All-American (12 page)

Shoot! We wuz robbed. You wuz robbed, Ronny, on that one. Hard luck, Ronny; hard luck, kid. Ok, gang, let’s go now.

They ran out onto the field.

All right, Jim; c’mon now, Jim-boy, you can do it, Jim. Bear down now, Jim, old kid. This the man we want.

Jim bore down. He seemed to be getting better as the game went along. He struck the first batter out; the next man popped to Mike Fronzak.

Only four more outs, gang, only four to get. Here’s their dangerous man, the captain and left fielder.

He hit the first ball between first and second, right in the slot. But Ronny, well back on the grass, knew he had a chance and started with the ball. Running with his head over, his gloved hand out as far as possible, he tried to reach the ball cutting through the thick spring grass. With a last effort he got to it, stabbed it, the ball resting in the webbing of his glove. But that rush carried him too far and fast. He tried to right himself, to stop; tottered, stumbled and almost fell. For a second he was sure he would fall. Staggering, he managed to recover enough balance to toss the ball over into Bob’s waiting glove.

The runner thundered down the basepath, sore and angry at being cheated out of a hit. As he passed first, he came down hard on Bob’s heel beside the bag. The big boy went down in a heap, and instantly the whole field became a pattern of motion. The coach, the umpire, the Bannister coach, the entire infield, ran across. Bob in pain on the ground was holding his foot in his hand.

“Naw... my ankle... my ankle... my ankle I tell you.”

Someone shouted something at the Bannister runner who walked slowly down the foul line. “Aw, he oughta have kept his big hoofs outa the way.” A fight seemed in the cards. But the Bannister coach stepped in. “Get back to the bench, Jake. You too, Sammy; all you boys. Get back there where you belong.” Then he helped them carry Bob across and lay him on the grass behind their bench.

The coach leaned over and felt of the injured ankle. “You can’t play anymore today, that’s certain. Don’t worry, Bobby, I’ll get you back next week for the Academy game. Here, Tommy, you and Roy help him back to the bus. No, no, you cannot go back in; I don’t care how it feels. You’ve had your ankle twisted, I’ll tape it after we get home. Take his shoe off and help him to the bus, boys.” The yellow bus which had brought them down was waiting in the drive behind the outfield. The coach looked round for a sub. His second string catcher?

“Hey, Coach, I’ll take over first if you want.”

“You? Ever play first before?”

“Yessir. Once at the Academy I did when our regular man was sick with flu.”

“Ok. You take first, Ronny. Let’s see now; George, suppose you go in at second. All right now, boys, forget all that. Only one more inning. How you feel, Jim?” The big pitcher was yanking on a windbreaker he always wore on the bench.

“Me? I’ve got one more good inning left, Coach.”

“Ok, I’ll string along with you. I’m gonna stay with you, Jim. Now come on, boys; let’s see if we can’t get a bigger lead to make things easy for Jim.”

But Abraham Lincoln went out in order and they came to the last of the ninth with that one run bigger than ever.

Only three more outs; three more outs, Jim, three more outs, Mike, three more outs and we’ll go against the Academy an unbeaten team. If we can lick this pitcher, we’ll sure show that boy Heywood something, too. Only three more outs, thought Ronny, as the infield burned the ball across to him and Mike Fronzak shot one at him from the plate. Three more outs.

“C’mon now, guys; c’mon, Jim, stay in there, Jim, every minute...”

Aw, shoot!

The first batter leaned back to avoid a high inside one. The ball hit his bat and looped over third base in safe ground near the foul line. Shoot! Only good fielding prevented the runner from stretching it into a double.

Now the Bannister bench was up and yelling. Last of the ninth, one run behind, nobody out, and a man on first.

“Throw it and duck, big boy. Throw it and duck up there.” Jim stood in his familiar pose, not hearing their comments, cool and undisturbed. He stepped to the rubber and quickly shot in the pitch.

“Strike one!” The clatter and clamor from the opposing bench died suddenly away. Instead, their own confident noise rose over the diamond. Jim still had his stuff. Jim was as good as ever.

“Atta boy, Jim! ’At’s pitching!”

“Nice and loose now, Jim, boy...”

“You’re the baby, Jim...”

“Stay in there, Jim, every minute, Jim...”

The batter hit. A slow, looping ball which lofted over Ronny’s head and spun smack on the right field chalkline like a boy’s top. Aw, nuts! There’s luck for you! Eight innings of perfect pitches, a couple of bloopers, a couple of fluke hits and there you are, bang goes your ball game. Chester came racing in from right and was fortunate to get the ball in time to hold the runner on third. Shoot! Third and first, nobody down. This is bad, this is sure bad.

Now the Bannister bench and the crowded stands behind were wild with excitement. The clatter and noise and shouting increased when the runner on first ambled down to second on Jim’s first pitch. Mike, behind the plate, made no play on him. From the bench the coach was shouting, his hands around his mouth. Ronald heard nothing. Then he saw. He was beckoning, beckoning the whole infield in closer on the grass.

Ronald came in slowly, while the batter took a toehold and the stands shrieked at him.

“Step in front of it, Tommy.”

“Hey, Tommy, thizza one you want...”

“This the big one, Tommy-boy; a hit means a run, anything goes...”

Tommy hit. Ronald saw the ball passing, a line drive between where he stood and second base. He made a desperate dive with his gloved hand, speared it, stumbled, fell, and the ball rolled away on the grass.

The field was confusion. Everyone was running. Then over all the uproar he heard Jim’s cool tones from the box.

“Home, Ronny, home, home!”

Ronald didn’t need to be told. He knew they were all going as hard as they could, giving everything they had. Picking himself up he lunged for the ball, grabbed it, and burned it in to the plate. Mike slapped it hard on the sliding runner and whipped it back to third where the other Bannister runner was bearing down. Mancini had to get down for the throw, somehow he held it, and put it on the man at his feet. Two out! Two out and a man on first.

Instantly everything changed. What had been a sure rally died away, killed at its most promising moment. The noise from the Bannister bench became perfunctory, the cheers and shrieks from the low bleachers behind were silenced, the clamor died down; now the sounds came from their own side, from the coach pleading with them to hold it, his two fists upraised, from the subs yelling at them to get the next batter, from the men around the infield, and the boys out there behind.

“Cool and nervous, Jim...”

“Now let’s go, Jim...”

“Ok, Jim, nice and loose, Jim.”

“That’s pitching, Jim.”

“Let him hit it, Jim; we’ll pick it up for you.”

He did hit, a grass cutter toward first. Ronald felt nervous. He got down on one knee to make it sure. He wanted to make it safe, and watched the rasping hard grounder come at him. It struck his glove, bounced up in the air, and in his excitement he stabbed at the ball and missed. There it was, on the ground, rolling away from him. He pounced on it, pulled himself to his feet and dashed for the bag. By a second he managed to cross over before the runner.

They tramped happily across the thick grass of the outfield toward Bob Patterson and the waiting bus, toward the gym and the showers at Abraham Lincoln, toward their clothes and dinner. Jim, his windbreaker slung over his shoulders, his red hair damp and moist, was grinning; Mike Fronzak was still carrying his catcher’s mask, and Ned was spitting into his glove, a smile on his face. Crane Davis, the manager, with the bat bag, and the coach came up in the rear. Everyone was shouting something.

“Hey there, Ronny...”

“That’s playing, Ronny...”

“Shucks, it’s your pitching, Jim...”

“No, sir! You saved that game.”

“Boy, were you hot, Ronny!”

“We were all hot today.”

“Yeah, whoops, bring on that pitcher up there on the Hill.”

“Let’s go, gang, let’s go.”

“Let’s get that Academy crowd, gang.”

They piled into the yellow bus. Bob Patterson with his ankle on a seat was smoking a cigarette. He quickly put it out as the crowd piled in. At the Academy no one would have dared smoke in training. Ronald suddenly looked round at their dirty stained uniforms, some of the kids wearing faded sweaters, or sweatshirts underneath, all of them so different from the spick and span team on the Hill. They were different, this crowd. They were different, but they could play ball.

And they were a great bunch to play with. He felt affection for them, for Jim, tired and drawn about the mouth, for Bob, wincing as the bus moved forward with a jerk, for Mike, slumped in his seat in the rear. For all the rest, laughing and yelling at each other, calling back and forth, to Mac the driver, to the coach. His face was as wet and sweaty as theirs. It was easy to see what he had gone through on the bench that final inning.

The bus moved on. For just a minute their jokes and shouts were lost as the gears ground. Then they rolled down the highway. “Hey, Coach!” Someone from the rear was yelling at him. “Hey, Coach. If this Ronny is as good next fall as he is at baseball, we’re gonna have a team ’at won’t lose a game.”

The coach frowned. That was one of his superstitions. He never permitted cracks about games to come. He pretended not to hear and said something to the driver. Then he leaned over to Ronald in the next seat.

“You sure kept your head on that ball, Ronald. You played that one just right.”

Now for the Academy. Say, we’ll show that crowd something.

A feeling of uneasiness hung over the entire room. Chairs squeaked continually, making a chorus of scratchy noises. Voices hummed and buzzed. It was the end of the marking period; the day that came regularly once every few months. And it was the last hour of the day—when in every homeroom each student’s report card was issued for the period.

This scene, so different from anything at the Academy, always interested Ronny. At the Academy you did your work everyday or else you got a detention and stayed in afternoons until you did. Here you might fail in a subject and not be sure of having failed until the end of the marking period. He looked around the excited class, at the boys in sweaters without neckties or coats, now all familiar figures who had names and personalities attached. At the girls who gave the room that high-pitched tone so strange to him from the start. At Stacey in a kind of shirt with sleeves cut high above the elbows and the school name in green on his breast; at Ned LeRoy, slumped in his seat and staring ahead, apparently prepared for the worst; at Meyer Goldman in the back of the room, laughing nervously with Mike Fronzak across the aisle. And at Sandra in front. Especially at Sandra. She had on the white shoes with brown tips, and the pink sweater....

Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Mr. Kates standing by his desk tapped severely with his pencil for order. He glanced over the crowded room. “Quiet, please, quiet. Keep it down.” For about a minute he stood silently waiting, glancing around the forty seats, every one occupied by a nervous boy or girl. All save one. Gordon Brewster at the side was undisturbed by the sight of the report cards in Mr. Kates’ hand. The noise, the chatter, the squeaking of chairs subsided. Slowly the teacher came forward with that little brown package in his fist.

Eager hands reached out. Subdued murmurs of delight or deep silence even more meaningful greeted the cards. He came down the aisle toward Ronald. As he slipped the card down on the desk, he leaned over, whispering, “Will you please step into Mr. Curry’s office a minute before you leave, Ronald?”

He knew at once. He knew without opening the small folded card what had happened. He had failed. But he didn’t know the whole of it.

At the top of the folded brown cardboard were the words: REPORT CARD. Underneath that, one line: ACCOMPLISHED IN STUDIES. Every pupil had a serial number. His serial number, 1166, was in the upper left-hand corner.

The card was ruled off into squares, one for each week in the marking period. Grades were listed at the side: 95 was high honors, 85 was honors, 70 was passing. At the top were printed the five subjects he took, and checks had been made in red ink in each square. Thus you—not to mention your teachers and your parents who had to sign the card—could see the progress or lack of it in every subject you took from week to week.

Yes, he knew. He knew all right. He knew as he studied the card that he was below 70 in Latin. But the history, that’s bad. Oh, that’s bad; definitely, as Sandra would say. Honors in algebra, English, and French. But the Latin and the history. That’s bad. No wonder Mr. Curry wanted to see him. Ronald folded up the card and stuffed it into his pocket, discovering with some relief he wasn’t in the least terrified at the coming interview as he had been whenever the Duke called him in. Still and all, you couldn’t help being a little worried.

“Come in. Sit down, Ronald.” Mr. Curry was telephoning, but he put one hand over the mouthpiece and nodded toward a chair. Then he went on talking. “Yes. Yes, I think so. I imagine he will. Yes, I’d agree to that. At the next meeting of the Board? All right. Yes, I will. Yes, if you wish. All right. Very good. Call me Tuesday then. All right. Good-bye.”

While he was talking, Ronald watched him. You’d certainly never think he was the principal of a big high school. Rather a colorless man, on the whole. Naturally you weren’t exactly terrified when he called you into his office. Still and all, you couldn’t help feeling a little worried.

“Ronald, sit down. Glad to see you. This is almost the first chance I’ve had to talk to you since you got out of the hospital. Everything working out?”

Surprising man. You got ready for a kind of a bawling out, and then you got a question like that. “Uhuh. Yessir.”

“I see. That little incident was unpleasant for you; but it sort of cleared the atmosphere, didn’t it?”