The Diamond Champs Read online

  “Darn!” said Kim under his breath.

  Cathy took a ball, a strike, then belted a low pitch through the hole between first and second bases. Like a frightened rabbit, A. J. bolted to second, then to third.

  “Keep up the rally, Kim!” Moe yelled from his third-base coaching box.

  Kim took two called strikes, then struck out. He returned to the dugout, his heart sick.

  “Chin up, Kim,” said the coach. “We're still in there.”

  Nick dodged a close pitch, falling down to get out of its way. Glaring at the pitcher, he got up and stood with his bat held high, waving it like a club.

  “He didn't like that close pitch,” said Kim. “If Steve puts one in there, it's good-bye.”

  Steve put one in there. And it was goodbye. The long, solid drive carried far over the left field fence for a home run, and Nick trotted around the bases with an ear-to-ear grin on his face.

  The whole team met him at the plate and shook his hand.

  “What power, man!” Kim smiled at him.

  Jo flied out to center to end the half inning—6 - 4, Steelheads.

  Mick Davis, leading off for the Red Arrows in the bottom of the fifth, latched onto a high pitch to deep right. The ball bounced in front of Kim, slipped through his legs, and rolled to the fence.

  “Rats!” he fumed, spinning on his heels and sprinting after the ball. By the time he whipped it to the infield, Mick was safe on third.

  Doug struck out Hank Stone, then walked Jim Kramer, who had already accumulated two safe hits. Fred singled, scoring Mick, putting the Red Arrows just one run behind.

  Then Duke Pierce popped out to short and Ken Dooley fanned, bringing the threatening half inning to an end—6 - 5, Steelheads.

  “Our last time up,” reminded Coach Stag. “Let's chalk up a few more runs, shall we?”

  Doug waited out Steve's pitches, finally flying out to center field.

  Again the top of the batting order was up.

  “Don't get too anxious now, Eric,” cautioned the coach calmly as the left-handed third baseman and hitter stepped to the plate. “Wait for the one you like.”

  Eric nonetheless seemed nervous as he waved the bat back and forth, his legs spread wide, his attention riveted on the pitcher. He took two called strikes, fouled a pitch—and then blasted a line drive over short for a clean single!

  The whole team shouted their approval, then shouted even louder as Brad stepped to the plate and lambasted a fence-hitting triple, scoring Eric.

  A. J., with just a walk to his credit so far, cracked a streaking single through the mound. Steve made a vain effort to catch it, but the hit was clean, and another run scored.

  Larry lifted a long fly to left that Jim Kramer pocketed in his glove. Two outs. But that didn't seem to dim Cathy's hopes as she swung at a waist-high pitch and rocketed it for a long double to right center, scoring A. J.

  Kim, hoping he could continue the hitting spree, managed to make first all right, but it was due to an error by shortstop Joe Fedderson. Cathy advanced to third on the play, but perished there as Nick flied out to left.

  Trailing 9 - 5, the Red Arrows made a bold attempt to catch up as Eddie Noles cracked Doug's first pitch for a double. Joe flied out to left, but Larry's strong arm kept Eddie from advancing.

  Steve, considered to be one of the league's best hitting pitchers, proved his worth as he laced an outside corner pitch for a single, scoring Eddie.

  The Red Arrows were closing the gap, 9 - 6. And the top of their batting order was up.

  9

  MICK DAVIS, THE RED ARROWS' leadoff batter, stood at the plate and watched three pitches zip by him without taking the bat off his shoulder. All three pitches were balls.

  Nick called time and ran out to the mound. He talked with Doug a bit, then returned to his position behind the plate.

  Doug removed his cap, brushed hack his hair, pulled his cap back on, and stepped on the rubber. He stretched, checked the runner on first, then breezed in the pitch.

  “Strike!” cried the ump.

  “Nice pitch, Doug!” Nick shouted.

  Doug pitched again. “Strike two!”

  Doug put the next one in there too, and Mick swung. Crack! It was a blazing shot to right field, curving toward the foul line!

  Kim bolted after it. At the last instant he stretched out his gloved hand to catch it, but the ball hit the tip of his glove and bounced to the outfield. Kim chased after it, realizing that it was the second time he had missed a ball in this game. He picked it up near the fence, turned, and heaved it in. Steve was running in to score, and Mick was sprinting to third.

  Slapping his fist disgustedly into the pocket of his glove, Kim told himself again that he had no business being here. He was no outfielder. He wasn't even a baseball player. Coach Stag had been trying to mold him into one, and was failing at it. He could never mold me into a baseball player, Kim reflected. Never. So missing that fly wasn't really my fault.

  He pushed his thoughts aside as Hank Stone stepped to the plate. Hank waited out Doug's pitches too, then slammed a hot liner toward short. The ball started to zoom over Brad's head, and Brad leaped, his gloved hand held high. The ball smacked into its pocket for an out.

  Quickly he whipped the ball to third as Mick, about five steps off the base, tried to get back.

  Eric caught the ball in time, and Mick was out. Three outs. The ball game was over, and the Steelheads took it, 9 - 7.

  Relieved, Kim ran in and joined in congratulating Brad for the play that saved the game for the Steelheads.

  And for Coach Stag.

  “Great catch, Brad,” he praised. “That's another one in the bag.”

  Kim looked at him, and saw the coach's intense gaze. “You made a real gallant effort on that hit, Kim,” said the coach. “Almost had it, too. Good hustling.”

  Kim frowned. “It was an error, wasn't it?”

  “Error nothing. It was a genuine hit. And we won despite it.”

  Kim felt a little better, but what really began to lie heavily on his mind was the coach's attitude about winning. Nothing else seemed to be more important to Coach Stag, as if he were trying to get his name, and the names of the Steelheads, in the record books.

  Why was he so fanatic about winning, anyway? It was the umpteenth time that the question stood so uppermost in Kim's mind.

  Late the next afternoon he was making a peanut butter sandwich when Mr. Rollins called to him from the living room. Kim went out there, pressing the two slices of bread tightly together.

  “Yes, Dad?” he said as he saw his father sitting in an armchair, reading the Blue Hills Citizen.

  “I was reading about the game,” he said, turning to Kim. “I notice by the names of the kids who play on the Steelheads team that some of them don't live in the neighborhood. Isn't there a ruling that says they should?”

  “I don't know. But I guess not, Dad. Just like a few of the other teams, some of our team live in other parts of Blue Hills.”

  “I see that,” replied his father. “The Forsons and the Wellses live on the north side. I used to play ball with their fathers. And this A. J. Campbell. He's probably Tony Campbell's son.”

  Kim shrugged. “Could be, Dad.” Then he frowned. “Did you play baseball with his father, too?”

  “I sure did. He was tall, left-handed, and played first base.”

  Kim's eyebrows knitted. “So does A. J.”

  “I see that,” said his father. “And he's right-handed.”

  He read further and chuckled. “Well, how about that?” he said. “Rollins, right field; Forson, catcher; Franklin, second base; Barton, pitcher.”

  “Do you recognize those other names, Dad?” Kim inquired curiously.

  “I sure do,” answered Mr. Rollins. “Dominic Forson was our catcher, Andy Franklin our second baseman and Junk Barton one of our pitchers. We called him Junk because of the junk he threw.” He glanced over the lineup again. “Very interesting,” he added thoughtfully
.

  Kim stared at him. “What do you mean by that, Dad?”

  Mr. Rollins shrugged. “Just what I said. Very interesting.”

  “That Franklin is a girl, Dad,” explained Kim. “Her name's Jo. J-o. We've got two girls on the team. The other girl is Cathy Andrews.”

  Mr. Rollins lowered the paper and frowned. “I haven't seen Andy Franklin or Don Andrews in five or six years,” he said. “Do Jo and Cathy have any brothers?”

  Kim thought about it a moment. “Not that I know of,” he said.

  His father, still frowning, glanced hack at the paper. “That sure is something, all right,” he said.

  The phone rang. Seconds later Mrs. Rollins called from the kitchen. “Pat! It's for you!”

  “Coming!” Mr. Rollins said. He folded the paper and placed it on the coffee table. Rising, he looked at Kim.

  “What's the name of your coach? Stag?”

  “Yes. Gorman E. Stag,” answered Kim.

  “Him,” replied Mr. Rollins, heading for the kitchen, “I've never heard of.”

  Kim didn't play in the game against the Fire Fighters. He coached first base during the first three innings, then was relieved by Cathy.

  For the first two innings the Steelheads outhit the Fire Fighters and led 4 - 0. But by the fifth inning the Fire Fighters had climbed out of their slump and tied the score. It wasn't till then that Kim saw a change in Coach Stag. The coach was standing by the side of the dugout, dabbing his perspiring face with a handkerchief. Even then the coach didn't remove his glasses.

  But he looked more nervous now than Kim had ever seen him. Was it because the Fire Fighters were gaining on the Steelheads? Kim wondered. Was it because the season was drawing swiftly toward its conclusion, and the Steelheads had to keep winning in order to win the championship?

  For the first time since the baseball season had started, Kim felt angry with the coach. So what if we lost? Kim told himself. The game was supposed to be for fun first of all, wasn't it? Coach Stag only seemed concerned about one thing. Winning. He's unbelievable!

  And for that matter, why doesn't he take off those sunglasses? What's behind them that he doesn't seem to want anyone to see?

  Russ, on the mound for the Steelheads, kept the Fire Fighters from scoring again. Then he corked a double with one on in the sixth to win the game for the Steelheads, 5 - 4.

  Kim couldn't help but notice the relief that came over the coach.

  “Nice game, gang!” the coach said proudly. “That's another hill we've conquered! Just three more to go!”

  Kim watched him turn to help Don Morgan pile the bats and balls into the equipment bag. He caught Eric's eye and motioned to him.

  “Yeah?” said Eric as he came forward.

  “Want to come with me to see where the coach lives?” he asked quietly.

  Eric looked at him. “You still have that crazy idea that maybe he's a criminal?”

  “I don't know. But there is something different about him, that's for sure.”

  Eric hesitated, then finally nodded. “Okay. I'll go with you.”

  10

  SIX-SEVENTEEN BEAVER STREET was at the opposite side of Blue Hills from where Kim lived. He and Eric took a bus there, arriving on the corner of Beaver and Ford streets shortly before eight o'clock.

  As they started walking down the six hundred block of Beaver, Eric said, “Suppose we meet the coach and he wants to know what we're doing here? What're we going to tell him?”

  Kim shrugged. “We'll be honest with him.”

  Eric stared. “Honest with him?”

  Kim looked directly at his perplexed friend. “We'll—okay, I'll ask him why he's so anxious to win the championship, and why he's picked us to play on his team. Look, he must be some kind of nut. Can you think of one single reason why he picked up a team composed of kids whose fathers all played on the same baseball team over twenty years ago? Can you?”

  Eric shook his head. “No, I can't,” he admitted. “Okay, come on. Let's get this over with before I change my mind.”

  They continued on their way, and presently stopped in front of 617, a tall, three-story, gray stone building with green, peeling shutters. A sign that seemed to be as old as the building read ROCKVILLE APTS.

  “It's an apartment house,” observed Kim.

  “Looks like an old castle,” said Eric.

  Kim headed for the steps and the double doors. Eric waited till he reached the steps, then followed him.

  Gently Kim turned the knob, pushed the door in, and stepped inside, Eric at his heels. They found themselves inside a foyer leading to a long hallway and a staircase. On the wall near the staircase was a directory with mail slots. Kim read the names, finding only one that he recognized: Bernard Reese—Apt. 12.

  “Eric!” he whispered. “Coach Stag's name isn't here!”

  The boys looked at each other silently. “Well, what do we do now?” Eric asked finally.

  “Let's see if Mr. Reese is in,” Kim suggested. “He should be able to tell us something about Coach Stag, if he will.”

  Apartment 12 was on the second floor. Kim knocked on the door. No one answered. He knocked again, harder. Still no answer.

  Disappointed, the boys started back down the stairs, and saw a woman in a white print dress peering up at them.

  “You boys looking for someone?” she asked.

  “Mr. Reese,” replied Kim. “I guess he's not in, though.”

  She smiled pleasantly. “Professor Reese, you mean. I think he's at the theater, directing a new play. Do you want to give me your names so that I can tell him you called on him? I'm Mrs. Pierce, the landlady.”

  The boys stopped halfway down the stairs, staring at her.

  “Professor Reese?” Kim echoed.

  “Yes.”

  Kim hesitated. “Well, we were really looking for Mr. Gorman Stag, our baseball coach, Mrs. Pierce,” he confessed. “Professor Reese told us that he lived here.”

  The landlady paused and frowned. “Gorman Stag? I don't know of any Gorman—” She paused. Suddenly her eyes brightened. “Wait a minute! Of course! He used to live here, but he moved! I really don't know where he moved to; he didn't tell me. A little man with thick glasses, right?”

  Kim looked at her. “We've only seen him with dark sunglasses,” he said.

  “Oh, come to think of it, he did wear those sunglasses more than the plain ones,” she said. “Well, look, I must be going. I was in the middle of doing my dishes when I heard you knocking on the door upstairs. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course,” said Kim. “Thanks, ma' am.”

  She headed down the hall, and the boys headed out of the door.

  “So Mr. Reese is really a professor,” mused Kim, as he and Eric hurried down the steps to the sidewalk.

  “And he's directing a new play,” added Eric. “Know what? This whole thing is getting more mysterious every day.”

  They reached the bus stop on the corner and waited for their bus.

  Kim said, “Did you notice the change on Mrs. Pierce's face when I told her that we were really looking for Coach Stag? I think she lied to us. I don't think that Coach Stag has ever lived in that apartment house.”

  Eric gazed confusedly at him. “Why would she lie to us? She's the landlady.”

  “I don't know,” said Kim. “Maybe she and Professor Reese have cooked up something about Coach Stag.”

  “Why? Look, if you still think that Coach Stag is a crook—which I think is crazy—why would Professor Reese protect him?” exclaimed Eric doubtfully. “Have you thought about that?”

  Kim, looked at him, his face rigid. “Maybe Mrs. Pierce is the only other person who knows, and they're all involved in something together,” he answered. “Eric, this sounds crazy, hut I've made up my mind. The next time I see Professor Reese I'm going to ask him just who, or what, Coach Stag is. I don't see any reason why we shouldn't know who he is, and why he's so darned anxious to win the championship with a team whose kids are sons
and daughters of fathers who played on the same team twenty years ago!”

  It wasn't until the game against the Blue Jays that Kim saw Professor Reese again. He shored up enough courage to ask the professor about the coach, but couldn't find the opportunity. There was always someone too close by. And Kim felt that the question he wanted to ask the professor was of such a nature that he had to be sure no one else heard it.

  The game was another close one. Going into the fifth inning, the Blue Jays were ahead, 8 - 7, and again Kim saw how the coach was reacting. Coach Stag was visibly worried, pacing in the small area at the side of the dugout like a caged animal.

  Nick Forson's double in left center field, followed by an error by the Blue Jays' left fielder, evened up the score. Kim noticed that the coach had stopped his pacing now, and that a look of renewed hope had returned to his face.

  Eric pounded the hit that brought in the tie-breaking run. The sixth inning went scoreless, and the game went to the Steelheads, 9 - 8.

  “Nice game, gang,” praised the coach, wiping the sweat beads off his lips with a handkerchief. “Winning is the key. Only two more games to go. All we've got to do is win one of them, and the championship is ours. Isn't that great, huh? Isn't that just great?”

  Kim looked at him, and again felt that the coach was pressing the team too hard.

  Why is it so important to you to win the championship, Coach? Kim wanted to ask him. Who are you really, anyway?

  But he reasoned that he'd have to wait until the next game—or the game after that—to really find out.

  11

  AWEEK LATER THE STEELHEADS played the Blue Jays again. After having beaten them twice, the Steelheads went onto the field with the confidence that they could repeat their win.

  Kim watched the game from the bench, and after a while couldn't believe his eyes as he saw the Blue Jays come up with the greatest game he had ever seen them play.

  Two homers and three triples were included in the rampage, yet Coach Stag let Russ Coletti pitch the entire game. And, as inning after inning went by, and the Blue Jays piled up one run after another to the Steelheads' scattered few, Kim saw the coach sitting at the end of the bench, his arms crossed over his chest, his face like a plastic statue's.