Challenge at Second Base (3 page)

Then Eddie Lee hit a zigzagging grounder to the pitcher. The pitcher fumbled it, and for a moment it looked as if Eddie might
get on. But then the husky pitcher closed his hand on the ball, reared back, and heaved it to first. Eddie was out by half
a step.

Tommy Hart waited for the one he
wanted. With a two-two count on him he belted a single between short and third.

Stan, sitting in the shade of the dugout, looked across at Mr. Bartlett standing in the third-base coaching box. Would the
coach give Tommy the steal signal? Tommy was fast, but he was pitching and there were two outs. Stan waited anxiously to see
what the coach would do.

The coach gave no signal, which meant for lead-off man Don Marion to hit away.

Don socked the second pitch high over second base. The shortstop and the second baseman both ran for it, but the Steelers’
other outfielders yelled, “Barry! Barry!” The second baseman made the catch. Three outs.

Again the Steelers failed to score.

In the top of the third the Falcons put across three more runs, and in the fourth two more. It looked like a runaway for them.

Meanwhile, three grounders had zipped down to Gary at second, and he had fielded
them all. Stan wondered if Coach Bartlett would put him in the game. He wouldn’t mind playing now, especially since the Falcons
were far in the lead.

In the bottom of the fourth inning his wish was granted. He replaced Gary at second. A high-bouncing grounder came to him,
and for a moment a frightening sensation came over him. What if he muffed this one?

The next instant the ball struck the pocket of his glove. He yanked it out and snapped it to first.

“Out!” shouted the umpire.

The wave of fright left him. That, thought Stan, wasn’t bad at all.

The next two men failed to reach first either.

With two outs in the fifth, Ronnie Woods, a left-hand hitter, pinch-hit for Frankie Smith. He looked awfully dangerous. But
he missed two pitches, then popped to first to end the inning.

The Steelers went to the plate with determination.
But Tommy, pitching one-hit ball so far, didn’t let a man get to first.

Duffy led off in the sixth. Standing eagerly at the plate, waving his bat gently, he looked threatening. The first pitch came
in and he swung.

Crack!
It went sailing far out to left field! It cleared the fence by twenty feet!

But it was no homer. It was foul by ten feet.

“Straighten this one out, Duffy!” the boys on the bench yelled.

Blast! Another terrific poke out to left! But again it went foul.

Then Duffy let the third pitch go by.

“You’re out!” cried the umpire.

Duffy whirled, stared at the man, then went sulking to the dugout.

“That blind bat,” muttered Duffy. “It was way outside.”

“George Page, then Stan Martin,” said the scorekeeper. “Get on deck, Stan.”

George walked to the plate, a bat on his
shoulder. Stan selected one from the dozen on the ground and swung it back and forth a few times. Then he knelt in the on-deck
circle waiting for his turn. It came quickly. George popped the first pitch to third for the second out.

Stan stood nervously at the plate, batting left-handed.

“Wait for a good one!” he heard Coach Bartlett say.

The pitch came in chest-high. It was beautiful. It was the kind of pitch he liked. But he didn’t swing.

“Strike one!”

Another pitch came in. Lower now, but not too low. He swung.
Crack!
A grounder down the first-base line. He started to run. The ball went foul halfway to first, and Stan went back to the plate.

“Ball!” An outside pitch.

“One and two!” said the umpire, announcing the count.

The next pitch came down the groove. Stan belted it. A line drive over the first baseman’s head! Stan dropped the bat and
raced to first.

He had done it. His first time at bat, and he had singled. He heard the praises from the fans, and he heard it from Coach
Bartlett.

“Nice hit, Stanley, boy!”

What now? A steal? Would the coach have him try it with two outs?

The coach slipped his thumbs behind his belt. That didn’t mean anything.

Larry took the first pitch. It was a ball.

The coach still had his thumbs behind his belt. Now he moved his hands along the belt to his hips. This meant something. The
steal was on!

Stan waited till the pitcher climbed the mound, then took a safe lead off the bag. The pitcher lifted his arms, brought them
down, looked over his shoulder at first, then threw home.

“Strike!” said the umpire.

Stan took off, his spikes pounding the ground, leaving puffs of dust behind him.

He slid into second. Dust clouded around him. The second baseman caught the peg from his catcher and slapped it on Stan. But
Stan was already there.

Two outs, Stan on second, and the count on Larry was one ball, one strike. The stocky catcher dug in on the first pitch, and
whacked it far out to deep center! He had hit one like this in the second inning.

The Steelers’ center fielder turned around and bolted back. He was nearly against the center-field fence when he lifted his
glove. The ball plopped into it and stuck there.

The fans groaned. This time Larry managed to get a little closer to first than he did before.

“Tough luck, Larry!” The boys on the bench echoed his feelings. “You’ll get it over that fence yet!”

Stan had started running at the crack of the bat. Now, crossing home plate, he stopped a moment and smiled at the unlucky
catcher.

“He played for you, Larry, or it would’ve been a hit,” he said.

Larry paused, his eyes meeting Stan’s for a moment while both of them thought back to that embarrassing incident in Stan’s
room when Larry, hurt from the shameful words Stan had called him, shouted an outburst back at Stan. Afterwards Stan had been
sorry for what he’d said.

Suddenly a grin spread across Larry’s sweating face.

“Thanks, Stan,” he said.

And right away you could tell he had been sorry, too.

6

T
he lead-off man for the Steelers walked, then raced to second base on a scratch hit to third. Jim Kendall charged the ball,
but by the time he fielded it and snapped it to second, the runner was there.

“Let’s get a double, Stan!” Don shouted from short.

A right-hander was batting. Although it was the bottom of the sixth inning and the Falcons were leading, 7 to 0, Stan felt
nervous. A double play would mean two outs and only one more to get to complete the inning. Three more on top of that would
complete the game.

But if he goofed on the play, the Steelers could start a rally. There were many games — even in the major leagues — when a
losing team scored several runs in the closing innings of a game to win it.

Tommy got his signal from Larry and put his foot on the rubber. He took his stretch, checked the runners on first and second,
then threw.

Crack!
A sizzling grounder to short!

Stan ran to cover second. Don fielded the ball and snapped it to him. Nervously, Stan caught it. At the same time he feared
the runner’s bumping into him before he could throw the ball.

In one motion he turned his body to first and threw. Horror overwhelmed him as he saw his throw going too wide for George
to catch. The ball just missed the runner, and went bouncing toward the fence.

There was his chance to pull off a good
play, and he had muffed it. Gary would have thrown it perfectly.
I bet right now he’s laughing up his sleeve.

Now it was one out and men on second and third.

Tommy worked hard on the batter. With two strikes and a ball on him, the hitter blasted a line drive to third. The ball traveled
like a white bullet about seven feet off the ground. Jim lifted his hands.
Smack!
The ball struck his glove. But then it went through and fell to the ground!

The runner on third rushed back to tag up. Now, realizing that Jim had missed the hard-driven ball, he turned and streaked
for home.

“Home, Jim! Home!” Don Marion shouted.

Jim picked up the ball and pegged it home. Larry, straddling the plate, caught the ball coming in like an arrow. He put it
on the
sliding runner, and the umpire jerked up his thumb.

“Out!”

Two outs, men on first and second. They hadn’t tried to advance on the play.

The Steelers’ next hitter waited out the pitches. Then, with a three-two count on him, he cut at a knee-high pitch. Whiff!
Another strike-out for Tommy.

Coach Bartlett put in pinch-hitters in the top of the seventh, but nobody hit. The Steelers took their turn at bat for the
last time in the game. Three men up, three men down. They lost, 7 to 0.

Stan didn’t linger around to listen to the comments about the game. He saw Gary Newman’s face and that was enough.

That evening Dottie, Stan’s seventeen-year-old sister, got dressed to go out. It was
a common routine, and Stan hardly thought about it.

When the front doorbell rang, Stan went to answer it. He found Jeb Newman standing there, and stared.

Jeb taking Dottie out? What was the matter with her head?

“Hi, Stan.” Jeb greeted him with a smile. “Dottie, in?”

You know doggone well she’s in,
Stan thought. “Yes, she’s in. Just a minute. Hey, Dottie!”

He hardly turned around, though, before she was there, smiling very politely and looking too pretty for a guy like Jeb Newman.

After they left, Stan closed the door disgustedly and turned on the television set in the living room. He watched the program
with mild interest, for his mind was on the game he had played today.

Phil came home, wearing gray slacks and a fancy sport shirt.

He smiled at Stan. “Hi, little buddy. How’d you make out?”

“We won,” Stan said. “Seven to nothing.”

“Wow! Did you play?”

“A few innings.”

“Any hits?”

“Singled.” Stan paused. “I muffed on a double play.”

Phil looked at him. His smile faded.

“Don Marion caught the ground ball and we got the man out at second. But I threw wild to first.”

“They didn’t get any runs, so what are you worried about?”

“They almost did, though, if Jim Kendall hadn’t thrown a man out at home. He missed a line drive, but picked it up in time.”

Phil pulled a hassock in front of Stan and sat on it. He placed his hands on Stan’s knees and looked at his brother with a
warm, kind light in his eyes.

“Little buddy,” he said, “you’re like me.
You get hurt easily, just the way I do. And neither one of us can help it. Tell me, how much do you like baseball?”

“I like it,” Stan said. “I guess I like it better than football or basketball, even.”

“It’s a tough game,” Phil said. “Sometimes you play your heart out, and you’ll still fail. You’ll sit back and wonder why
you’ve failed. Why didn’t you get that hit? Why didn’t you catch that ball? Those things will run through your mind and sometimes
you’ll wish you had never started playing the game.”

Stan stared at his brother. “Is that why you’re not playing now, Phil?”

Phil shrugged, and avoiding Stan’s eyes. “I did all right for a while. Then I missed a few grounders, and at the plate I’d
either strike out or hit into somebody’s hands. Couldn’t do a thing right, so I was benched.”

“Didn’t they give you another chance?”

“Yes. But I was no longer a regular. I was
afraid that they were going to send me to a team in a lower league, and I didn’t want that.”

“So you didn’t go back at all.”

“That’s right,” said Phil.

“But it’s different with you, Phil,” said Stan. “You were playing professional.”

“At one time I was your age and playing sand-lot ball too,” replied Phil.

“But that letter I got,” said Stan. “That letter printed from words cut out of a newspaper. It says I shouldn’t quit. Who
wouldn’t want me to quit, Phil?”

Phil grinned and shook his head. “I don’t know, little buddy,” he said. “Obviously, somebody.”

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