The Submarine Pitch Page 3

  His face flaming, Bernie turned away, not answering. From the field he heard loud shouting, and Mick saying, “Hey, man! You guys just scored a run!”

  A few minutes later he heard his name called. “Bernie! Let’s go!”

  “Go chuck ’em, Bernie,” teased Vincent. “Give ’em that old secret pitch.”

  Bernie ignored the banter as he tossed the ball to Dick and started to head for the pitching mound. He was still hot, still nervous.

  “Bernie.”

  He glanced at Dave and saw the serious, proud look on his friend’s face.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Vince and Mick,” said Dave. “You can take care of them when the time comes. Just throw that pitch over the plate. Once you let it go, it’ll take care of the batter. You’ll see.”

  He’s so sure of me, thought Bernie. So darn sure.

  “You’re really something, Dave,” he said softly.

  “You’re my pal, Bernie. You’re my best friend. My only real friend. That’s why.”

  “Come on, Bernie!” sounded the coach’s voice from the other side of the stands. “Let’s get a move on!”

  He started to run then and caught the ump’s toss as he went by home plate. He got on the mound, threw Fred half a dozen pitches, then watched Dick Lunger step up to the plate to start off the top of the fourth inning.

  Dick, one of the tallest guys on the Coronas’ team, looked dangerous as he held his bat high off his shoulder and waited for the pitch. Bernie delivered it to him, bringing it up from his knees and releasing it when his hand was directly in front of him. At the last instant he gave the ball a slight twist, barely enough to feel it, for he knew now that too much of a twist might eventually make his wrist sore.

  “Ball!”

  The Corona fans cheered. “Wow! Look at that pitch!” one of them yelled. “Where did you find that one, Bernie?”

  “Ball two!”

  The cheer again.

  And then, “Strike!”

  He wasn’t as nervous now.

  Dick swung at the next pitch, and also the next — striking out.

  Ken Fuller bit the dust, too, striking out on a two-two pitch.

  Jim Black stood tall and straight as he watched the pitch come in. He made no attempt to take the bat off his shoulder until after the second strike pitch. Then he, too, whiffed.

  Three strikeouts in a row. The Ranger fans cheered now, letting Bernie know how they felt. He went to the dugout, the guys slapping him on the back, praising him. From the stands directly behind the dugout came the expected cheers of Dave and Frankie. He looked up briefly and saw Dave give him a thumbs-up sign.

  “Nice, Bernie!” Dave shouted happily. “Real nice!”

  It was the bottom of the fourth now, and Chuck led off. He stood at the plate with his knees bent and his bat held just below his shoulder. Coach Salerno had told him a dozen times to keep his bat up high, but Chuck felt he couldn’t hit a barn door that way, so he held the bat the way he felt best. He took two pitches, both strikes, then pounded the third one out to center for an out.

  Fred punched a grounder to third for out two; then Bernie came up and took two He was no hitter. But he had fouled two pitches. He was doing something right.

  He took two balls, then, disappointingly, popped out to short.

  The first man Bernie faced in the top of the fifth was Bobo Johnson. Bobo had already uncorked a home run and a single. Bobo was a big kid and had a lot of power. The thought clouded Bernie’s mind as he stepped on the rubber, wound up, and delivered. Bobo reared back as the ball swept up toward him. He brought the bat around in a hard, vicious arc and ended his swing sitting down on the dirt.

  “Steerike!” boomed the ump as the ball smacked into Fred’s mitt.

  The second pitch was a wee bit outside. Bobo took another mighty swing. Crack! A blast to deep left! But it was curving… curving…

  “Foul ball!” yelled the base umpire. Bobo took another mighty swing. Crack! A blast to deep left! But it was curving… curving…

  “Foul ball!” yelled the base umpire.

  Bernie breathed a sigh of relief. That ball had looked like a goner.

  Then Bobo popped out to first.

  Ron stepped to the plate. He was big, too. Bernie had heard that Ron had already started to shave, but he didn’t believe it.

  Pow! Ron belted Bernie’s first pitch to third. Chuck couldn’t get his tail down fast enough, and the ball streaked through his legs. The yell from the Corona fans sounded as if Ron had powdered one over the left-field fence.

  Bernie couldn’t get one over the plate against Harry, so he walked him. He walked Angie too and began to wonder if that’s what he was going to do the rest of the game —walk the entire Corona team.

  Tom Bowman changed the scene for him. Tom swung at two pitches, then boomed one over second that drove in two runs. Red Parker couldn’t even get a piece of the ball and struck out. So did Dick. Three outs.

  The two runs put the Coronas in front, 8–3. What is Dave thinking of me and that submarine pitch now? thought Bernie. Is that pitch really as good as he thought it was? Is it as good as I had hoped it would be?

  Dick Singer, batting for Bill, led off in the bottom of the fifth with a walk. Then Arnie Coles, pinch-hitting for Ed, hit a two-two pitch through the shortstop’s legs, which helped Arnie a lot, because he had lost his right shoe halfway to first base. Time was called till he got the shoe back on.

  Deke poled out a long foul ball, then went down swinging.

  Buzz, up next, took a called strike, then suddenly stumbled back and began rubbing his left eye.

  “Time!” yelled the ump as he went to see what troubled Buzz. He got out a handkerchief, rubbed at the eye for a few seconds, then put the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Play ball!” he cried.

  Buzz stepped back into the box, swung at Dick’s next pitch, and boom! A blast over the center-field fence!

  “I’m glad he got that thing out of his eye, whatever it was,” said the coach, grinning, as Buzz trotted around the bases. It was 8-6 now, the Coronas still in front.

  Neither Tom nor Rudy got on to Dick’s pitches, and the game went into the sixth inning. Bernie’s submarine pitch seemed to work like a miracle this time as he struck out the three batters who faced him.

  “Okay, men!” cried Coach Salerno, standing up in front of the dugout and clapping his hands to psyche up the guys. “This is our last chance! We need three runs! All we have to do to get ’em is hit, right? All right — let’s hit!”

  Chuck, leading off, flied out to left field.

  “I said hit, Chuck!” yelled the coach. “Okay, Fred. Bust one.”

  Fred did, driving a sizzling grounder just inside the first base bag for a double.

  Then Bernie stepped to the plate, wishing that somebody would pinch-hit for him. He stood and waited for Dick to pour in his first pitch.

  6

  Dick got on the rubber, looked over at Fred, then poured it in. Bernie, his heart almost still, kept his eyes on the ball as it came in, straight as a string. It was heading down the pipe.

  He swung. Crack! He felt a faint electric shock as the bat connected. He saw the ball streak over second for a hit. Dropping his bat, he bolted for first. The crowd roared as Fred crossed the plate.

  Bernie stood on the bag with both feet. He felt proud, happy. It’s my lucky day, he thought. It has to be. I’m usually a lousy hitter.

  The Ranger fans groaned as Dick grounded out. One more out and the game would go to the Coronas.

  Then Arnie walked, advancing Bernie to second.

  “Drive it, Deke!” yelled Arnie.

  Deke drove it, a piping-hot double over third base. Bernie ran to third and then home as if his shirttail were on fire. Arnie came in behind him, sliding safely over the plate a fraction of a second ahead of the shortstop’s throw.

  It was over. The Rangers had copped their first league game, 9–8.

  Dave and Frankie came down from the
stands and slapped Bernie on the back as if he were the hero.

  “Nice game, Bernie,” Dave exclaimed, beaming with pride. “You played a heck of a game. You know that?”

  “I was just lucky,” replied Bernie.

  Vincent Steele and Mick Devlan came forward, both wearing devil-may-care smiles.

  “Well, I guess you can be hit, Bernie,” said Vincent.

  “Who said I couldn’t be?”

  “Your buddy here. Dave. And your little brother, Frankie.”

  Bernie looked at them. Can’t you guys keep your mouths shut? his look said.

  “Those hits weren’t solid,” said Dave defensively. “Another fraction of an inch one way or another and they would’ve been strikeouts.”

  Vince pretended to ignore him. He said to Bernie, “We’re playing you guys next Tuesday. Mick and I made a bet that one of us will knock your submarine pitch back into the sea.” They started away, grinning. “Adios, amigos!”

  “Punks,” grumbled Frankie.

  Bernie looked at his brother and Dave. “Okay. Which of you guys told them?”

  “Told them what?” asked Dave curiously.

  “That it’s called a submarine pitch.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Frankie confessed. “I did. Nothing wrong about that, is there? Its name is no secret, anyway, is it?”

  “Nothing is secret about it now,” said Dave. “Now that they’ve seen you pitch. Don’t be sore at him, Bernie.”

  “I’m not,” replied Bernie, trying to hide his chagrin. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  When Bernie arrived home his mother said that she had good news for him. But first, who won the game? He told her, Frankie adding the frills, telling her about Bernie’s great pitching, about his getting a hit, then tying up the score.

  “Hey!” she cried, her face lighting up like a sunflower. “You going to be another Carl Stramski?”

  “Yastrzemski, Mom,” corrected AnnMarie. “We’ve told you that a dozen times before. Anyhow, he wasn’t a pitcher. He was a fielder.”

  “What’s the good news you’ve got for me?” asked Bernie.

  “You’ve got a job,” she said. “Mrs. Benson would like you to paint her fence.”

  His eyes lit up. “When?”

  “As soon as you can. I told her you could do it tomorrow. Okay?”

  Excitement bubbled inside him as he thought about it for a minute. “Right! I’ll do it in the morning. Oh, boy! Ten bucks an hour okay, Mom?”

  “Ten bucks? Who do you think you are, anyway? A big-time contractor? Make it five. That’s enough. When you become an expert and gain a good reputation, then you can charge ten bucks.”

  He shrugged resignedly. “Do I have to buy the paint, too?”

  “No. She’s got the paint. How much money have you earned toward your bike so far?”

  “One hundred forty-four dollars,” he said. “I need almost three times that much.”

  “Maybe you’ll have to advertise for jobs,” she said, smiling.

  The next day, bright and early, he went over to Mrs. Benson’s, got the paint, and started on the fence. It was a brand-new one, about five feet high, and enclosed her entire yard. Mrs. Benson was a widow and lived alone, except for two canaries, a parrot, and three cats who kept her company.

  It was close to eleven o’clock, and Bernie had two-thirds of the fence painted, when someone came up the sidewalk behind him and yelled, “Hi!”

  He whirled, startled out of his wits. As he did he felt his foot bang against the paint can and heard the instant, heart-sickening sound of spilling paint. Quickly he grabbed the can and righted it, but what was left was barely enough to fill a cup. The rest of it, about half a gallon, had turned a small patch of lawn from bright green to creamy white.

  “Wow!” cried Vincent Steele. “I’m sorry, Bernie! I didn’t mean to scare you like that!”

  Bernie turned and glared at him. Vince was on his bike. With him was Mick on his.

  “Maybe you didn’t, but you did,” said Bernie angrily. “Now I’ll have to buy what I need out of the money I’m earning.”

  The paint had cost Mrs. Benson $19.98. He had seen the price on the lid.

  “Let’s shove off, Vince,” said Mick. “Anyway, it’s not all your fault. He kicked it over.”

  “I’m really sorry, Bernie,” said Vince, as he started to pedal away.

  “Sure,” mumbled Bernie.

  His heart aching, he finished painting with what was left of the paint, then stood a long minute thinking before he went to the door of the house and knocked. The ache changed to fear. What was Mrs. Benson going to say when he told her what happened? Would she get mad and fire him right off the bat?

  He heard her footsteps. Then the door opened and there she stood, tall and gray-haired, a rather plain-looking woman who didn’t look as if she smiled a lot.

  “Hello, Bernie,” she greeted him. “Are you done already?”

  “No, Mrs. Benson. I — I’m out of paint.” His tongue felt dry as paper. “I spilled about half a can of it.”

  “You did?” She stared at him as if it weren’t possible, then let a smile warm her face. “Well, accidents will happen,” she said. “Come in a minute and I’ll figure out what we’ll do.”

  He went in and sat down at the kitchen table, noticing an aroma that could come from only one delicious delicacy — doughnuts. His mouth watered.

  “How much more have you got to do?” she asked, grabbing a napkin from a pack on the counter. She went to the stove on which stood a large aluminum pot, picked out a powdered-sugar doughnut, and brought it to him.

  “Not much,” he answered. “Maybe twenty feet.”

  “Good. Suppose you leave the rest for tomorrow. I’ll go into town in the morning and buy two quarts of paint. That should do it, don’t you think?”

  She talked to him about it as though he were an expert on paints.

  “I think so,” he answered, accepting the big, soft, fragrant doughnut. He suddenly realized that he wasn’t frightened anymore. She wasn’t mad at him; she wasn’t going to fire him. “Thanks, Mrs. Benson,” he said.

  He looked at the crimson spot on the doughnut where she had inserted the jelly.

  “What’s the matter, Bernie?” Mrs. Benson asked curiously. “What are you thinking?”

  It’s $19.98 a gallon, he was thinking. Two quarts would come to at least ten or eleven dollars.

  “You can take the money out of my pay, Mrs. Benson,” he told her.

  7

  Mrs. Benson phoned him the next morning. She had bought the paint, she said, and he could come over and finish the job anytime that it was convenient for him.

  Bernie remembered that the Rangers were playing the Sharks at four o’clock. If he got started right away — it wasn’t quite eleven — he should have the job completed before one, giving him time enough to rest before the game.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll come right over.”

  He finished the job, using all of one can and a small portion of the other. Mentally he figured that he had worked four hours altogether. At five dollars an hour that added up to twenty dollars. Subtract ten dollars from that, plus tax, for the extra paint Mrs. Benson had to buy, and that would leave him about ten dollars. Ten lousy dollars, just because that crumb, Vince, had caused him to spill half a can of paint.

  Mrs. Benson came out and looked at his job. She didn’t like the sight of the spilled paint and asked Bernie to dig it up with a shovel. Other than that she said his paint job was fine. She didn’t say “excellent,” she just said “fine.” Which wasn’t as good, and which could mean that she probably wished she didn’t have to give him the ten lousy dollars.

  He got the shovel and dug up the paint, smoothing up the dirt afterward till it was impossible to tell that paint had been spilled there. Then he went to the house to tell Mrs. Benson he was finished.

  She smiled at him and handed him an envelope. “Thanks, Bernie,” she said. “Whenever I h
ave any other work around the house I can’t do myself, I’ll call on you.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Benson,” he answered. “I’m sorry about spilling the paint.”

  “Oh, forget it,” she said. “It could happen to anybody.”

  He started away, somehow feeling that no matter how much work Mrs. Benson might have in the future, she would never call on him again.

  He had almost reached the sidewalk when he heard the door open and Mrs. Benson’s voice. “Bernie! Just a minute! I almost forgot something!”

  She was holding a napkin with a doughnut in it. “Here,” she said, smiling brightly. “I made some to take to our women’s club last night, but I made sure to save another one for you. You do like them, don’t you?”

  Bernie’s face brightened up like a lamp. “I sure do, Mrs. Benson!” he exclaimed as he accepted it from her. “Thanks!”

  He ate it on his way home; it tasted just as good as the one he had yesterday Mrs. Benson was a peach, he decided.

  He got home, took the envelope to his room, and went to the bathroom to wash up.

  “Well,” said AnnMarie, finishing a sandwich at the kitchen table, “did you earn so much you’re going to keep it a secret?”

  “After all the deductions,” said Frankie, leaning against the doorjamb, “he figures he’ll get about ten bucks.”

  “Well, there’s no sense crying over spilled paint,” said Mrs. Shantz. “And don’t tease your brother. It wasn’t all his fault the paint spilled.”

  When Bernie was finished, he went and sat at the kitchen table while his mother warmed up some soup and fixed him a sandwich. He was tired. It was a good thing that the game was at four; he had plenty of time to rest.

  “Well, why the big secret?” AnnMarie asked again. “Aren’t you going to tell us how much you earned?”

  “I know how much I earned” he said. “I just don’t care to see how much I got”

  Nevertheless he went to his room, picked up the envelope, and tore it open. There were two bills in it; he could barely see the figure 5 in a corner where one bill was curled slightly. Two fives, he figured.

  Then he took out the other bill — and his eyes widened. A twenty! Mrs. Benson had given him twenty-five dollars!