not very enthusiastically.

  He telephoned Butch Sales just before noon. “Butch, I’m not feeling well. You want to tell Coach Higgs?”

  “Got a cold, Tim?”

  “I don’t know what it is,” said Tim.

  “Okay. I’ll tell the coach.”

  The game started at two o’clock. The seats around the rink were half-filled with hockey fans, mostly parents of the boys who played in the league. Tim was in uniform, but he was sitting on the bench. Butch Sales was playing goalie.

  A minute and ten seconds after face-off, the Tigers, the Bobcats’ opponents, punched in a goal. The puck had slid straight through Butch’s legs.

  I would have stopped that one, Tim told himself. Two minutes later, right after the B Line replaced the A Line on the ice, a Tiger socked in another goal.

  Tim squirmed. That was another goal he was sure he could have prevented.

  Chip scored a point. Then Butch managed to make a save that drew tremendous applause from the Bobcats’ fans. Hardly half a minute later a Tiger charged in with the puck and zipped it like a bullet past Butch for their third goal.