Wild Pitch Page 7

  12

  There was a game on Wednesday. The Lancers were up against the Bruins, and Eddie had to pitch because Harry was sick.

  Eddie looked at the coach, pleased for the chance to pitch again, but suddenly worried, too, that he might throw another wild pitch and hit another batter.

  The coach seemed to have read his thoughts as he patted Eddie on the shoulder and said, “We have only two guys on our pitching staff, Eddie, ol’ boy. You’ve got to pitch. I could put Larry, or Paul, or any of the other guys in there, but I don’t want this game turned into a circus. The Bruins are good, and you’re the only one I’ve got who can pitch against them and make this a ball game. Okay?”

  Eddie shrugged. He wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t believe in questioning a coach’s decision, even if he disagreed with it. Anyway, he knew he couldn’t have changed the coach’s mind, so why argue?

  “What have you heard about Phyllis Monahan?” Coach Inger asked him.

  “She’s coming along okay.”

  “Good. Have you been up to see her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going up tonight,” said the coach. “Okay, Eddie. Try to keep the ball in there. Don’t throw too hard, just try to concentrate on the plate.” He grinned placidly. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Oh, sure. Don’t worry about a thing. Why did coaches say that when worry was part of the game? Eddie shrugged, then dismissed the thought.

  The Bruins had first bats, and Eddie walked up to the mound as if he were a stranger to it. His palms were sweaty. He scooped up a handful of soft dirt, rubbed it over his palms, then dropped it at his feet.

  The ump handed a new ball to Tip, and Tip tossed it to him. Eddie threw in a half dozen pitches, trying to hit Tip’s target with each one, and succeeded four out of six times.

  “Play ball!” said the ump, then turned his back to Eddie and wiped off the plate with a whisk broom.

  The Bruins’ leadoff batter stepped to the plate, and Eddie sized him up. He was short, heavy, and held his bat high over his right shoulder.

  “Nothing too good, Eddie, boy!” Larry called from third.

  “No sticker! No sticker, Eddie!” Puffy’s voice boomed from short.

  From Tony in right field: “Juice it by ’im, Eddie! Juice it by ’im!”

  Somebody from the stands yelled, “Don’t hit him, Eddie!”

  Somebody else yelled, “This one’s a he, Eddie! Be good to him!”

  Laughter followed the yells.

  Eddie reddened as he toed the rubber and looked at the ball, turning it so that his first two fingers crossed the laces. He pretended he wasn’t listening to the needling remarks, but the voices were so clear coming from behind third base he couldn’t miss them.

  He walked the man on five pitches, then tried to take it easier on the second batter, expecting him to bunt. Instead, the batter laced the ball out to right center for two bases, and a run scored.

  Tip and Puffy came in toward the mound and tried to settle him down.

  “Don’t listen to those monkeys in the stands,” said Puffy. “They don’t know any better.”

  “This next batter’s big, but he swings like an old, rusty gate,” said Tip, spitting into his mitt. “Throw ’em fast and you’ll whiff ’im.”

  Eddie wasn’t worried about throwing them fast; he was worried about hitting a batter. His second pitch almost nicked the big kid’s belt, but he hit the corners on the next two, then struck the kid out.

  “There you go, Eddie!” Tip yelled, laughing.

  A pop fly to Puffy and a grounder to Paul at second base ended the top of the first inning.

  Eddie walked off the mound amid a chorus of cheers from Lancer fans.

  “See, Eddie? You did all right,” Coach Inger said, tapping him on the back. “Your control looks pretty good.”

  Eddie shrugged. Must be that my nervousness wasn’t showing, he thought.

  The Lancers picked up two runs on Larry’s walk, Lynn’s double to left center, and Tip’s single over first.

  The Bruins scored in the top of the second on a walk and two singles. One of Eddie’s pitches soared over Tip’s leaping reach, and another moved the batter back six inches, drawing jeers from the fans.

  “Keep them away from the batter,” Tip advised him as they walked off the field together. “Most of your pitches seem to be on the batter’s side. No wonder the crowd thinks you’re trying to brush him off sometimes.”

  “I don’t. I never do.”

  “I know that,” exclaimed Tip. “But the fans don’t.”

  When the Lancers finally got up again, Puffy led off with a single. Eddie got Coach Inger’s sign to bunt, but after two foul tips he had to swing or risk a strikeout. He swung, and belted a single over shortstop. Puffy ran to second and tried to stretch it to third, only to get tagged out trying a Pete Rose slide on his belly.

  Larry got on again, this time on an error by the shortstop, who made a nice catch of Larry’s grounder, then heaved it a mile over the first baseman’s head.

  Two singles in a row by Dale and Lynn helped the Lancers put two more runs on the board. Bruins 2, Lancers 4.

  Eddie walked the first batter in the top of the third. The second Bruin laid down a bunt to move up the runner, but the ball only bounced two feet in front of the plate. Tip pounced on it like a cat and threw out the runner at second. Puffy, making the play, almost doubled the runner at first, but missed by a step.

  “Nice going, Tip,” said Eddie.

  Sometimes Tip could pull a move that would surprise everybody.

  No Bruin scored that inning, and the Lancers came up with hopes to gain on them, or go ahead. They did neither.

  It wasn’t till the fourth inning that Eddie laid in a strike on the leadoff batter. Then he threw one that got away from him. It was so far inside that even though the batter jumped back the ball grazed his thigh.

  The ump pointed a finger toward first base. The batter, tossing aside his bat, glared at Eddie, rubbed his side, and trotted to first.

  Eddie heard the crowd taunting him. He tried hard to ignore them, but couldn’t.

  He walked the next batter, then eased up on a pitch on the third, heard the solid sound of bat connecting with ball, and watched in awe as it soared over the left-field fence for a home run.

  He stayed in there, mentally pleading for Mr. Inger to yank him. Finally, Mr. Inger did.

  A mixture of jeers and applause saluted him as he walked off the mound, and his throat choked.

  “Chin up, Eddie,” encouraged Tip. “You pitched a good game.”

  Eddie knew better. If that was a good one, I’d hate to pitch a bad one, he thought. But Tip seemed to know what bothered him, seemed to know when to apply a comforting word, and Eddie appreciated his try.

  Coach Inger had Don Tanglefoot, the substitute infielder, warm up in the bullpen. When he yanked Eddie out he waved Don in. After a half dozen throws — some looked strong, some weak — Don was ready.

  The Bruins scored another run before Don pulled the Lancers out from under the onslaught. The Bruins scored a run in the sixth, and Puffy powdered a home run in the bottom of the sixth. After seven innings it was Bruins 7, Lancers 5.

  Eddie had little to say as he walked home with Tip, Puffy, and Margie. His mind was wrapped up in his poor performance and the fear of hitting another batter. Good thing there were helmets, he thought. He’d have batters scared to death of his pitching.

  He wondered if he’d ever improve. Speed, control, and something on the ball were all that a pitcher needed. Well, he had speed, and sometimes control, and sometimes he could make the ball do funny things. He always felt good when the ball cooperated, and lousy when it didn’t.

  Tip, Puffy, and Margie carried the conversation. Tip didn’t think the Bruins should’ve won. If Tony hadn’t been half asleep on that hit to short right field, he would’ve taken off in time and caught the ball instead of grabbing it on a hop and letting a run score. If this and if
that. Eddie felt awful.

  He and Margie got home and found Roxie ready to leave for the gift shop to relieve their parents. She asked about the game and he said he didn’t think she’d care to hear about it.

  “Lousy, huh?” she said.

  “Lousy’s right,” he answered.

  “You didn’t hit anybody again, did you?”

  “I did.”

  Her eyes flashed to Margie and back to him. “You did?”

  “He did,” Margie cut in, nodding.

  “Eddie! Maybe you should give up pitching,” Roxie declared. “Out of nine positions on the field you should be able to play another one.”

  “It seems so, doesn’t it?”

  She looked surprised. “You mean you can’t play another position? Just pitch?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I’ve tried to play shortstop, but I’m lousy on grounders. I can also throw a ball pretty far over the first baseman’s head. That’s why Puffy Garfield’s playing shortstop and not me.”

  “What about the outfield?”

  “I’ve worked out there, too. I might as well buck for a mascot’s job.”

  Roxie looked at her watch. “I’ve got to run, or Mom and Dad will fire me.”

  “What’s to eat?”

  “I had cottage cheese and peaches,” Roxie replied, opening the door. “If you don’t think that will fill you, wait for Mom. She’ll fix you kids something. Take care. Oh — are you going to see Phyllis tonight?”

  “I think so.”

  She smiled. “Good. ’Bye, now.”

  “’Bye.”

  At five of seven he rode his bike to the hospital, remembering that Coach Inger had said he was going to visit Phyllis, too. He was full. His mother had cooked chicken and rice, and he had eaten like a horse.

  He stepped up to the counter, saw the same gray hair, the same face, the same pleasant smile.

  “She left this morning,” the receptionist said, before he had a chance to say a word.

  He frowned, surprised. “Oh? Thank you.”

  13

  Eddie felt a sense of relief. If she was sent home she must be lots better, he thought.

  He wondered if Coach Inger had been here yet, but he turned and left without inquiring.

  As he rode out of the parking lot, he decided he’d head for her home.

  He rode directly there, parked in the driveway next to a blue car, climbed the steps to the front porch, and thumbed the door bell. Somewhere in the house, chimes rang. Presently the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man in shirtsleeves stood there.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi,” Eddie said nervously. “I’m Eddie Rhodes. I went to the hospital to see Phyl, but the lady told me she came home.”

  “Yes, she did. I’m Phyllis’s father. Come in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mr. Monahan led him through the house, a large home with a thick yellow rug through the hall and the rooms, landscape reproductions on the walls, and pastel furniture. Phyl and her mother were sitting on comfortable lawn chairs on the porch.

  Phyl’s eyes widened in surprise when she saw him. “Eddie!”

  “Hi,” he said calmly. “Hello, Mrs. Monahan.” He went over and shook her hand.

  “Well, hello,” she greeted him politely. “Were you at the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  She started to get up.

  “No, please,” he said. “Don’t get up.”

  She smiled. “This is Mr. Monahan,” she said.

  “I met him,” Eddie said, smiling. They shook hands.

  “So you’re Eddie Rhodes, huh?” said Mr. Monahan, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at Eddie from his six-foot-two height. “I’m glad to meet you finally.”

  Eddie blushed.

  “Sit down, Eddie,” Mrs. Monahan offered.

  He sat in one of the other chairs and looked at Phyllis. Her face was radiant, although she had lost some of her tan. Her hair was cut to shoulder length. She wasn’t wearing a bandage anymore.

  “Did you have a ball game today?” she asked.

  “Yes. Against the Bruins. We lost.”

  He didn’t want to talk baseball, not in front of the Monahans. But Phyl kept asking questions.

  “Did you pitch?”

  He nodded. “Four innings.”

  She frowned. “Just four?”

  “Yeah. I was being blasted.”

  He looked at his hands. He felt awkward and uncomfortable. He got up.

  “Well,” he said, “I just wanted to —”

  “Why don’t you two walk around the backyard a bit,” Mr. Monahan interrupted. “The doctor says you should start walking a little more, Phyl. Build up those loose muscles.”

  “Good idea!” she exclaimed.

  They stepped down from the porch to the yard, where clusters of hibiscus and petunias waved in the breeze.

  “Your mother’s attitude toward me seems to have changed,” Eddie observed quietly.

  “Oh, it was only for a short while that she thought you were such an ogre. It didn’t last long. As a matter of fact, Mom and Dad were discussing you a little while ago.”

  “They were?”

  “They wondered if you’d come to the house.”

  He grinned.

  “How about that?”

  Now that they were alone, he brought up the subject of baseball. The last time he’d seen her she was considering quitting, and he had pleaded with her to give herself another chance.

  “Well, I hope you’ve decided to keep playing, Phyl,” he said, watching her face, looking for a reaction.

  “I’ve decided,” she said.

  “To do what?” he asked when she didn’t tell him immediately.

  “To play,” she replied, and laughed.

  His heart jumped. He felt like throwing his arms around her. “Oh, good, Phyl! I’m so glad!”

  “I thought you’d be,” she told him.

  He stayed for fifteen minutes, talking baseball, and about working out with her as soon as her doctor said she could. She beamed with enthusiasm.

  “I can hardly wait, Eddie!” she cried.

  Harry started to pitch against the Pirates on Tuesday, but after they knocked six runs off him in the first two innings, Coach Inger had Eddie go in and sent Harry to the showers.

  Eddie concentrated on control, hitting the pocket of Tip’s mitt wherever Tip held it. He threw hard, and most of the time accurately. Slightly inside of the plate, slightly outside, now and then low or high, depending on where Tip wanted the ball pitched. He threw only a few curves, conceding that his weren’t that effective, anyway.

  The Pirates scored one run off him in the fourth, two in the fifth, and two in the sixth. He walked four men. Don Tanglefoot relieved him.

  The Pirates took the game, 11 to 3.

  He got a warm surprise when he started to walk off the field. Someone was calling his name, and he recognized the voice immediately.

  His heart thumped as he turned and saw Phyllis running across the grass toward him.

  “Not too fast!” he yelled at her. “Not too fast!”

  She came up to him, breathing hard, laughing. “What a game!” she declared.

  “I know. It stunk. And so did I.”

  “Not as much as that first kid did.”

  “That was Harry, and he’s our regular.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Hey, meet my sister, Margie. And this is Puffy and Tip.”

  “Glad to meet you,” Margie said.

  “Same here,” said Puffy and Tip.

  “Hi,” she said, and wiped the sweat off her forehead. “Boy, it’s hot. Well, I’ve got to be going. See you all.”

  She took off.

  “Hey, she’s okay,” said Margie.

  “Ditto,” said Puffy.

  “Ditto,” echoed Tip.

  Eddie telephoned her after he got through supper and asked her if she’d like to play catch with him.

  “You bet!” she told him. “
But I’m still eating. Be here about twenty of.”

  He was there on the dot with his glove. She had a baseball — four or five of them, she said — and they played catch. They had plenty of room, a big yard with a metal fence around it.

  He came over the next afternoon again, and they played more catch. She had a bat — three or four of them, too — and they played pepper. He hit them to her first, lightly, so that she wouldn’t exert herself. Then she hit them to him. He saw when she was tired, and they quit.

  It rained the next morning, and he was afraid that the ground might be too wet for the Lancers—Bucs game. But the clouds cleared away by one o’clock, the sun came out, and by three o’clock the field was dry.

  Puffy sat with him as the game started. The Lancers were batting.

  “Heard you’re spending a lot of time with Monahan,” Puffy said.

  “Maybe I am.”

  “You like her?”

  Eddie shrugged. “She’s okay.”

  Puffy shook his head. “I can’t figure it out. She’s all right now, isn’t she? I mean, she got out of that hit on the head with no aftereffects. Why do you feel you owe her something?”

  Eddie felt his skin prickle.

  “I hit her. It was a wild pitch, an accident, but I threw the ball. So it was my fault. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “But it could’ve been anybody. Suppose it was a guy — a male you had hit? What would you have done then?”

  “If he told me he wasn’t going to play baseball again, I’d probably do the same thing.”

  Puffy looked at him, his eyebrows arched. “That’s what she told you? That she didn’t want to play again?”

  “Right.”

  “In that case —”

  “Now you understand, I hope,” Eddie cut in.

  “I understand,” Puffy replied quietly.

  The game was close all the way, and Harry pitched all seven innings of it. The Lancers won, 5–4.

  Eddie and Phyl started to play more pepper, and more catch. They’d go to the ball diamond during the mornings when it was available and he’d knock out pop flies and grounders to her. She was leery of the grounders at first, but gradually she shed her fear of them and began to field them like a veteran.

  “How about batting?” he asked her.