Look Who's Playing First Base (3 page)

The Leaf held the ball. Bob, who hadn’t moved far off the third-base sack, now returned
to the base and stood on it till the third baseman tossed the ball to Lefty.

Three men on, two outs, and Art Colt was up.

It was a chance to go ahead of the Leafs.

L
EFTY MASON
’
S
first pitch was low, almost hitting the back of the plate. the Leafs’ catcher trapped it in his mitt.

“Ball!” cried the ump.

The second pitch was outside. “Ball two!”

The third pitch was high for ball three. The Leaf catcher called time and trotted out to the mound to have a word with Lefty.
A few seconds later he trotted back. Lefty stepped to the mound again. He pitched.

“Strike!”

Art stepped out of the batter’s box, yanked at his belt and protective helmet, then stepped in again.

“Strike two!”

The Leaf fans roared. Then all was quiet as Lefty went into the motion of delivering his next pitch. It was in there and Art
swung. A long drive to deep center field! The runners were advancing. The center fielder went back … back. The ball seemed
to be sailing over his head.

And then the outfielder jumped, his glove high over his head, and pulled the ball down. Three outs.

No one had received a louder ovation than did the Leaf player as he raced in from the outfield. Lefty Mason and other Leaf
players thumped him happily on the back.

Mike was grim as he grabbed his glove from the dugout roof and hustled out to second. He caught a wiggling grounder from Bob Layton and pegged the ball back hard
and high. It was too high, sailing far over Bob’s head.

He was thinking of Yuri, wondering if he had made a mistake in asking Yuri to try out for first base. It would be bad enough
that the guys would never let him forget it if Yuri didn’t come through once in a while. It would be worse if Don held to
his threat to quit.

Yuri had to come through, or the Checkmates might as well throw in the towel.

Mike was sick thinking about it. He had never realized that playing baseball could turn out to be so miserable at times. For
the first time he wished that he had never met Yuri Dotzen. Don Waner was temperamental,
but he was just about the best catcher in the league. The Checkmates couldn’t afford to lose him. But what could Mike do about
it now? He couldn’t ask Yuri to quit.
Maybe if I was Don I could
, Mike thought.
But I’m me. I can’t ask a
guy
to play and then ask him to quit. That’s crazy
.

The lead-off hitter for the Leafs punched a Texas league single over third. The next batter tried to bunt and fouled the pitch.

“Come in closer, Bunk!” yelled Don to the third baseman.

Bunker moved up to the base path. At first base Bob Layton stood in front of the bag, holding the runner on.

Art delivered. A smashing grounder to short. Dick Wallace scooped it up and pegged to second. A bad throw! Mike took two steps
off the bag to catch the ball,
then rushed back and touched it just in time to force out the runner advancing from first. It was too late to make the play
at first base.

The next batter, a left-handed hitter, laced the first pitch through the hole between Bob and Mike and slid into second base
for a double. The throw-in from right fielder Dave Alberti was a fraction of a second late as Mike caught it and pressed the
gloved ball against the runner.

The Leaf player got to his feet, brushed the dust off his pants and smiled. Mike knew him. He was Tom Kearny.

“The kid who played first base — Yuri Dotzen,” said Tom, squinting against the sunlight. “Heard he’s Russian.”

“He is,” said Mike, and frowned. That spark of amusement in Tom’s eyes meant that he had more to say about Yuri.

“You and he are pretty buddy buddy, aren’t you?” Tom went on. “Ginnie and Yuri’s sister, too.”

Mike’s eyes flamed. The ball slipped out of his glove and dropped. “So what?” he snapped angrily, stooping to pick up the
ball and peg it to Art in the same motion. “They’re good kids. What’s wrong …”

Just as Mike threw the ball, Tom bent over and the ball struck him squarely on the side of the helmet. He staggered off the
base, lifting a hand to his head.

“Time!” shouted the base umpire, running forward.

Mike ran up to Tom, scared stiff. “Tom! I didn’t mean it! You stooped over just as I—”

“You and your communist friends!” snarled Tom. “You did it on purpose!”

“You’re crazy! You bent over just as I threw the ball!”

“I was going to tighten my shoelaces,” said Tom.

The Leaf coach came sprinting forward. “Tom, are you hurt?”

“No. I’m all right. It just made my ear ring.”;

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The coach glanced at Mike, his eyes questioning, but he said nothing. He slapped Tom gently on the rear and walked off the
field.

Mike looked across the diamond at Yuri standing at the side of the dugout and saw a look of despair on Yuri’s face. He must
have heard Tom’s remark. Tom had said it plenty loud.

Boy, it was one thing after another. It was bad enough to contend with Don, a member of his own team. He had to contend with
an opponent, too.
Darn it, Yuri! Why did you ever come to Plainview
? Why
didn’t you stay back there in your old Russia
?

The game resumed. The Leaf batter lined a hit over first, scoring a run. Tom held up at third. Art fanned the next. A pop-up
to short ended the bottom half of the fifth inning. Checkmates 4, Maple Leafs 5.

Mike trotted off the field, tossed his glove onto the roof of the dugout and found a vacant spot to sit far from where Yuri
was standing. He didn’t want Yuri to start asking questions.

The Checkmates’ dugout turned into a beehive as the game went into the last inning.
Dick Wallace led off with a long fly to left field. It was caught. Then Mike singled. So did Hank Rush, sending Mike around
to third. The Checkmates and their fans began yelling like mad. A good, long drive could put them ahead.

Tom Milligan cracked a slow grounder to third. The Leaf third baseman fielded it, saw that he couldn’t get Hank at second
so pegged to first, getting Tom out by two steps. Mike took several steps off third and rushed back.

Two outs and Bunker was up. Lefty looked at him nervously. He removed his cap and mopped his brow. He pitched, couldn’t get
one over and Bunker walked.

Three men on and Bob Layton was the hitter. Lefty breezed in the pitch. “Ball!”

He blazed the next two across the plate, then threw one so wide the catcher had to
jump out after it. The two-two pitch blazed in. Dick swung. Strike three!

The game was over. The Maple Leafs won, 5 to 4.

“We almost won,” Yuri said to Mike. “I suppose we would have if I had not made those stupid errors.”

“Forget it,” said Mike. “It was just our first game. Come on. Let’s go home.”

They started away from the dugout.

“Mike, that boy you had hit on the head — I heard him say something about ‘your communist friend,’ ” said Yuri. His voice
caught. “I am not a communist, Mike. I never was. None of my family were.”

Mike looked at him, saw the honesty etched plainly on Yuri’s face. “I don’t think he meant it, Yuri.”

“But he said it. Mike, we came to the United States to get away from communism.
It is almost impossible to move out of Russia. The government hardly lets anyone travel out of the country, but we were given
a permit to travel. Once we were here my parents decided to stay.”

Mike had wondered why the Dotzens had come to the United States, but he had figured it wasn’t his business to ask. Now Yuri
was telling him why.

“It was hard to leave our relatives and friends,” he went on. “But my parents decided that it was best for us. For Anna and
me.”

Someone came up beside them. Mike recognized the Leaf coach. With him was Tom Kearney. Then Coach Terko approached, followed
by Bunker, Don and Art.

“Yuri, I’m Bud Adams,” said the Leaf coach, a square-jawed, deep-chested man.
“I heard what Tom said out there. You may have, too.”

Yuri nodded, blushing. “I was just talking with Mike about it,” he said softly.

Tom stepped up to him. “I’m sorry, Yuri. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“That’s okay,” replied Yuri. “Forget it.”

“I’d like to say something here,” said Coach Terko, looking at the group that had formed around them. “Baseball is a sport.
It’s a game in which we all try to become better ballplayers than we are. And it’s a great game because it stresses two very
important things: skill and sportsmanship. Work on those two. Develop them and you’ll find out that nothing else belongs.
Politics has nothing to do with it. Nothing else matters but the game. Put that in your heads and keep it there. Okay. Let’s
go home.”

M
IKE
and Art Colt went to the pool the next afternoon. The place was crowded. The day was hot and sunny and it looked as if every
kid who lived in the apartment house was there.

Don Waner and Bunker Ford were there, too. They sat at the edge of the pool in their trunks and talked about yesterday’s game.

There was a sudden clapping of hands accompanied by cheers, and the boys looked to see what it was all about. A girl’s head
popped out of the water and she
started to swim with long overhand strokes toward a diving board. She looked real young. As she climbed out of the pool Mike
recognized her.

“That’s Anna,” he said. “Yuri’s sister.”

“Dive again, Anna!” one of the kids shouted.

They watched her climb up to the platform of the high diving board. She walked to the end of it, turned halfway around and
moved her feet to the very edge. Then she dove, pulling her knees up against her body as she spun through the air. At the
last instant she straightened out and pierced the water with barely a splash.

“Hey, man!” cried Bunker. “She’s okay!”

“She’s won five or six medals for diving,” said Mike.

“How good is Yuri at it?”

A shadow crossed Mike’s face and he looked up. “Here he is,” he said. “Ask him.”

Yuri smiled. “Ask me what? If I can dive like my sister?”

He was wearing blue trunks. They were still dry.

“Can you?” asked Bunker.

Yuri shrugged. “Some other time. Some people may think we are showing off.”

He turned and made a shallow dive into the pool. He swam underwater for several yards, came up, then swam with long, graceful
strokes to the side of the pool where a small throng had gathered.

Mike stood and saw Anna Dotzen in the center of the throng. He wasn’t surprised to see Ginnie next to her. They were pretty
good friends. The boys walked over
to them. Yuri had already reached the group and was sitting on the edge of the pool, looking at his sister.

“… They are called the Young Pioneers,” she was saying. “Yuri was a member. I would be too if I was there.”

“How old must you be to be a member?” someone asked.

“From nine to fourteen,” replied Anna. “At fourteen they join the Komsomol. But I don’t know anything about them.”

“Do you have a summer vacation like us?”

“Oh, yes. From June till September. Just like it is here.”

“But we have no Christmas or Easter holidays,” explained Yuri, and everyone’s eyes turned to him. “Near New Year’s Eve we
get a tree which we call the winter tree, and Father Frost brings us gifts.”

“Father Frost?”

“Yes.” Yuri and Anna laughed. “Here he is called Santa Claus,” said Yuri.

“What is the Komsomol, Yuri?” asked Art.

“An organization for boys and girls from fourteen to seventeen,” answered Yuri. “They are taught about the Revolution and
communism. It — it’s too complicated to talk about.”

He stood and took his sister’s hand. “Come on, Anna. I promised Mama one swim and I would bring you home.”

O
N JUNE
29 the Checkmates had last raps in their game against the Jetstars. Gary Roberts was on the mound for the Checkmates and
Ike Pierce, a right-hander, for the Jetstars.

The infield seemed quiet as a cemetery as the first batter stepped to the plate. Mike could understand why Yuri wasn’t making
noise; Yuri was still shy. But what was the matter with Dick Wallace and Bunker Ford? Even Don Waner, who controlled his throws
much better than his temper, was silent.

“Come alive, men!” he shouted. “Let’s hear ya!”

The shout brought them to life. They all started yelling at once. A smile flickered on Mike’s face. A pitcher felt better
when his men talked to him. You had to give him vocal support, not just physical.

Gary stretched and delivered. The ball shaved the edge of the plate for strike one. The next pitch grazed across the inside
corner for strike two.

Gary kept the next two pitches wide, probably hoping the batter would bite at them. The Jetstar didn’t bite. Two more pitches
and he walked.

The next batter blasted a hard liner right to Gary. He caught the ball and whipped it to first, nabbing the runner before
he could tag up. Just like that — two outs.