Shortstop from Tokyo Read online

  A grounder sizzled like a scared snake down to short. Stogie watched intently as Sam crouched, waiting for it. Miss it! Miss it! Stogie couldn’t help wishing silently.

  Sam caught the wild grounder and pegged it to first. His throw was like a tight string drawn across the diamond, incredible for a little guy.

  “Look at that arm!” exclaimed Coach Dirkus. “The kid can really throw!”

  Stretch chalked up a strikeout. Another hot grounder to Sam, which he caught easily and pegged to first for an out, ended the half inning. The scoreboard at the left of the left field foul line read:

  Innings 1 2 3 4 5 6

  MOHAWKS 2 0 3 1

  C HEADS 1 2 0 2

  Daren Holden singled for Bernie Drake in the top of the fifth. Tony Francis followed with another single. Then Stretch came through with a double, scoring Daren and advancing Tony to third. Russ popped up to the pitcher. Then Lee Cragg blasted a line drive to short and the shortstop picked off Stretch at second before he could tag up. Three away.

  The Copperheads picked up a run in the bottom of the fifth. But the Mohawks, even though Sam Suzuki got his second hit of the game, a double, couldn’t score. The Copperheads, at bat for their last chance, failed to hit. One of their outs was a pop fly on the grass far behind Sam. He ran back and caught the ball on the fingertips of his glove, drawing a tremendous cheer from the crowd. Mohawks 7, Copperheads 6.

  “Sam certainly played a wonderful ball game,” said Jill, Stogie’s older sister. “I didn’t know they played baseball in Japan.”

  “Huh!” Stogie snorted. “They probably play more baseball than we do. They draw bigger crowds, that’s for sure. Haven’t you ever heard about our big league teams going over there and playing their teams?”

  “When I read the sports pages I read about our girls’ softball team, not about big league teams playing in Japan,” said Jill haughtily.

  Dad chuckled. He and Mom were walking behind Stogie, Jill, Beak and Fuzzy. “Tell you one thing about Sam Suzuki,” he said. “He’s an all-around baseball player. He can hit, throw and field like nobody’s business. And being among strangers his first day didn’t seem to bother him a bit.”

  Fuzzy laughed. “Bother him? I guess not! I’ve never seen a kid like him in my life!”

  An hour later someone knocked on the back door. Jill answered it. “Stogie!” she called. “It’s Beak and Sam.”

  Beak and Sam? Stogie went to the door.

  “Hi,” he said, not too enthusiastically. Then he saw their gloves. Play baseball again? They’d just finished a game!

  “Hi!” greeted Sam, smacking the pocket of his glove with a small fist. “Like to play pepper?”

  Beak grinned. “He came over to my house and asked if I’d come here so’s the three of us can play hit and catch,” said Beak. “I told him we called it ‘pepper.’”

  Stogie thought about it a minute. He really wasn’t keen about playing pepper. He’d been reading a sports book and was at an interesting section. But since Sam had asked Beak to come over, Stogie knew he should be decent to him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get my bat.”

  Sam’s face lit up like a lamp. “Good!” he exclaimed happily.

  Stogie got his bat and they played in the backyard. The boys stood with their backs to the woods behind them. The woods extended high up into the hills, the northern border of Westport. The city was small, but had a college attended by students from all over the world. Surrounding the city were the woods, and every once in a while a deer, a raccoon, a porcupine, or some other wild animal would be seen roaming a street, though never was one of them caught.

  “What does your father do?” Stogie asked as he knocked a slow grounder down to Sam.

  “He is a professor at Westport College,” replied Sam. “He won a fellowship from the university in Tokyo.”

  “Then you’re not going to be in the United States very long?” Stogie asked almost hopefully.

  “One year.”

  “You speak pretty good English,” remarked Beak. “Been taking it in school?”

  “Oh, sure! Been in United States one year before, too. I want to talk English very well.”

  Sam’s next pitch was too far inside. Stogie jumped back and swung, striking the underside of the ball. It popped high and at an angle behind him. He spun and saw it head straight for a side window of the house next door. The Bunningers! Two people who hated the sight of baseballs, footballs, bowling balls, or anything else that was round and connected with sports!

  Smash! The ball sailed through the window, shattering it to pieces.

  Stogie stood frozen on the spot.

  4

  THE BACK DOOR of the Bunninger swung open as if a strong wind had blown it. A tall man in shirt sleeves and baggy pants burst out on the porch, his red face matching his glaring eyes.

  “Scalawagging devils!” he shouted, the white strands of hair on his shiny scalp standing almost straight up. “Know what you’ve done? You didn’t only break that window! You smashed a vase too! A vase over a hundred years old!”

  “S-s-s-sorry, M-Mr. B-Bunninger!” stammered Stogie.

  “Sorry?” Mr. Bunninger waggled like a duck down the steps, holding the baseball in his hand. “That doesn’t pay for a window! That doesn’t pay for a vase Mrs. Bunninger’s grandmother left her! Darn scalawagging …! You know what oughta be done with every baseball in these here United States? Put into a big cannon and shot at those Communists, that’s what! Whoever invented the dang game oughta be tied to a stake and burned!”

  “It’s too late,” said Beak softly. “He’s dead.”

  Mr. Bunninger stopped at the fence and stared at him. “Who’s dead?”

  “Abner Doubleday,” answered Beak. “He’s the guy who invented baseball.”

  “Oh? You even know the guy who invented the game, do you?” Mr. Bunninger’s voice rasped as if his vocal chords were lined with sandpaper. “Well, that don’t cut no ice! Somebody’s still carrying on his lousy tradition! Baseball! This is proof, ain’t it? This is proof it’s a dangerous sport! Just like football, basketball, soccer and the whole shootin’ match of ’em! No wonder this country’s goin’ to the dogs!”

  Suddenly he looked directly at Sam Suzuki. The flames in his eyes died a little. “Who are you? Never seen you before.”

  “Sam Suzuki.” Sam, who had looked pretty frightened throughout Mr. Bunninger’s long speech, cracked a weak smile.

  “Sam Suzuki? Live in Westport?”

  Sam’s head bobbed.

  “Since when?”

  “Since two weeks ago. My father is a professor at the college.”

  “Oh. Where did you come from? China? Japan? Korea?”

  Sam chuckled. “Tokyo, Japan.”

  A smile smothered the flames altogether in Mr. Bunninger’s eyes. “Tokyo, huh? Always wanted to visit Tokyo. Beautiful city. Big, loaded with temptations.”

  The boys stared at him. Sam hauled out his Japanese-American pocket dictionary. “Tem what?” he asked.

  Mr. Bunninger laughed. “Forget it.” Then his eyes went back to the baseball in his hand and he stopped laughing. His sandpapery voice became serious again. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise you won’t spill it to my wife. Promise?”

  Sam returned the dictionary to his pocket, obviously disappointed that Mr. Bunninger had refused to repeat the word.

  “Promise,” said Stogie.

  “You’ll have to pay for the window,” said Mr. Bunninger sharply. “Might be five bucks. I don’t know. Maybe less, maybe more. The vase — now, that’s different. This is the secret I want you to keep. Spill it to Mrs. Bunninger and I’ll keep after you three till I track you down and tan your backsides till they’re blistered.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m glad the accident happened, hear? That vase was the ugliest piece of furniture we had in the house. I’ve been trying to think of ways to get rid of it ever since we’ve been married. Point is, she admitted it wasn’
t the prettiest object of art in the world, herself, but she wouldn’t get rid of it because it was a family heirloom.”

  Stogie sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “But what’re you going to tell your wife when she sees the broken vase, Mr. Bunninger?”

  “Tell her the truth. What else? Sure, she’ll be mad. But I’ll tell her I bawled you out good and proper. And I did, didn’t I?”

  “You sure did!” said Sam elatedly.

  Mr. Bunninger’s eyes hopped from one boy to the other like Ping-Pong balls. The fierceness had returned to them. Without saying another word, he pivoted and started back towards his house.

  “Mr. Bunninger,” Stogie called. “You still have our baseball.”

  The old man paused, looked at the ball, then tossed it across the fence. “Can’t see what fun you kids get out of baseball. Can’t see it at all. Don’t forget that window. I’ll get it fixed and give you the bill.”

  “Yes, sir,” promised Stogie.

  After Mr. Bunninger disappeared into the house Stogie looked at Sam. “I’ll pay for it,” he said.

  “No. Me. I will pay for the window. I threw the ball wide. It was my mistake.”

  “But I hit it,” argued Stogie. “I should pay for it.”

  “Tell you what,” intervened Beak. “The three of us will pay for it. We were all playing so we should all pay.”

  Sam and Stogie looked at each other. Sam grinned and Stogie shrugged. “It’s settled,” announced Beak.

  Jill appeared at the door, carrying a tray with three tall glasses on it. “Lemonade, anyone?”

  “It’s funny,” said Beak. “I was just hoping someone would come and say, ‘Lemonade, anyone?’”

  They sat on the lawn and drank and talked about the Bunningers. Then Sam told about his life in Japan and about the Yomiuri Giants, his favorite baseball team, and about Shigeo Nagashima, the Giants’ great home run hitter whose autograph Sam had on his glove. He had learned judo, too, as his father had. And he could eat with chopsticks, but the family had been eating with knives and forks for so long that they preferred to continue eating that way. Television? His favorite actor was John Wayne.

  The sound of two loud blasts and a short one ended their talk abruptly. A couple of seconds later the blasts were repeated.

  Sam sprang to his feet. “What’s that?”

  “A fire!”

  Moments later they heard a fire truck roaring up a nearby street, its bell clanging.

  “Let’s see where it is!” cried Beak.

  Stogie practically dropped the tray with the empty glasses on the porch and ran out of the yard behind Beak and Sam. The fire was two blocks away. Smoke and flames were leaping from the second story windows of a house and firemen were shooting water through them from hoses. Police were keeping the crowd back and detouring cars down another street.

  Half an hour later some of the firemen had entered the building and the fire was pretty much under control. But darkness had fallen and suddenly Beak said, “Hey! I’d better get home. My folks will wonder where I am.”

  “My folks, too,” said Sam. “Come on!”

  The three of them raced down to the corner, then cut sharply onto Huckleberry Street.

  “Good night, Stogie!” cried Beak as Stogie headed toward the rear of his house.

  “’Night! ’Night, Sam!”

  “Good night, Stogie! See you tomorrow!”

  Stogie started for the back porch when he saw a glove on the lawn. He recognized it immediately as Sam Suzuki’s. He looked for Beak’s, then remembered that Beak had strapped his to his belt.

  Stogie picked up the glove and saw Shigeo Nagashima’s autograph on it. I ought to take it to Sam, he thought. He’ll wonder what happened to it.

  Then he remembered Sam’s playing shortstop, remembered the coach’s praising him. “Look at that arm! The kid can really throw!”

  Resentment burst within him and he chucked the glove back onto the lawn. The heck with the darn glove, he told himself. Sam forgot it. Let him take care of it himself.

  He climbed the steps and went into the house.

  5

  SAM CAME over for the glove in the morning. His face shone radiantly as the sun. “Forgot glove,” he said. “You take it into the house?”

  Stogie looked past Sam’s shoulder. “No. It’s on the lawn. I saw it there last night.”

  “Not on the lawn,” said Sam. “I look.”

  Stogie frowned. He focused his eyes on the spot where he clearly remembered having seen Sam’s glove. It wasn’t there. “Funny,” he said and ran down the steps.

  “You sure you did not take it into the house?” asked Sam, his own forehead creased from puzzlement now.

  “I told you I didn’t,” insisted Stogie, his voice rising sharply. Where was that lousy glove anyway? It was here last night. No one would’ve come here after dark and taken it. No one except Sam and Stogie had known it was here. And probably Beak. But why should Beak worry about Sam Suzuki’s glove? He had his own to think about, and he had taken it with him.

  Suddenly a yell tore from Sam. “I see it!”

  He dashed toward the far side of the lawn and Stogie breathed a sigh of relief. But how did the glove get over there?

  Sam picked it up. Then he stood, staring at it in horror.

  “What’s the matter, Sam?” yelled Stogie, running forward. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  And then he stopped and stared, too. The inside of the glove was torn to ribbons and most of the packing was sticking out.

  Sam looked at Stogie, tears springing to his eyes.

  “You did this!” he exclaimed, his lips trembling.

  “Me? Are you crazy?”

  “You do not want me to play shortstop!” cried Sam. “You were mad and destroyed my glove! Autograph of Shigeo Nagashima destroyed too!” Sam’s voice cracked. He folded the glove and ran out of the yard as fast as he could.

  Stogie ran after him. “Sam!” he yelled. “Sam! I didn’t destroy your glove! I didn’t!”

  Sam fled around the corner of the house and out of sight. A lump filled Stogie’s throat. He hadn’t destroyed Sam’s glove! But someone had.

  “What was that all about?” a voice inquired. Stogie looked up and saw Jill and Mom staring at him from the top of the porch steps.

  “Some — someone’s ruined Sam Suzuki’s glove,” he murmured, “and he blames me. I didn’t do it, but he won’t believe me.”

  “Did he have it with him?” Mom asked, frowning.

  “No. He left it here last night.” Stogie felt a sense of guilt. “We’d gone to a fire — Sam, Beak and me — and Sam left his glove. He went home afterwards instead of coming back here after it. I — I saw it lying on the lawn, but I — I just left it. That’s all. I just left it. I — I never thought anything might happen to it.”

  “Maybe a dog got after it,” Jill guessed.

  “I don’t know,” said Stogie, climbing slowly up the steps. “But Sam believes I did it. He thinks I’m jealous of him, that I’m afraid he’ll take over shortstop.”

  “That’s silly,” exclaimed Jill. “Sam wouldn’t think that.”

  “Oh, no? Try telling Sam that. See if he doesn’t.”

  Beak came over later and Stogie told him about the glove.

  “That’s right!” said Beak, his eyes flashing wide. “He didn’t take the glove with him when we went to the fire! I remember! I could kick myself for not reminding him about it when we came back.”

  “I could kick myself for leaving it on the lawn,” muttered Stogie. “I picked it up … to take to him. Then I left it there on purpose.”

  “Why?” Beak frowned at him.

  A ball clogged in Stogie’s throat. “Because, that’s why! Quit asking me silly questions, will you?”

  6

  STOGIE CRANE was at the ball field at six o’clock. A few minutes later Sam arrived with Bernie Drake and Jim Albanese. Sam had his glove. It’s ruined inside but he still wants to use it, Stogie thoug
ht. Gosh, it would be like catching a ball with your bare hand!

  He wanted to catch Sam’s eyes, to say “Hi” or something. But Sam was busy playing catch with Bernie and Jim. Now and then Stogie saw him wince as he caught a fast throw in the pocket of the glove. Sam didn’t yell. And from his smiling face you’d never know that deep inside he was hurt.

  The Patriots had first raps. Stogie, playing short for the Mohawks, joined the chatter with the other infielders — “C’mon, Tom! Get ’im out, Tom, boy!” — shouting Tom Rolf’s name and hoping to blot out the thought of Sam and his ruined glove.

  A Patriot singled. The next slashed a grounder down to short. The ball came directly at Stogie. He crouched, waiting for the hop. The ball struck the heel of his glove, bounced up against his chest and then to the ground. Panic-stricken, he retrieved the ball, started to throw to second, but held up.

  Whoops! The ball slipped out of his hand! Panic flared in him again as he pounced after it, picked it up, looked around quickly. The runners were holding their bases, one on first, the other on second.

  “That’s all right, Stogie!” yelled Fuzzy Caliel. “Let’s keep ’em from getting to third!”

  Tom Rolf threw two balls, then cut the heart of the plate for a strike. The next was nearly in the same spot and the Patriot connected with it solidly. The ball traveled on a tightrope between center and left, scoring one run, and leaving a runner on third and the batter on second for a clean double.

  Tom hit the next Patriot to load the bases. Beak Peters caught a long fly in deep center field and pegged the ball in, but not quickly enough to stop another run from scoring. A second double scored two more runs, which was all the Patriots got that top of the first inning. It was a lot.

  “Let’s get ’em back, Russ!” yelled Coach Dirkus. “Hit it when it’s in there!”

  Whitey Beach, the Patriots’ right-handed hurler, had trouble putting a strike over. Russ walked. Beak hit a scratch single to short, beating out the shortstop’s throw. Russ made second easily. Then Stogie was up, sweat clinging to his brow, more from nervousness than from running and the summer heat.