The Submarine Pitch Read online

  “It’s too low, I think,” said Fred. “It’s not coming up.”

  “Bernie, you’re up,” said the coach. “Get on, okay?”

  Bernie did, driving a long shot over Hank Dooley’s head that only missed going over the fence by inches. He stopped on third for his longest hit of the season.

  The game was delayed a minute as the coach worked an eyelash out of Bill Conley’s left eye. Then the shortstop walked to the plate and drilled a single through short, scoring Bernie. Ed got a free pass to first, advancing Bill to second. Petey got Deke out on a change-up, then tried to pull the same trick on Buzz. But Buzz connected with the ball solidly, driving it like a meteor over the left-field fence for a long home run. Tom and Rudy both got out, but four runs had scored. 8–5, Rangers.

  The Atoms failed to get a man on during their turn at bat and held the Rangers to one run in the top of the fifth.

  They scored once when they came to bat, then kept the Rangers scoreless in the top of the last inning. With two outs in the bottom of the sixth, they got things rolling again. Foxy started it by winning a free ticket to first. Then Needle socked a crazy dribbler down to short, which Bill muffed.

  Nervous now, and fearing that a hit might start a real hitting spree, Bernie threw four pitches to Nick Collodino, all balls.

  The bases were loaded, and Petey was up.

  10

  Petey was a fair batter. He already had a single to his credit. A long hit could clear the bases and give the Rangers something to worry about.

  “Ball!” yelled the ump as Bernie blazed in his first pitch.

  What am I going to do — walk him, too? Bernie asked himself.

  He concentrated on pitching then, and placed the next one over the plate. He grooved the next one in the same place, and Petey swung wildly.

  “Strike two!” yelled the ump.

  The next pitch snaked up and Petey did it again.

  “Strike three!” boomed the ump.

  The game was over. Bernie sighed with relief.

  He ran off the mound, the Ranger fans applauding him. His parents and AnnMarie came down from the stands and praised him, too.

  “I like that pitch of yours,” his father said, his eyes dancing. “So that’s your famous submarine pitch, is it?”

  Bernie beamed. “That’s what they call it,” he said. “You know that Dave Grant told me about it and showed me how to throw it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I heard that,” said his father. “I guess you owe Dave quite a lot.”

  Bernie nodded. “Yes, I do, Dad.”

  He looked for Dave and Frankie and saw them coming. They showered Bernie with some of their own brand of praise, then they all walked home together. Bernie couldn’t help noticing how pale Dave looked.

  “You okay, Dave?” he asked. “You look pale.”

  Dave shrugged. “I’m okay,” he said.

  You’re lying, thought Bernie. You’re sick. You must be sick if your face is almost the color of milk.

  At Bernie’s house Dave asked if he could telephone his mother.

  “You are sick, aren’t you?” said Bernie.

  “Well, just tired. I thought I’d ask my mom to come for me.”

  “Why should you do that?” said Mr. Shantz. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “But —”

  “No buts,” said Mr. Shantz, and went to the garage to get his car. “Come on.”

  Bernie watched Dave get into the car and ride off. Something was definitely wrong with Dave, he was sure of it. But what? That’s what he wanted to know.

  A few days later, shortly after lunch, Bernie got a phone call from Dave. It was July 18, the day the Rangers were to meet the Sharks for the second time.

  “Hi, Dave,” said Bernie. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you’d like to walk uptown with me,” said Dave.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “Okay. See you in a little while.”

  Bernie told his mother where he was going, then walked over to Dave’s house. Dave met him outside and they started to walk uptown.

  “I’ve been saving up dough for a model,” said Dave, a tone of pride in his voice. “The Constitution.”

  “Hey, that’s great.”

  “I didn’t want to mention it on the phone because I don’t want my parents to know about it,” explained Dave. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Bernie stared at him. “You getting it for them?”

  “No. It’s for me. But I want to surprise them just the same.”

  In about fifteen minutes they reached the business district. They came to a hobby shop, and Dave paused in front of its large display window. It was jam-packed with art crafts and models of airplanes, cars, railroads, and ships.

  “Oh, no!” Dave cried.

  “What’s the matter?” said Bernie.

  “It’s gone! The Constitution’s gone!” Dave almost sobbed.

  He rushed into the building, Bernie at his heels. It must be some model, he thought, if that’s the way Dave feels about it.

  Inside the store Dave paused. Together the boys searched the dozens of craft-loaded shelves for the model of the Constitution.

  Suddenly Dave shouted, pointing, “There it is, Bernie! Thank goodness it wasn’t sold!”

  He raced around a counter loaded with figurines and stopped in front of a row of shelves on which ship models were displayed. There, at eye level, was one of the most beautiful ship models Bernie had ever seen.

  “That’s it,” said Dave. “Isn’t it a beauty, Bern?”

  “It sure is,” admitted Bernie.

  A tall, dark-haired man came forward. His eyes smiled behind his rimless glasses. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “That model,” said Dave, pointing at the Constitution. “How much is it?”

  The clerk smiled and rubbed his nose. “Forty-nine ninety-five.”

  Bernie stared at Dave and saw that he looked stricken.

  “It’s a gorgeous model,” said the clerk. “One of the finest in our store.”

  “I know,” Dave said. “I’m sure it’s worth every penny. Thanks.”

  They walked out of the store, Dave’s hands deep inside his pockets.

  “You don’t have enough money to buy it. Right?” said Bernie.

  “Right. All I’ve got is thirty dollars. I never dreamed it would cost that much. Forty-nine ninety-five. Wow.”

  Several people were assembled in front of the drugstore, watching a guy demonstrating a yo-yo. The boys stopped to watch, too.

  Bernie thought about the money he was saving toward a brand-new bike. If it weren’t for the bike…

  “I can loan you the rest,” he said abruptly. “I’m saving for a bike, but by the time I get the balance that I need, you might be able to pay me back.”

  “No, thanks,” said Dave. “I’ll get it myself. Somehow, I’ll get it.”

  “But, why not? It’s not like I’m giving it to you. You’re going to pay me back.”

  Dave shook his head. “No. And that’s final, Bern.”

  They walked a while in silence. Then Bernie, to break the mood, asked, “How did you raise your money for the model, Dave?”

  “Baby-sitting. How did you raise yours?’

  “Different ways. Painting a fence was my last job.”

  Suddenly he glanced at a clock on the wall of a store. “Hey!” he cried. “It’s three-thirty! I’ll be late for the game!”

  His heart pounded and sweat began to ooze from his forehead. What burned Coach Salerno more than anything was one of his players showing up late at a game.

  They started to run. Bernie, a fast runner and with considerable endurance, didn’t realize how far Dave trailed behind him until he had covered about five blocks. When he looked back Dave was almost two blocks behind him! And Dave was walking!

  “Dave!” Bernie shouted. “You okay?”

  Dave waved him on. “Go ahead! Don’t wait for me!” />
  Bernie frowned. What shall I do? he wondered. Suppose Dave gets sick and nobody’s near him? I can’t go on without him.

  He waited. Dave was literally dragging his feet.

  “You okay?” Bernie asked as Dave finally reached him.

  “Just tired,” confessed Dave. “I told you to go on. I’ll feel terrible if you’re going to be late because of me, Bern. And you will be late. Go ahead. Please!”

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Bernie asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. See you at the game.”

  11

  Bernie raced all the way home, wriggled into his uniform, and then ran all the way to the ball park, arriving there just as the game was about to begin. Dick Singer, the utility infielder, was ready to go out on the mound.

  “Nice time to get around!” the coach snapped at Bernie. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Uptown,” Bernie panted.

  “You must’ve run all the way. What kind of a game do you expect to pitch all pooped out like that?”

  “Where’s Jeff?” Bernie asked, looking around for the alternate pitcher.

  “He’s home nursing a cold. Nice, huh? Well, don’t just stand there. Get out there on the mound and throw some warm-ups. Dick, relax before you get all pooped out yourself.”

  Dick Singer took a deep breath and blew it out, apparently not pleased that he wasn’t starting. He tossed his glove on top of the dugout, then clambered down into the dugout and sat down.

  Bernie walked out to the mound — still tired from the long run — threw in a few warm-up pitches, then stepped to one side as Fred beelined a throw to Tom at second base. Tom tossed it to Chuck who relayed it back to Bernie.

  Well, what kind of a game is this going to be? Bernie asked himself. He had already gotten a strike on himself by running all that distance from uptown. After that no kid in his right mind could expect to make a decent showing pitching to a good team like the Sharks, let alone win the game.

  On top of that worry there was another. Dave. Bernie started to sweat just thinking about his friend. Darn it all, he should have ignored Dave’s plea to go to the game and stayed with him. Dave could have gotten awfully ill and collapsed on the way home.

  I shouldn’t have run, he told himself despairingly. Then Dave would not have run, and we both would have arrived at the game in good shape. So what if I were late? Better late than taking a chance of Dave’s collapsing from whatever he’s suffering from.

  In spite of his misery he laid his first two pitches right on target to Tim MacDonald, the Sharks’ leadoff hitter. His next pitch was outside. Then Tim tied onto the next one for a clean single; Bernie watched helplessly as the ball streaked through the infield.

  Jess bunted Tim to second and reached first base safely as Chuck Haley, fielding the bunt, threw wide. Both runners advanced a base, and Butch Ecker came up.

  Butch leaned into Bernie’s first pitch, connecting solidly for a double between left and center that scored the two runners.

  Bernie’s spirit sank like a lead weight. Two runs already, and not yet an out.

  Then Vince stepped to the plate, digging his toes into the dirt as he got ready for Bernie’s first pitch. He wasn’t smiling now; he was serious, as if nothing were more important to him at this moment than blasting Bernie’s pitch out of the lot.

  Bernie glanced briefly at the stands. Had Dave arrived yet, or had he gone home? Was he okay? What kind of a friend am I, anyway, thought Bernie, for leaving him there on the street? Oh, man. Just for a lousy baseball game.

  He stepped on the mound, stretched, and delivered. The moment he released the ball he knew that the pitch still lacked the speed and zip to make it effective.

  Crack! Vince’s solid smash proved it. The ball sizzled out to right center for a two-bagger, bringing in another run for the Sharks. Vince stood on the sack, smiling triumphantly and clapping.

  Bob Kolowski then popped out and Sam Norton flied out. But Andy Cornwall connected safely, driving a shot past Buzz for a hit.

  “Your submarine pitch is sunk, Bernie!” Vince yelled to him as he rounded third base toward home. “You might as well get ready for the showers!”

  Bernie tried to ignore him as he caught the throw in, rubbed the ball, and hoped —hoped for the tiredness to creep out of his body, the ache to leave his muscles. Mick Devlan was up next, and Bernie got back on the mound, intent on making Mick end the rally.

  He didn’t. Mick belted the first pitch over second for a single, advancing Andy to third.

  A lump lodged in Bernie’s throat. He was pitching the worst he had ever pitched. Why didn’t the coach pull him?

  But Coach Salerno was sitting there in the dugout as if he didn’t have a worry in the world.

  Luke Kish, the Sharks’ pitcher, ended the fat inning with a one-bouncer directly back to Bernie, who threw to first for the third out.

  Four big runs. It looked like the start of a slaughter.

  Bernie went in sulking and sat down at the end of the bench. He was certainly glad he wasn’t one of the first batters. He needed the rest; he had been standing out there long enough.

  He was surprised when the coach came and sat down beside him.

  “You’re probably wondering why I didn’t take you out,” said the coach. Bernie shrugged. “Well, let me tell you. You’re a little tired from having run from uptown, which was a stupid thing to do in the first place. Right? But, by the second inning — or maybe the third — you’ll feel better, and you’ll begin to pitch like your old self again. You’ve got a good pitch, Bernie. It’s not unique, but there aren’t many guys who can throw it like you can. All you have to do now is forget about that first inning. When you get back out there think of it as a new ball game. Pitch like you pitched the last game and you’ll have the Sharks wrapped around your finger.”

  The talk melted the lump in Bernie’s throat, the heavy feeling in his heart.

  He grinned. “Thanks, Coach.”

  He watched Bill Conley slice at three straight pitches, then walk stiffly to the dugout, his bat on his shoulder.

  Ed got a good feel of the ball, driving it out to deep left where Vince pulled it in. Deke cracked the ice by slashing out a single through short, then advancing to second as Buzz walked.

  Excitement began to generate on the Ranger bench as Tom got up. He poled two sharp blows just inches outside of the left-field foul line, then lined one directly at Vince. Three outs, one hit, no runs. The excitement died.

  Bernie again found himself facing the top of the Sharks’ batting order. He felt rested, but hardly enough. Nevertheless, with Tim popping up to third, Jess flying out to center, and himself catching a one-hopper that he threw to first for an easy out, he squeezed through the inning.

  Rudy fouled two pitches to the backstop screen, then smashed a hot grounder to third. He was out before he was two-thirds of the way to first.

  Chuck laced Luke’s first pitch for a long double, then scored on Fred’s single through second.

  “Okay, Bernie,” said the coach. “Let’s start a merry-go-round.”

  Bernie had to practically drag himself out of the dugout. He picked up his bat, stepped to the plate, and eyed Luke’s first pitch carefully. It was a ball. So were Luke’s next three. Bernie walked.

  Bill, after looking over Luke’s first two throws — strikes — flied out to left. Ed kept the Rangers alive by driving Fred in with a grass-scorching single through short. But that was it as Deke flied out to center field. 4–2, Sharks.

  Bernie felt better as he walked up on the mound to start the first half of the third inning. Vince was up, and again he was smile-less, fully determined to powder Bernie’s pitch clean out of the county.

  He didn’t, though. He ticked the first pitch, missed the next, then went down on his fanny as he swung and missed again. The Ranger fans roared.

  Bob went down swinging, too, and Sam popped up to first.

  “You’re in the groove
, Bernie!” cried the coach as Bernie came trotting in. “How do you feel, pal?”

  “Much better,” Bernie said with a smile.

  Buzz started off the bottom of the third with a triple, finally scoring on Rudy’s blazing single through short. Then the combination of good pitching and good fielding on both sides kept the fourth and fifth innings scoreless. The four runs that the Sharks had accumulated in the first inning began to look very big.

  As the Rangers came to bat in the bottom of the sixth, Bernie glanced at the stands again for Dave’s familiar face. He was sure that if Dave had come to the game he’d be sitting with Frankie. But only AnnMarie was there with him.

  Both Chuck and Fred grounded out. One more out, and the victory would go to the Sharks, and the one guy who would never let Bernie forget it would be Vince.

  Bernie, at bat, felt that he had never been in a worse spot in his life.

  He watched Luke take his stretch, then saw the ball come in, blazing white. He reared back, swung, and crack! The ball streaked across the infield and shot past the shortstop for a hit.

  The Ranger fans exploded with a tumultuous yell; then Dick, who had replaced Bill in the fourth inning, came to the plate. Crack! He connected with a double to left center, and Bernie ran to third where the third-base coach held him up.

  Arnie Coles, batting for Ed, kept up the spree, scoring Bernie with a single. And so did Deke with a long triple against the right-field fence that scored Dick and Arnie. It was over. The Rangers had found the magic touch.

  Bernie didn’t linger around for the congratulations. He ran to the stands where he met Frankie and AnnMarie coming down.

  “Why didn’t Dave come?” he asked anxiously.

  “We don’t know,” said AnnMarie. “We wondered that, too.”

  They hurried home, and Bernie telephoned the Grant residence. The phone rang four times, then the answering machine picked up. Bernie hung up, an ache in his throat. He knew something awful had happened to Dave. He could feel it in his bones.

  “Mom,” he said, choking back the ache in his throat, “will you call the hospital for me? See if Dave’s there?”

  She frowned. “You think he might be there?”

  He nodded, silent.