Two Strikes on Johnny Read online

  “Can Johnny tell me about the game afterwards, Mom? He only told me a little.”

  “All right. Johnny will tell you about the game.” She ruffled his hair, smiled.

  Johnny looked away, his heart heavy. Both Mom and Michael think I'm a good ball player, he thought. But I'm not. I should never have told Michael how good I was, how many home runs or three-baggers or doubles I got. Nothing I have told him was true.

  After his bath Johnny went outside and sat on the lawn with Michael and Sand. He began to tell Michael about the ball game. He enjoyed telling it. He told about the hits Butchie Long, Marty French, and Davie Randall had made. And how Marty said he ought to have his bike to go around the bases with, because he was too fat to run. Michael laughed. He thought it was very funny. And Johnny laughed, too, because he had made Michael laugh. Sand barked and thumped her tail as if she understood, too.

  That night Johnny said his regular prayers to God, and then added, “I keep telling Michael I'm getting hits when I'm not. He expects me to tell him that, and I know he'd be awful unhappy if I told him I struck out or didn't get a hit. Am I right, God, in telling him those things? Gee, I'm not sure. I just don't know what to do, God. Can You help me?” Johnny paused. Then he said, “Could You help me get two hits in the next game? Maybe —maybe make one of them a home run? Then I wouldn't have to lie to Michael.”

  4

  ON WEDNESDAY morning Davie Randall telephoned Johnny. “We have a game with the Rangers this afternoon, Johnny. Mr. Davis asked me to call you. Could you make it?”

  “I think so!” said Johnny hopefully. “Wait a second. I'll ask my mother.”

  Johnny asked her and she said he could if he burned the papers, fed the chickens, and collected the eggs.

  “Sure, Mom, I'll do all that,” Johnny said excitedly. He told Davie and Davie said, “Okay. Be at the field at two o'clock. I'll see you.”

  Johnny collected all the old papers from the wastebaskets in the house, carried them out to the incinerator, and set fire to them. Then he went out to the red chicken house, scooped up a dipperful of corn, and scattered the yellow kernels on the ground. The forty-nine tall white Leg-horns clucked and fluttered their feathers. Their heads bobbed up and down and their sun-red combs shook as they gobbled up the corn.

  Johnny heard laughter and looked across the large green lawn toward the sprawling branches of the linden tree. Michael was sitting in its shade, playing with Sand.

  All at once Johnny thought: I'll go to the field without Michael. He's having a lot of fun with Sand, anyway. Maybe I will play a better game if he's not there. The Rangers are not as hot as the Mud-hens. Ronnie Hyde pitches for them and he doesn't have the speed of Dick Manning, the Mudhens' pitcher.

  Tall, red-haired Freddie Turner and little Mickey Bonzell stopped at the house on their way to the field. Freddie had his first-base mitt with him and Mickey had his fielder's glove.

  “Hey, Johnny! Are you ready?” Freddie called from the road.

  Johnny jumped off the porch steps. His ball cap fell off. He scooped it up, plopped it back on his mop of black hair, and ran down the cement walk to the boys.

  They walked along the road, talking about the Yankees' getting beaten by a shut-out yesterday, and about the Cincinnati Reds' new Bonus Baby's twenty-third homer for the season. They made the turn in the road and walked halfway down the hill when suddenly Johnny stopped.

  The two boys stared at him. “What's the matter?” Freddie asked. “Forget something? You have your glove.”

  “Yes. I did forget something,” said Johnny. “I'm going back. You guys go on. I'll be at the field by the time the game starts. Don't worry.”

  Mickey rubbed his nose. “For crying out loud, what do you have to go back for?”

  “I know,” said Freddie. “It's Michael, isn't it? You're going back to get him.”

  Mickey shrugged his shoulders. “What for?” he said to Johnny. “He couldn't see the game, could he?”

  Johnny looked hard at Mickey. He swallowed. “You guys go on. I'm going back after my brother.”

  He turned and started running up the hill. He thought of what Mickey had said and a lump rose in his throat. His legs were tired by the time he reached the curve in the road. He walked for a while, and then he ran again. He ran slowly so that he would not get too tired.

  He was still a long way from the house, but he could see a figure standing on the cement walk close to the road. It was Michael. With him was Sand.

  Johnny's heart turned light as a feather again. A smile lit up his face; his blue eyes brightened. Whatever had made him think he could leave Michael home? He just could never do a thing like that. Not ever.

  He cut across the lawn and stopped at Michael's side. Michael's face shone, too, as he turned toward Johnny. He put out his hand. Johnny took it, squeezed it a little. Sand wiggled her body like a snake, wagged her bushy yellow and white tail, and made soft happy noises in her throat.

  “I'm sorry, Michael.” Johnny sucked in deep breaths of air. “We started talking about the big leagues and the leading hitters and all that and I forgot about you. Come on. I'll hold your hand.”

  “Won't you be late?”

  “Heck, no. We have plenty of time. We'll just walk fast. They'll wait for me.”

  They reached the curve in the road and Johnny looked way down the other road for Freddie and Mickey. But they were out of sight. At last they reached the ball field. The Rangers were already there. So were the Cardinals.

  “It's about time,” Johnny heard somebody on the Rangers' team say.

  He tried not to let the words bother him. Michael had a tender smile on his lips as he sat in the empty stands. Maybe he had not heard what that kid had said. If he had, he did not show it.

  Johnny walked toward the bench. He saw Marty French lean toward Mr. Davis and point a thumb in Michael's direction. Mr. Davis looked back over his shoulder a moment, then looked away again. He nodded his head.

  Johnny's forehead creased with a frown. What had Marty said to the manager about Michael?

  The game started. Cliff Dickson, father of the Rangers' second baseman, umpired, because the regular umpire had not shown up. The managers of both teams agreed that it was all right.

  Davie Randall and Ken Herrick, the captain of the Rangers, flipped a coin to see who would bat last. Ken won the toss, and the Rangers ran out to the field.

  Lead-off man Peter Jergens was walked without taking the bat off his shoulder. Stevie Little tried to bunt the first pitch to sacrifice Peter to second, but the ball sailed through the air to the pitcher. The pitcher caught it, whipped it to first.

  “Back, Peter! Back!” yelled the first-base coach, but Peter had started to run for second. When he raced back to tag up, he was too far up the base line. The first baseman stretched for the throw from the pitcher and Peter was out by a yard.

  “Come on, Peter!” Manager Davis said. “Watch where the ball goes before you run!”

  Peter ran to the bench with his head down.

  Buddy Greenfield was up next. He hit a line drive over short for two bases, and the Cardinals cheered.

  “Come on, Marty!” the boys yelled. “Knock him in!”

  Marty's round face spread in a grin. He went to the plate, carrying the bat on his shoulder. He put the bat down, rubbed dirt on his hands, and lifted his belt. Then he picked up the bat again and waited for the pitch.

  Marty took a full swing at the first pitch, lost his balance, and fell.

  “That's the way to swing, Marty!” somebody yelled. A loud laugh rose from the stands. The third baseman for the Rangers backed up a few steps.

  Marty let the next pitch go by.

  “Strike two!” said the ump. Marty gave him a funny look, but he didn't argue.

  The next two pitches were balls. Then Marty swung at a chest-high pitch and knocked the ball high into the air. The center fielder called for it and took it. Half of the first inning was over.

  The Rangers' lead-off
man struck out. The next two batters connected with singles, putting men on first and third. The clean-up man then hit a long fly to right center field. Johnny Doane went after it, the toes of his shoes digging into the soft ground. The ball was like a white pill against the blue sky. Suddenly it was almost at him. Johnny lifted his glove. The ball hit the heel of his glove, rolled against his stomach. Johnny tried to catch it, but the ball slipped through his arm and dropped to the ground.

  An error! Johnny was sick. He picked up the ball quickly, heaved it to second base. Stevie caught it and whipped it home. Too late. The runner on third scored. And while Stevie was throwing the ball home, the runner on first made it safely to second. So there were still men on first and second.

  Johnny kicked the sod with the toe of his shoe. He had given them one run just like that. But even if he had caught the fly ball, maybe that runner on third would have scored anyway, after he had tagged up. That was something hard to tell. A perfect peg from the outfield to second, then a perfect peg from second to home could get the runner going home.

  The Rangers scored twice more before the Cardinals got them out. Davie Randall, who had switched positions with Butchie Long today, was first batter for the Cardinals. He doubled on the second pitch. Freddie Turner grounded out to short, then Butchie singled. Davie ran to third.

  Johnny Doane came up. He let the first pitch breeze by for a strike. Men on bases again. There were always men on when he batted. Or so it seemed.

  The next pitch came in. Johnny swung.

  “Strike two!”

  “Come on, Johnny, or boy, ol' boy! Hit it into the next county!” Marty's voice.

  The pitch looked wide. Johnny let it go.

  “Ball!” said the ump.

  Beads of sweat rolled into Johnny's eyes. He mopped them with the back of his hand, gripped his bat again. He had to hit that ball. He had to knock in at least one run to make up for the run he had given the Rangers.

  A low pitch.

  “Ball two!”

  Another thing: If he hit a single, or a double, or even a triple, he could tell that to Michael and it would not be a white lie. It would be the honest truth.

  The Rangers' pitcher stretched, pulled back his arm, and threw. The ball came in on a straight line. Johnny dug his right toe in and swung.

  Crack! The ball sailed high into the air toward left field. Johnny's heart leaped to his throat. He dropped the bat and streaked for first. Everybody on the bench was yelling his head off.

  And then a voice shouted above the cries and cheers. “Foul ball!”

  Oh, no! Johnny shook his head unhappily.

  He stepped on first, circled toward the pitcher's box, and returned to bat again.

  “Tough luck, Johnny, boy!” Marty said. “You was robbed!”

  “It was foul just by a foot!” Manager Davis smiled at Johnny. “Straighten it out this time.”

  Johnny swung at the pitch. The ball bounded across the ground to second. The second baseman fielded it, touched the bag, then threw to first.

  A double play!

  Johnny crossed the bag, his heart crushed. He didn't take his eyes off the ground as he kept running toward center field. He had flopped. What was he going to tell Michael about that?

  Suddenly a shout rose behind him. He stopped, looked back. The Cardinals were standing in front of the bench. Marty French was standing in front of them, leading them with a cheer!

  “One, two, three — Johnny Doane! Hooray!”

  Then they ran out to the field.

  Johnny stared. What was that for? He hadn't done anything but make the third out by hitting into a double. play. Since when was that something to cheer about?

  Then he looked toward the stands. He saw Michael standing up, yelling and clapping his hands. Sand stood beside him, wagging her tail.

  Johnny blinked his eyes and looked away. He found his glove, picked it up, and put it on.

  They were not right to fool Michael like that. That wasn't fair at all.

  But what am I going to do? thought Johnny. What am I supposed to do?

  5

  THE first batter for the Rangers smashed a line drive between right and center fields. Both Johnny and Mickey Bonzell raced after the ball. Mickey reached it first. He picked it up, threw it to second. Peter whipped it to third, but the runner arrived at the bag in plenty of time.

  The second hitter laid down a bunt toward first. Butchie fielded it, threw the ball to first.

  “Out!” shouted the ump.

  The chatter grew louder in the Cardinals' infield. “Come on, Butchie, or boy! Get 'em out!”

  “Strike 'em out, Butchie! Show 'em that curve! They're scared of 'em!”

  Johnny Doane could hear Mickey and Buddy on both sides of him yelling, too. But he was silent. He didn't feel like yelling.

  Suddenly a high fly was hit out to center. “Take it, Johnny! Take it!” Buddy yelled.

  Johnny ran back. Then he ran forward. The ball was very high, even higher than the one he had missed. Then he was under it. He held out his glove. For a moment he didn't breathe.

  Plop! The ball struck the pocket of his glove and stuck there! He heaved the ball in, but the runner on third had tagged up and was scoring.

  “Thataboy, Johnny!” Buddy yelled. There were shouts from the infield, and Johnny could hear Marty's voice.

  He looked toward the stands. Michael was rising to his feet. He was clapping hard. Beside him Sand was barking and wagging her tail.

  All at once Johnny understood what was going on. All that yelling and cheering were done on purpose. The team was doing that for Michael's benefit. They wanted him to know that Johnny had made a great catch in the outfield.

  Johnny tugged at his cap. He bent down, plucked up a handful of grass, and threw it disgustedly at the ground. He wished they wouldn't do that. They were making fun of Michael and he didn't like it. He would tell them — especially Marty — the first chance he had.

  When the inning ended, though, Johnny didn't tell anybody anything. He was ashamed. The boys praised him for that nice catch, and he thanked them. But that was all he said, just, “Thanks. Thanks, fellas.”

  The score was 4 to 0 in favor of the Rangers. It was the first half of the third inning, and Mickey Bonzell was first hitter.

  “Strike!”

  “Strike two!”

  Mickey acted as if he were frozen at the plate. He didn't swing either time. Then, “Ball one!”

  The fourth pitch came in and Mickey swung. The Cardinals gasped. They rose all together, their mouths wide open, and watched the ball Mickey had hit. It was traveling high toward left field. The fielder was running back … back. Suddenly the ball dropped behind him. It bounced and rolled toward the tall grass that grew near the fence way down at the far end of the field.

  Mickey touched first, second, third, and then crossed home plate standing up. A home run!

  Mickey's face was shining with sweat and happiness as he shook the hand of each boy that came up to him.

  “What a hit that was!” Marty French said.

  “Thataway, Mickey.” Johnny smiled. “You really hit that ball.”

  Mickey panted. He took off his cap and wiped his face with it. “It was the first homer I ever hit in my life!” he said excitedly. “Wow! I can hardly believe it!”

  Johnny sat down again. Why couldn't I do that? he thought. But he was glad for Mickey. That home run Mickey had hit made up for a lot of strike-outs.

  The score was 4 to 1 now.

  Peter came to bat and walked. Stevie poked a line drive over second for a single. Buddy popped one up to the catcher. Then Marty stepped to the plate and the outfielders backed up a dozen steps.

  The Rangers' pitcher motioned to the catcher. They met halfway between the catcher's box and the pitcher's box and talked something over.

  “They're afraid of you, Marty!” Mickey yelled.

  Marty grinned as he faced the pitcher. The pitcher stretched, threw. Marty swung. Crack! Th
e ball sailed over short.

  Peter scored. The coach held Stevie up on third. It was a single for Marty. The Cardinals stood up and cheered him.

  Davie came to bat and popped out to third. Two outs. Freddie hit a grounder to second. The second baseman fumbled the ball, then threw to first. But Freddie was safe. Stevie scored on the play.

  Rangers — 4, Cardinals — 3.

  Butchie walked to the plate, looked over the first pitch.

  “Ball one!”

  The chatter rose on the Cardinals' bench. “Come on, Butchie! Ducks on the pond! Win your own ball game!”

  “Strike!”

  Manager Davis leaned over and tapped Johnny Doane's knee. “Pick up a bat, Johnny. Get on deck. What's the matter? Something bothering you, Johnny?”

  “No. I'm all right.” Johnny rose from the bench and picked up a bat.

  He was scared, but how could he tell Mr. Davis that? If he batted with men on bases again — He turned his back to Mr. Davis so that the manager couldn't see his face.

  “Ball two!”

  Again the pitch. “Ball three!”

  A lump filled Johnny's throat. If Butchie walked, the bags would be loaded. He thought he knew then what the Rangers had planned. They would walk Butchie so they could pitch to him. They probably knew, just as he did, that he couldn't hit with men on bases. Johnny swallowed.

  The pitch. “Strike two!”

  The Cardinals' bench went wild. Three and two was the count. The only unhappy person there was Johnny.

  And then, crack! Butchie's bat met the ball solidly. The ball sailed high into the air toward deep center field. The fielder raced back. He lifted his glove. A second later the ball lay like a big white egg in it.

  A sad groan rose from the Cardinals' bench.

  The only happy person there now was Johnny. He didn't have to bat with men on. He didn't have to bat at all.

  6

  IIN THEIR half of the fourth inning the first batter for the Rangers grounded out to short. The second man walked. Butchie struck out the next man, which made it four strike-outs for him. Then a Ranger poled one out to center. Johnny ran under it and caught it.