“Yay! Thataboy, Fox!” yelled the long-haired kid, as other fans joined in with a chorus of cheers.
Bobby rose to his feet, brushed himself off, and looked toward the third-base coach, Hank Spencer. Hank was looking toward the bench, getting the sign from Coach Tarbell. In a moment his attention was back to Bobby. He went through some crazy signs that meant nothing, indicating that Bobby was to play it safe.
Eddie Boyce, batting, slammed a two-one pitch over second, and Bobby raced to third and then home as if a dozen bears were on his tail.
Billy Trollop grounded out, but Andy Sanders kept the spark alive by blasting a double to deep left. The Finches’ left fielder rifled the ball in to third as Eddie touched the bag and headed for home.
“Hey, get back, you idiot!” Hank yelled at him. “Get back here!”
7
The third baseman whipped the ball home just as Eddie slid on his posterior in a valiant effort to bring himself to a stop. Reversing direction, he half ran, half crawled back to the bag. With a last gallant effort he stretched out his hand and touched the bag a fraction of a second before the Finches’ third-sacker caught the ball and tagged him.
“Safe!” roared the base umpire.
The third-sacker stared at the ump. “What?” he shouted, started to argue, then seemed to have second thoughts about it and turned away.
“You goon,” said Hank to Eddie, who had risen to his feet and was brushing the dirt off his pants. “Didn’t you see me signaling you to stop?”
“I thought you were signaling me to keep going,” said Eddie.
“Oh, man,” Hank moaned, striking his forehead with the flat of his hand. “I’m going to get you a pair of glasses.”
Snoop Myers lashed a liner through second for a clean single, scoring both Eddie and Andy. Then Marv struck out.
Finches 0, Sunbirds 3.
“Hey, Fox, you did all right!” yelled one of the kids as Bobby sprang from the dugout and headed for his position at third.
“Thanks.” Bobby grinned. He had at least two good supporters, that was for sure.
Someone sitting on the third-base side of the bleachers chuckled. “Nice steal, Bobby.”
The sound of the familiar voice struck a sensitive chord, and Bobby glanced toward the bleachers. It was his father! He was sitting there in the fourth row, wearing that familiar yellow cap.
“Thanks, Dad,” his heart answered.
He was thrilled and surprised to see his father there. It was something he had hoped for, but not really expected.
The Sunbirds kept the Finches from scoring, and it looked as if the Sunbirds would go through the inning scoreless, too, as Hank flied out and Sherm fanned. Ollie Hitchcock, whose ability as a hitter had not ever been a major threat to any opposing team, stepped up to the plate.
Bert got two strikes on him, and was on his way for his third strikeout as Ollie went into his third consecutive swing. But this time a resounding crack exploded as bat met ball, catapulting it through the hole between left and center fields. The unbelievable became believable as Ollie made it to second base standing up.
“Knock him in, Bobby!” encouraged a fan as Bobby strode to the plate.
He felt comfortable and confident, none of that nervousness he had felt the first two times up. That 3-0 lead could do that for you.
Bert whistled two pitches by him, both balls, then wrangled in a strike. The fourth came in knee-high and Bobby swung, meeting the ball squarely for a single over short. Ollie raced in to home, boosting the lead another notch.
Bobby looked for the steal sign, eager to give his legs another workout. He stood there, some five feet away from the first-base sack, leaning forward, both arms swinging loosely. Since he had decided to excel as a base thief, nothing was more important anymore. Nothing, that is, as far as baseball was concerned.
But he didn’t get the steal sign. Apparently Coach Tarbell wanted him to play it safe.
Eddie stroked the first pitch to center field for the third out. Discouraged because he was deprived of his chance to attempt another steal, Bobby trotted to the bench, got his glove, and headed to his position at third.
He took a quick glance at his father, who met his eyes and smiled.
The Finches, coming up for the top of the fifth inning, still could not find the handle of Ollie’s pitches, and went back out to the field, a bunch of defeated sad sacks.
Again the Sunbirds picked up a run as Andy scored on a triple to deep left off the bat of Snoop Myers. The Finches, unable to find the magic that would give them any momentum at all, picked up only horse collars again in the sixth and seventh innings, and the Sunbirds walked off with the win, 5-0.
The first thing Bobby did was head for his father, who descended from the bleachers and met him near the first row.
“Three hits and a stolen base,” said his father happily. “Congratulations. You’re playing like an old pro.”
The third hit had come in the sixth inning, giving Bobby three-for-four for the day. His mind easily tallied up the percentage: .750. If he continued hitting like that, he’d be the envy of the league.
“It’s my best game so far,” said Bobby proudly. “But it’s only my second,” he added, smiling.
“Yeah. Well, you’ll do all right in the rest of them, too,” his father assured him. “You’ve got the spunk. That comes first. All the rest will follow.”
A voice cut in. “Hey, Bobby! You coming?”
It was Billy Trollop, walking toward the gate with his parents and another couple.
“I’ve got to go, Dad,” said Bobby, anxious to keep talking with his father, yet fearful that if his mother found out about it, she would try to sever their relationship forever.
“Bobby, wait,” said his father. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Bobby started away, his heart on a cloud for being able to see his father for just that brief moment.
“Tell me about it Saturday, Dad,” he said. “I’ve got to go now.”
“But, Bobby, that’s what I want to tell you about.”
Bobby stopped, his heart suddenly pounding. He waited for his father to continue, afraid of what he was going to hear.
“I won’t be picking you up on Saturday,” said his father. “I promised to go fishing with some buddies of mine. We were in high school together, and we haven’t seen each other in years. You understand, don’t you?”
Bobby’s heart stopped, and he felt riveted to the ground, unable to believe what he had just heard.
“But you know that Saturdays and Sundays are —” he started to say. He couldn’t finish. The words choked in his throat.
Understand? Sure, I understand, Dad, he wanted to say. You’d rather fish with your friends than be with me!
Well, go ahead! Don’t let me interfere with your fun. I’m just your son. You don’t have to keep a lousy promise to your son. Go ahead. Go fishing. Have a good time, Dad.
“Hey,” said Billy, as Bobby stopped beside him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m okay.”
I’m fine. Just fine.
I wish I were dead.
“Where are you going?” his mother asked him.
“I’m going to take the boat out for a while.”
The instant he spoke he realized how bitter he sounded. But he didn’t apologize. He didn’t feel like apologizing to anybody this morning, not even to his mother.
“Well!” she said. “And a good morning to you, too. What’s eating you? Would it have something to do with your father?”
He had the porch door open, letting in the cool, morning breeze that was blowing from the lake.
“That’s right. He’s not going to pick me up this morning. He’s going fishing with some of his buddies.”
“He what?“
He started out the door.
“Bobby! Come back here!”
He stepped back into the house, closed the door, but didn’t look at her. She had her hair up in curlers. Eve
ry Saturday morning she had her hair up in curlers, whether she was going anywhere that evening or not.
“What’s this about him going fishing with his buddies?” she asked, her eyes focused on him like blue agates.
“He told me that.”
“When did you see him?”
“Thursday. At the game.”
“Is that so?” she said, suddenly ruffled. “Even after he agreed not to see you during the week.”
“Well, I saw him there, and after the game I went over to talk to him a minute.” Bobby felt that he should be truthful about it. “So you can’t blame him for that.”
She kept looking at him. “No, I suppose if that’s the way it was, I can’t blame him.”
She was silent a while.
“Okay if I go now?” he asked, anxious to get out of there.
“I suppose so,” she said stiffly. “Since it’s what you want to do.”
8
He went down to the beach and walked out on the narrow dock. Unlocking the large wheel at the side of the hoist, he gently lowered the boat into the water. It was a sixteen-foot, fiberglass Star-craft with a 110-horsepower engine that lay exposed in the stern. The cover for it was in the small beach house up on shore.
The boat was not in top-notch shape because, like a lot of other things he kept promising to do, Roger Canfield had kept promising he’d fix the gas line running from the tank under the forward deck to the carburetor, but never had taken the time to do it. The leak from the brass fitting had become a sore Bobby had become accustomed to, and since it had not caused any trouble so far, he had practically forgotten about it.
He inserted the key into the ignition, started the engine, and backed the boat out of the hoist. Some ten yards out, he shifted the throttle gently forward, and got the boat moving ahead. The lake was a little choppy, causing the craft to rock. Shoving the throttle harder forward forced the bow to raise up high and the boat to speed over the water, shooting sheets of spray on either side. In a moment the bow settled down to where it belonged.
He drove toward the middle of the lake, noticing other powerboats cutting a swath through the water, too; and sailboats whisking silently along, stitching their way through the crests and troughs, puffed-out sails holding the boats in that limbo space just short of keeling over. Bobby had never sailed before, but someday he would like to.
He turned to the left, and then to the right, weaving a crazy pattern of waves behind him. With the throttle wide open, the noise from the engine was so loud he wouldn’t have been able to hear himself talk if he tried.
But he didn’t care. He had to do something to get the thought of his father out of his head.
He turned the wheel sharply to the right, putting the boat into a ninety-degree angle, and almost panicked as he found himself heading directly into the path of an oncoming powerboat. That boat, too, was speeding at full throttle — or near it, judging by its sound.
Quickly Bobby spun the wheel to the left, as the other craft turned to the right. Even so, both crafts veered so close to each other that very little daylight shone between them. Bobby, feeling like a fool, couldn’t blame the anger he saw on the other driver’s face.
Oh, man, he thought. I’d better head back for home before I ram this boat to kingdom come.
He turned the wheel till the bow of the boat was aimed in the direction of home, then straightened it out.
The ride, instead of erasing the unpleasant thoughts of his father, had almost resulted in a disaster. He couldn’t win.
He finally reached the hoist, cranked the boat up on it, and took the key into the house. His mother wondered why he was back from his ride so soon. “Just had enough of it,” he said, bending the truth somewhat. No sense worrying her about what almost happened. She might never let him go out alone in the boat again.
He had barely hung the ignition key on a nail in the laundry room when he decided to keep on going through the front door for a walk to Meadow Park. There was usually some action going on there — a scrub ball game, tennis, something.
“Now where are you going?” his mother asked as she looked at him from the dryer where she was removing a load of clothes.
“Out,” he said.
“Out where? Do I have to squeeze every word out of you?”
“Meadow Park,” he said.
“Okay. You’re going to be back by lunchtime, I hope.”
“I’ll try,” he said, his voice not any friendlier than hers.
He opened the door and went out.
I don’t know, he thought. I’m twelve and she keeps treating me as if I were still eight or nine. When will I ever be a grown-up to her?
Meadow Park was about half a mile away. It was located on a piece of land jutting out into the lake, and contained a picnic area besides the playground for the kids. As Bobby had suspected, a baseball game was in progress — with a tennis ball instead of a baseball — and at first glance he recognized most of the kids who were playing.
Then his attention riveted on the tall right-hander on the mound. Even though he wasn’t wearing his monkey suit, he looked familiar. He was Walter Wilson, the Cowbirds’ pitcher.
“Hey, there’s Bobby Canfield!” yelled Nick Tully, another player for the Cowbirds. “Come on, Bobby! We need another player!”
He hesitated, wondering whether to play or not. In a minute he consented. “Where do you want me?” he asked.
“On third,” cried Nick. “Hey, Tommy! Get out to center field, will you?”
Tommy Elders, a regular for the Swifts, a team that the Sunbirds were scheduled to play next, ran out to center field, and Bobby took over at third. One thing about playing baseball with a tennis ball, you didn’t need a glove.
He could hardly believe that he was playing on Walter Wilson’s team. Walter Wilson, the Cowbirds’ crack pitcher.
A pop fly was hit to first, then a fast-hopping grounder was hit to Bobby. He did a Pete Rose fielding job with it, and heaved the ball to first. Unlike a Pete Rose throw, though, the ball took off like a rocket, sailing over the first baseman’s head.
“Hey, man! What an arm!” yelled Marv Goldstein, covering right field.
“Moon’s only five foot two, not ten foot eight!” exclaimed another Sunbird, Eddie Boyce.
Nothing like a bad throw to invite insults, thought Bobby. Good thing it was just a scrub game.
A towering fly ball to center ended the half inning. Bobby walked off the field, his mind still on the wild throw to first. Scrub game or not, such gross throws preyed on a guy’s mind. Just because you tried to do your best in a real game, there was no reason in this wide world why you shouldn’t try your best in a scrub game, too.
“Bobby!”
The voice came from someone near the lilac bushes flanking the road behind the ball park.
Bobby turned, and stared in surprise. It was his father!
“Dad!” he cried.
What was he doing here? He was supposed to be with his friends. Fishing.
His thoughts went topsy-turvy. The sight of his father twisted things all around for him.
His father motioned to him. Reluctantly, Bobby approached him.
“I stopped at the house,” his father said. “Your mother told me you were coming here.”
“I thought you went fishing,” said Bobby.
“I called my friends,” said his father. “I’m meeting them tonight, instead. Is that okay?”
Bobby’s heart went up to his throat. “Sure is,” he said.
“What do you want to do? Stay here and keep playing with the kids, or do something else? Anything.”
Bobby thought a minute. “Can I practice base stealing a bit?” he asked. “This would be a good time. The ballpark’s probably empty. I think that most of the guys are here. Then we could see the Giants play the Foxes. If you’d like to.”
His father smiled. “Why not? Come on. We won’t need a ball. Just your legs.”
Bobby yelled to Nick. “Nick, I’ve
got to go. Sorry! Thanks for letting me play.”
“Okay!” Nick yelled back.
Bobby turned back to his father, saw him gazing attentively at one of the players.
“See somebody you know, Dad?” he asked.
“Well — yes. But never mind. Come on.”
Instinctively, Bobby glanced over his shoulder, and met the strong, silent gaze of Walter Wilson. Was he the one at whom his father had stared?
But why him? How in this world could his father know Walter?
He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he turned and followed his father to the car.
They drove to the ballpark. Bobby had guessed right; there was no one there. He practiced running the bases, getting the jump on the pitcher, and stealing second and third.
When he got tired, he rested and once suggested to his father, between breaths, that they ought to have a stopwatch.
“No way,” replied his father. “You’re not training to be a professional, or for the Olympics. This is just to teach you the right way to run and steal bases, and to develop those abilities as you keep playing. I don’t want you to strain, either. Too much of this stuff at one time could injure a muscle, hurt you for life. We don’t want to take a chance on doing that.”
They had barely started practicing again — the last time today, his father promised, before they would head for the city park to see the ball game — when a car drove up slowly and parked at the curb behind the high wire fence. There was a woman in it: a stranger, at least to Bobby.
The horn honked. Bobby looked at his father. “She honking for you, Dad?” he asked wonderingly.
His father, standing on the pitcher’s mound, looked over his shoulder.
“Darn,” he said, half under his breath. “What does she want?”
9
I’ll be right back,” he told Bobby, and walked briskly across the diamond to the car. He talked with the woman for a few minutes, then came back. The woman started up the car and took off.
The Fox Steals Home Page 4
