The Lucky Baseball Bat (4 page)
The Tigers had first raps. When Jim called off the names of the first three hitters, Marvin was never so surprised in his life as he was to hear his name called off second. He could not understand that, because in every practice he had been hardly able to hit the ball.
Kenny Stokes was first batter. He hit the second pitched ball for a blooping fly to the shortstop. Then Marvin walked to the plate. He wished he had his own bat. He was sure that with his own bat he would hit. It was just perfect for him. He could not find one here that fitted him. As he stood at the plate he felt a shiver go through him. Mother and Daddy were somewhere on the side lines, watching him. He wished they had not come. He didn’t want them to see that he could not hit.
The pitcher threw the ball and he wasn’t ready for it. He let it go by. The umpire yelled, “Strike!”
“Come on, Marvin, boy!” He heard Jim’s voice from the bench. “Hit it when it’s in there!”
He ticked the next one. It went sailing back over the catcher’s shoulder, striking the backstop screen.
“You’re feeling it!” He heard Jim shout again.
He got ready for the third pitch. With two strikes on him and no balls, he was in a tough spot. His heart thumped against his ribs. He wished Jim had not put him second in the batting order. Everybody would expect too much from him. Down in eighth or ninth, or even seventh position, nobody expected you to hit every time you stepped to the plate.
The pitcher wound up, threw. Marvin put his left foot forward, lifted his bat. But the ball was coming in too wide. He let it go by.
“Ball!” said the umpire.
For a second his heart stood in his throat. Just suppose the umpire had yelled “Strike!”
Now the count was two to one. He felt a little better. The nervousness had partly left him. Again the pitcher wound up, threw the ball. It came in straight and a little low, but it looked as if it might be a strike. He swung.
Missed!
“Strike three!” cried the umpire.
Marvin dropped the bat and walked sadly back to the bench. He did not dare look up. He knew what everybody was thinking.
Jackie Barnes was up next. He hit the ball to the left of second base. Rick Savora followed him and hit the first one for a double. Everybody yelled. The next batter flied out, making it two outs. Then Chuck Sterns hit a grounder through short, scoring Jackie and Rick, and the next batter struck out.
When the Indians came to bat they scored three runs, and went ahead of the Tigers — 3 to 2.
I
N the third inning, Marvin felt as nervous as he had the first time he had marched up to the plate. Larry Munson, their tall skinny pitcher, was up. He threw right-handed but batted left, something Marvin could not understand. He looked pretty gawky standing with his bat on his shoulder, his legs close together, and the brim of his blue cap bent through the middle like a triangle.
The Indians’ pitcher threw a fast one down the center of the plate. Larry let it go, hardly lifting the bat from his shoulder. The next one looked as if it was heading for the same place. This time Larry shifted his right foot and brought his bat around in a hard swing. Crack! His bat met the ball and sent it sailing out to right field!
He ran to first, his long thin legs looking like something in a slow-motion picture, but Marvin could see he was covering ground fast. He circled first base, ran to second and stopped there, standing on the bag with both feet and his hands on his hips. The people roared.
Kenny Stokes, the lead-off man, was up again. He swung at the first ball. It dribbled in a slow grounder toward the pitcher, who fielded it and threw it easily to first.
Larry ran off second base a short distance, then ran back.
Marvin’s turn came again. He walked to the plate, his feet feeling like lead weights. He had another bat this time, though he was sure it would not do any good.
“Come on, Marvin!” the boys on the bench yelled. “Bring Larry in! Bring him in!”
His heart was jumping. If he got a hit now probably Larry could make it home to tie the score. Everybody would forget his fanning out in that first inning. He dug his sneakers into the soft dirt — boys in the Grasshoppers League were not supposed to wear cleated shoes — and waited for the pitch.
It came in a little high, but it didn’t look bad. Marvin cut at it. He heard a
crack!
as the bat met the ball. A blooper that looked as big as a balloon floated through the air toward the pitcher! Marvin threw down the bat, and started running slowly toward first.
“Run, Marvin!” he heard Jim shout. “Run!”
But the ball dropped into the pitcher’s hands. Sadly, Marvin turned and headed back for the bench.
Nobody said anything to him, but he saw Rick suddenly rise from the bench and go toward Jim Cassell. Rick said something to Jim, then Jim turned and spoke to another boy on the bench.
“Artie, play catch with somebody,” Marvin heard him say. “You’re going in in place of Marvin next inning.” He looked up at Marvin. “Marvin — “
“I heard you, Jim,” Marvin said. As Rick started back toward his seat on the bench he came face to face with Marvin. Marvin’s eyes hardened. His cheeks grew red.
“If you’d give my bat back to me,” he said angrily, “I could hit that ball! You’re a thief, that’s what you are! You stole my bat!”
R
ICK’s face paled and his mouth opened as if he was going to say something. But Marvin was already running out along the left field foul line, his eyes to the ground, not looking right or left. He had to get away from here, just as fast as he could. Someone yelled after him — it sounded like Jim’s voice — but he paid no attention to it. He found his glove in the outfield where he had dropped it, picked it up, and kept on running.
He wondered what Jeannie and his mother and father would say. Well — what could they say? They could see that he could not hit the ball. It wasn’t any more than right that he was taken out.
He saw a fat, chubby-legged little boy run out into the street chasing after a blue-and-red rubber ball. He wasn’t over three years old — a little towhead.
A car whizzed around the corner, its tires screaming on the pavement. Marvin stared at it and then at the little boy. Sudden terror took hold of him. The fat little boy wasn’t paying any attention to the car!
Suddenly the loud cry of a woman reached Marvin’s ears. “Gary! Gary, get back here! Watch that car!”
There was fear in her voice. Marvin saw her standing in the doorway, one hand clutching her apron, the other on her chest. “Gary!” she screamed again.
The little boy did not move. Realizing that the car would not be able to stop in time, Marvin dove out into the street and picked up the boy, snatching him out of the way.
The car’s brakes were squealing. The tires left twin black marks on the street. Then it stopped, and a man looked out of the window, his face ghost-white.
“Boy!” he exclaimed. “That was close!”
“I’ll say it was!” said Marvin, with a shudder. The little boy started to cry and Marvin carried him to his mother, who was running toward them from the house. He saw that the back yard of the house faced his back yard.
“Thank you!” she said to Marvin. “Thank you so much!” Marvin saw her white face as she bent and picked up her little son.
A tall, brown-haired man ran out of the house then, followed by a freckle-faced boy who was a year or two younger than Marvin. The boy’s shirt was torn, and his corduroy pants had a long rip in one knee. Shakily, the woman told her husband what had happened. The husband looked at Marvin gratefully.
“That was quick thinking, son,” he said. “You sure make us very happy, going after little Gary like that. Sometime I’ll see that you get something for this.”
Marvin smiled. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’m glad I came by when I did.”
He went home, feeling happy at the man’s words.
He had hardly been home five minutes when a soft knock sounded on the door. He knew it wasn’t Daddy or Mother. They wouldn’t knock.
Wondering, he went to the door and opened it. It was the freckle-faced boy whose little brother he had saved from the path of the car. He was holding a bat in his hand — lifting it up to Marvin.
Marvin’s eyes went wide. It was his missing bat!
A
T the ball field the next afternoon, just before practice, Marvin approached Rick. He had a lump in his throat.
“Rick, I — I’m sorry that I said you had my bat. I got it back yesterday. Freckles Ginty was the one who took it out of my yard.”
Rick looked at him a moment before he said anything. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay. You got it back. Maybe you can hit that ball now.”
Marvin felt the sarcasm in his voice. He wondered if he and Rick would ever be friends. He wished they would be. Rick was tough in a way, but everybody liked him. He usually wanted his way about things, but he was almost always right, too — and he was a good ballplayer. Someday, Marvin thought, Rick might play in the big leagues.
“Did you go in their house?” Rick said suddenly. Marvin had started to turn away, but now that Rick spoke he turned back.
“No,” he said. “But Mr. and Mrs. Ginty look like awfully nice people.”
“They are. You should see some of the things Mr. Ginty makes out of wood. Freckles showed me once.”
“Nice?”
“Nice? Sometime have Freckles take you in his house. He’ll show you!”
“I will!” smiled Marvin.
Thursday afternoon they had another Grasshoppers League game. It was with the Bears. Jim had Artie play instead of Marvin. Artie hit a slow roller the first time up, and was put out. In the field he missed a fly ball that scored a runner for the Bears.
“He can’t catch or hit,” Kenny Stokes said. “At least, Marv could catch that ball!”
Marvin felt pleased to hear Kenny say that. He was sitting on the bench, holding the bat in his hand. His own bat. He had told Jim that he had finally gotten it back, trying to hint that now he would be able to hit. But Jim had only grinned and said that he was glad.
