by Fred Bowen
FOUR
The next evening, Scott hopped on his bike and headed for the YMCA. He locked his bike and raced up the stairs and down the hallway, his sneakers squeaking against the shiny linoleum floor.
He stopped short in front of a door marked “Youth Baseball Board Meeting.” He took a deep breath and slowly turned the knob.
Inside, four men sat at a long table. Several rows of metal chairs filled the rest of the room. Scott saw Benny sitting in the back row with an opened book in his lap. Scott tiptoed up to Benny and sat down.
Mr. Skelly stood before the table with his back to Scott and Benny. He was talking.
“I’ve tried a bunch of people but I can’t find anybody. They’re either too busy or already coaching.” The oldest man at the table unfolded his arms and leaned his gray head forward.
“That’s Mr. Green,” Benny whispered.
“We never had this problem in my day,” Mr. Green said, sounding very grumpy. “We always had plenty of coaches. Assistants. Everything.” He sat back and folded his arms again.
Another man, whom Scott recognized as Mr. Kirsch, spoke to Mr. Skelly. “Gee, Jack, you’re putting us in a tough spot. It is only a couple of days before the first game.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Skelly said finally. “I’ve had some unexpected problems at the office, and things aren’t going to let up for a while. I’m just too busy to coach.”
The four men sat in silence. There seemed to be no solution.
Benny elbowed Scott. “What are you waiting for? Now’s your chance. Say something.”
Scott stood up and made his way slowly to the table. All the men were looking at him, and Mr. Skelly turned around to follow their stares. “Scott, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“Hi, Mr. Skelly. I’m here and, um, Benny’s here too,” said Scott, motioning to Benny to come join him, “because we had an idea that might help the coaching problem.”
“Come a little closer, boys,” said Mr. Kirsch. “Let’s hear what you have to say.”
“We … I mean, the team was thinking that since nobody could coach, maybe, you know, like, I could coach the team,” Scott said.
The men shot sideways glances at each other.
“Don’t you want to play on the team?” asked Mr. Kirsch.
“I want to do both, play and coach,” Scott answered.
“That seems like an awful lot to do, play and coach,” Mr. Kirsch said.
“Plenty of players have coached,” Benny quickly added.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Kirsch, looking over at Benny.
“I mean a lot of great players have coached too. Ty Cobb. Rogers Hornsby. Frank Robinson and Pete Rose, too.”
“They played and coached at the same time?” Mr. Kirsch asked, sounding like he didn’t believe Benny.
“Yup,” Benny nodded. “In 1948, Lou Boudreau played shortstop for the Cleveland Indians and coached them, too. In fact, they won the World Series that year.”
Mr. Green leaned forward and he was smiling. “He was the Most Valuable Player that year. Hit around .330.”
“He hit .355 with eighteen home runs and 106 runs batted in,” corrected Benny.
“They had a great team,” Mr. Green remembered.
“They won ninety-seven games and beat the Red Sox in a playoff,” Benny observed.
“That’s right!” Mr. Green almost shouted. “Boudreau used the shift on Ted Williams that game. The infielders and outfielders bunched up on the right side of the field because they knew that’s where he was going to hit the ball.”
Mr. Kirsch eyed Benny. “How do you know so much about this?”
“If it’s in a book,” Scott said, smiling, “the Brain—I mean Benny—knows it.”
“The Brain?” Mr. Skelly asked.
“It’s just a nickname,” said Scott.
“Okay, Benny,” said Mr. Kirsch. “But Lou Boudreau and most of those other player-coaches were Hall of Famers.”
“I was an All-Star last year,” Scott said.
“It’s a little different, Scott,” Mr. Skelly said. “Coaches have to run practices, figure out the lineups, make substitutions. You’re only twelve years old.”
“Let the kids coach the team,” Mr. Green said gruffly.
“Charlie, let’s be sensible,” Mr. Kirsch said.
“I am being sensible,” Mr. Green said, jabbing his finger at the men at the table. “Let the kids coach the team. The games are for the kids, right? So let them play. They want to try coaching? So let them try. Probably be good for them.”
“Charlie,” Mr. Kirsch said softly, “I’m sure we can find someone to coach their team.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Mr. Green said, eyeing Scott and Benny. “But tell me, where are you going to find someone who knows more about baseball than these kids?”
FIVE
Can I see the coaches?” the umpire called from home plate. Scott stood at the edge of the dugout holding onto the Tigers opening-day lineup. Suddenly, he was too nervous to step out.
“Go on, Scott,” Fran whispered, nudging him in the back with his elbow. “You’re the coach, remember?”
Scott walked to home plate where the umpire and the Twins coach stood. The umpire looked at Scott.
“I want the coaches, not the captains,” he said.
“I am the coach,” Scott replied.
“What happened to Mr. Skelly?” the Twins coach asked.
“He’s too busy, so the board said I could coach the rest of the season,” Scott said.
The umpire and the Twins coach glanced at each other and traded smiles. Then the umpire and the Twins coach and Scott exchanged lineups and reviewed the ground rules. The umpire asked, “Who is the home team?”
“They are,” Scott said.
“Okay, let’s have a batter. Play ball.”
Scott hustled back to the bench and called out to the anxious Tigers. “We’re up first. Here’s the batting order. Max is leading off, playing left. Nick, you’re at first. Drew’s pitching. Danny’s catching and hitting cleanup. I’m at short. Fran, you’re at third, hitting sixth. Maggie’s at second. Pete’s in center field. Sam, you’re batting ninth and playing right. All right, let’s get some hits! Get us started, Max.”
The inning got off to a slow start as Max grounded out to second and Nick struck out swinging.
Drew, the Tigers best hitter, stepped into the batter’s box. “Come on Drew, let’s rally!”
“Be a sticker, Drew!”
The Tigers bench was on its feet as Drew hit a long fly ball to right field. The ball landed safely between two outfielders. Drew trotted to second base with a double.
“All right!”
“Way to get it started, Drew.”
The Tigers had more to cheer about when Danny smacked a single up the middle. Drew raced home. The Tigers led 1–0.
Scott stepped into the batter’s box. He carefully placed his feet about shoulder-width apart, tapped the outside edge of the plate, and cocked the bat behind his right ear.
The first two pitches whistled by, wide and high. Two balls, no strikes.
Be ready, Scott thought. He’s gonna come in with one.
Sure enough, the next pitch was right down the middle. Scott smacked the pitch past the Twins diving shortstop. That left runners on second and first, two outs.
“Come on, Fran, keep it going,” Scott called breathlessly from first. All they needed was a base hit. “Just a bingle!”
Fran delivered, her smooth swing guiding a fastball out to right field. Scott was off at the crack of the bat, dashing past second toward third. He rounded third, looking as if he were going home, but held up as the throw bounced in from right field. But Danny scored, and the Tigers led 2–0.
Rattled, the Twins hurler walked Maggie on four pitches. The bases were loaded!
Scott stood on third base, knowing a hit would break the game wide open. “Come on, Pete, bring us home!” he shouted. “Ducks on the pond.” That was Sc
ott’s favorite way of saying “bases loaded.”
But Peter popped up the first pitch for the third out. The score remained 2–0 with the Twins coming to bat.
“All right, let’s hustle out,” Scott called as the Tigers grabbed their gloves and took the field. Scott stood at the edge of the dugout and glanced down the bench. At the very end of it, Benny sat scribbling something into a notebook.
“What’s he doing, his homework?” Drew asked on his way to the pitcher’s mound.
“Never mind him. Let’s get some outs,” said Scott.
The Tigers infield was filled with chatter.
“Come on, Drew!”
“No batter, no batter.”
The leadoff hitter topped a slow roller to third base. Fran took a few quick steps in, scooped up the ball, and fired to first.
“Out!”
The next Twins batter slapped a clean single to center. One out, runner on first.
Drew turned and looked at Scott. Scott tapped his chest and said, “I’m covering second if it comes to you, Drew.” The Tigers pitcher nodded and fired a fastball.
Sure enough, the Twins hitter beat a hard one-hopper back to the mound. Drew fielded it, whirled toward second, and threw. The throw met Scott at the bag. Scott caught the ball, touched the base, and threw to first. The ball smacked into Nick’s glove long before the Twins runner reached the first base. The Tigers were out of the inning.
The Tigers bench was filled with cheers and backslaps.
“DP!”
“Let’s keep it going!”
Scott called out the batting order: “Sam, Max, Nick, then Drew. Let’s get some more!” Scott smiled as he sat at the edge of the Tigers bench. The season was off to a great start.
SIX
The Tigers stretched their lead to 4–1 after four innings. Danny drilled a clutch double that drove in two runs. The Tigers made some nice plays behind Drew’s strong pitching.
Scott changed the lineup after the Tigers failed to score in the top of the fifth.
“Listen up,” Scott called out to the Tigers bench. “Eric, you’re taking Maggie’s place at second. Brendan is in center, hitting eighth. Benny, you’re taking Sam’s place in right. We’re up by three runs. Let’s hang onto the lead.”
But the Twins started to hit Drew’s pitches hard in the bottom of the fifth. A double, a walk, and two singles scored two runs.
Scott stood at shortstop, reviewing the situation. The Tigers led 4–3, two outs in the bottom of the fifth inning. Runners on first and second.
“Big batter, Drew. Big batter.”
Drew wound up and whipped the first pitch high and wide.
“Come on, Drew, throw strikes.”
Drew took a deep breath and threw another pitch.
Crack!
The ball shot out like a missile to shortstop. Without even thinking, Scott dove to his left. The ball smacked hard against his outstretched glove. Scott hung on as he skidded against the infield dirt.
The Tigers still led 4–3!
The Tigers ran in from the field slapping high fives with each other.
Scott dusted himself off and called out the next inning’s batters. “Benny. Max. Nick. Last ups. Let’s get some runs for Drew.”
Benny was in the corner of the dugout, scribbling numbers in a notebook.
“Come on, Brain. Grab a bat. You’re up!” Drew shouted.
Benny stood at the edge of the dugout next to Scott. As he put on his batting helmet, he whispered, “Drew has thrown an awful lot of pitches, Scott. He’s gotta be tired. You may want to take him out and let somebody else pitch the last inning.”
Scott was worried about Drew’s pitching, too, but he didn’t want Benny to know. “Why don’t you just get a hit?” Scott asked, a little too sharply. “And leave the coaching to me.”
None of the Tigers could get a hit, and they went down 1-2-3 in the sixth inning. They gathered their gloves and took the field to try to hold onto their slim lead. Scott grabbed Drew by the arm. “How you doing, Drew?” he asked. “You got enough for the last inning?”
Drew jerked his arm away. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m okay.”
But Drew was in trouble right away. The leadoff Twins hitter knocked a clean single up the middle. The second batter ripped a hard line drive down the third baseline. Fran was playing near third base and snagged the hot smash. One out.
The next Twin slapped a single into right field.
“Get it in, get it in,” Scott called out from shortstop, waving his glove.
Benny stopped the ball and threw it in to Scott quickly as the runner from first sprinted to the third base. Runners on first and third, one out.
Scott walked to the mound and dropped the ball into Drew’s glove.
“You sure you’re okay, Drew?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Drew said. “I’ll get the next two guys, no sweat.”
Scott trotted back to shortstop, not sure what to do. He wanted to leave his best friend in and give him a chance to win the game. But Scott was not sure that was the best thing for the team.
“Come on, Drew. Bear down.”
“No batter, no batter.”
The Twins batter worked the count to three balls, two strikes. Drew uncorked his best fastball. The batter swung from the heels. Strike three!
Scott held up two fingers to his teammates. “Two outs!” he shouted.
The Twins coach stepped out of the dugout and yelled to the runners on first and third, “Two outs, run on anything.”
“Bear down, Drew!”
“One more, Drew, one more.”
Drew got one strike on the next hitter, but then put a pitch right down the fat part of the plate.
Crack! The Twins hitter scorched a hard liner to left center field. It hit the wall on one hop. Scott scrambled out to the outfield, shouting for Brendan to throw him the ball. “Get it in, Brendan, get it in!”
Scott knew it was too late to stop the runner on third from scoring, but he hoped he could nab the runner dashing around from first base. Scott gathered in the throw and turned only to see the Twins runner cross the plate into the arms of his happy teammates.
Scott stood on the outfield grass for a long moment, holding the baseball and staring at home plate. The game was over. The Tigers trudged off the field.
Benny wrote in his notebook as the team gathered their things.
“Remember we have practice Tuesday!” Scott shouted.
“Hey, Scott,” Nick said. “You gonna give out a game ball to the best player of the game like Mr. Skelly used to?”
“I’m only giving out the game ball when we win,” Scott growled as he shoved the bats and batting helmets into the big brown equipment bag. Scott slung the bag over his shoulder and started the short walk home with Fran.
“It was a good game,” Fran said.
“It would have been a lot better if we had won,” grumbled Scott.
“We played pretty well and you did a good job coaching.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
When Scott got home, he plopped the bag at the bottom of the stairs and raced up to his bedroom. He found the schedule that he had placed on his desk. Next to the line that said, April 13—1 P.M.—Twins, Scott wrote: L 5–4.
He propped the schedule back up on the desk and headed downstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind him.
SEVEN
Two weeks later, Scott sat on the edge of his bed lacing up his baseball spikes for another baseball practice. He glanced over to the schedule that was still on his desk. The neat rows of numbers told the sad story of the Tigers season so far.
Scott shook his head as he remembered those games. The Tigers seemed to play just well enough to lose. They would jump off to an early lead only to fall behind in the later innings.
Scott jerked his glove off the dresser and headed out to practice. The season has to turn around today, he thought.
Practice that day was even worse. The team was only going
through the motions. Batting practice was strangely quiet. The kids hardly said a word. The only sound was the crack of the bat.
Drew and Scott stood in the outfield as the final batters took their cuts.
“Not much of a practice,” Drew observed.
“Yeah,” Scott said, looking around the field. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Me neither,” said Drew, looking straight at Scott. “But maybe it’s time for the coach to chew these guys out.”
Sam Finch lofted a lazy fly ball to short, center field. Scott drifted back a few steps, reached up and caught it in the webbing of his glove. “All right!” he shouted. “Everybody in.”
The team gathered quietly. Scott stood before them with his arms crossed.
“Listen,” Scott started. “We gotta start practicing harder than this or we’re gonna lose all of our games.”
Some of the Tigers looked down and scraped the dirt with their shoes.
Scott continued. “Remember, you play the way you practice. You gotta show some hustle. You gotta …”
“Who made you boss?” Danny asked, raising his voice above Scott’s.
“What do you mean?” Scott asked, a bit surprised. “I’m the coach. I thought we agreed on that.”
“Well, you better start acting like a coach,” Danny snapped back. “We’ve lost every game so far and we keep going out with the same lineup. Don’t you think we should try something different?”
“Like what?” Scott demanded.
“I don’t know,” Danny said. “But I’d like to play somewhere other than catcher.”
“Danny, you’re our best catcher!” Drew blurted out.
“I’m not the only one!” Danny shouted back.
“I’ll catch,” Nick said.
Then a chorus of requests burst forth.
“Hey, can I switch to infield?” Brendan shouted.
“Can I pitch?” Peter asked.
“Can I play shortstop?” asked Max.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Fran shouted above all the others, holding the ball high over her head. “We can’t all talk at once. The kid with the ball talks.” Fran flipped the ball to Maggie.
