Out at Second

by Matt Christopher

  OUT AT SECOND

  LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY

  NEW YORK • BOSTON

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  1

  Zip! The baseball left the pitcher’s hand and whizzed through the air toward home plate. The batter shifted slightly but didn’t swing. The ball hit the pocket of Manny Griffin’s mitt. He froze, waiting to hear the umpire’s call.

  “Ball!”

  Rats, Manny thought. That was ball four. The batter tossed his bat aside and jogged down the base path to first.

  Manny plucked the baseball from his mitt, threw it back to Abraham Healy on the mound, and settled back into his squatting position.

  C’mon, Abe, he thought. We’re just three outs away from the win. Don’t give up now!

  It was the bottom of the sixth and the last inning of the game between the Grizzlies and the Wolverines. The Grizzlies were up by one run. But the Wolverines weren’t beaten yet. There were no outs, and now they had a runner edging off of first base. Abe was looking nervous—and with good reason, for whichever team emerged victorious would advance to be in the championship game later in the week. The losing squad, on the other hand, would end its season then and there.

  The next Wolverine batter stepped up to the plate. Before he got into the box, he knocked the dirt from his cleats. Three taps to the right foot, three to the left, and then one more to each.

  Manny watched him closely. This Wolverine had been up a few times in the game. He’d tapped his cleats like this one of those times, just before he’d laid down a bunt. That bunt had taken Manny by surprise and landed the batter on base. Now the elaborate cleat-tapping routine had him wondering if the Wolverine was hoping to repeat that effort, or, at the very least, advance the runner to second with a sacrifice.

  If so, I’ll be ready for you! Manny thought. When the Wolverine took up his stance, Manny rose out of his crouch just a little bit. If the bunt came, he’d be set to spring into action.

  Abe leaned forward, gloved hand on knee, and twirled the ball behind his back. Manny held up his mitt to give him a target. Abe straightened, reared back, and threw.

  At that second, the Wolverine squared off toward the mound and slid his hands apart on the barrel of the bat.

  I knew it! He’s bunting! Manny thought. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. Manny was halfway up when the ball met the fat part of the bat; he was already lunging forward when it hit the ground. Because Manny was in motion, he reached the ball before either Abe or Luis, the first baseman, did.

  “You got it, Manny!” Luis yelled. “Now send it to first! Quick!”

  Manny scooped up the ball and glanced toward first. Second baseman Stu Fletcher was already there, covering the bag for Luis. Manny heaved the ball. The throw was right on the mark.

  “Yer out!” the umpire called.

  Some players might have stopped there, but not Stu. He pivoted toward second, ball cocked and ready to throw, clearly hoping to make a double play.

  Manny looked at second base—and groaned. No one was covering the bag!

  “Get to second, Sean!” Manny heard Stu yell.

  Sean Wilson was a lanky beanpole of a kid and playing ball for the first time that season. He usually rode the pine, but that afternoon he was subbing for the regular Grizzlies shortstop, Jason Romano, who was out sick.

  Manny held his breath. Would Sean get to the bag in time, or would he ruin their chance for a second out?

  Luckily, Sean’s long legs helped him cover the ground quickly. He held out his glove for the ball just as Stu unleashed a rocket of a throw. At that same moment, the runner stumbled in the base path!

  Manny nearly let out a whoop. All Sean had to do was get the ball in his mitt, and they’d have two outs!

  Sean almost bobbled the catch. Yet somehow, he controlled the ball, swept his glove down, and tagged the runner, who was sliding beneath him.

  But did he make the tag in time, or had the runner beaten the throw? Everyone froze, waiting for the call.

  “Out!” the umpire cried, jerking his thumb over his head.

  “Woo-hoo! Way to go, Stu! Awesome catch, Sean!” Manny yelled.

  Sean shot him a happy grin as he tossed the ball back to Abe. An instant later, however, that grin vanished.

  “Time out!”

  A thickset man carrying a clipboard hurried out of the Grizzlies dugout and headed right for Sean. It was Tug Flaherty, the Grizzlies coach, and he looked angry.

  “That was not an awesome catch. It was lucky,” he growled loud enough for Manny and the rest of the infield to hear. “And you’re lucky that the batter isn’t thumbing his nose at you from second or even third base!”

  “Sorry, Coach,” Sean mumbled.

  Coach Flaherty went on as if he hadn’t heard. “That should’ve been an easy catch. Know why it wasn’t? Because you didn’t look the ball all the way into your glove! If you can’t even do that, you’ll never be any kind of ballplayer but a lousy one!”

  The shortstop hung his head. “Sorry, Coach,” he said again.

  Coach Flaherty slapped the clipboard against his thigh. “I don’t need your apologies,” he said. “I need your heads-up play. Think you can give me that so we can win this game?”

  Sean nodded.

  Manny bit his lip. He could see a deep red flush creeping up Sean’s neck. Fortunately, the umpire called time-in then, sparing Sean any more humiliation.

  Manny sank back into his catching stance. Even though Coach Flaherty hadn’t been chewing him out, his insides were churning. Sean made the out. So why couldn’t you just leave him alone?

  He knew better than to hope that would ever happen. Coach Flaherty was a “screamer”; if he had a problem with your playing, he let you know it, loud and clear and in front of whoever happened to be near.

  Manny wished he had the guts to ask Coach Flaherty to tone it down. But doing so would risk having the coach turn his anger on him. In the end, it was just easier to keep his mouth shut.

  2

  The double play seemed to have given Abe new energy. He threw four pitches to the next Wolverine batter. The first was a ball. The second zoomed past for a called strike. The batter clipped the third, sending it foul for strike two. He whiffed on the fourth pitch, a blazing fastball that socked into Manny’s glove with a satisfying pop to make it strike three—and game over!

  The Grizzlies infield surged toward Abe, laughing and cheering. The Wolverine batter, meanwhile, kicked at the dirt. Then his coach appeared at his side, put a consoling arm around his shoulders, and led him to their dugout.

  Manny watched them with an envious eye. Would Coach Flaherty have done that if it had been one of our batters? Probably not.

  He pulled off his catcher’s mask and joined his teammates in the dugout.

  “Nice pitching, Abe!” Kiyoshi Satou, the third baseman, was saying as Manny sat on the bench.

  Abe grinned but pointed a finger at Manny. “He’s the one we should be thanking,” he said. “Seriously, Manny, you jumped on that bunt so fast I thought the batter told you what he was going to do!”

  Manny leaned forward to loosen his leg guards. “He sort of did, I guess.” He explained about the cleat taps.

  Sean Wilson whistled in appreciation. “I can’t believe you picked up on that.”

  Stu sat down next to Manny and gave him a friendly clap on the back. “That’s our Manny—always using his keen powers of observation to get one step ahead of the other guys!”

  Coach Flaherty approached the dugout then. He was smiling with satisfaction. “Good game, boys, good game,” he said in his booming voice. “It was a close one, but you pulled it off. Now take a seat so I can tell you what you ha
ve to do to win us that championship title.”

  So much for the celebration, Manny thought as he moved over to make room on the bench.

  The coach waited until they were quiet before speaking. “We’ll be facing the Sharks on Wednesday. They’re a tough team, but under normal circumstances I’d say we could beat them.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “Unfortunately, we may be playing under circumstances that aren’t normal—not for us, anyway.”

  The Grizzlies looked at one another, puzzled.

  “I’ve just finished talking with Jason’s father,” the coach explained. “Jason’s not here today because he has Lyme disease. You know what that is?”

  “He’s allergic to citrus fruits?” left fielder Gary Thompson asked.

  Everyone broke up laughing.

  Coach Flaherty remained stone-faced. “I doubt Jason would think that was funny,” he said. “If it’s not caught in time, Lyme disease can lead to terrible health issues like swelling of the joints, memory loss, and erratic mood changes.”

  The players sobered up at the thought of Jason experiencing any of those problems.

  “Did they catch it in time with Jason?” center fielder Patrick McGwire asked.

  “They did,” the coach replied, “but only because he recognized one of the early symptoms, a red bull’s-eye rash that surrounds a tiny tick bite. The good news is that he is on medication now, so he’ll be fine. The bad news is he’s not sure when he’ll start feeling up to playing ball again. That means one of our subs may be starting at shortstop against the Sharks.” He searched the Grizzlies until he found Sean Wilson. “Are you up for the job, Wilson?”

  Manny saw Sean swallow hard. “I-I think so,” he stuttered.

  The coach grimaced. “You think so? Well, are you or aren’t you? Because if you aren’t, I can choose someone else!”

  Sean straightened. “I am. You can count on me!”

  His voice rang with confidence. But later, after the meeting had broken up and the players were gathering their gear, he looked anxious.

  Manny noticed his discomfort. He nudged Stu. “He doesn’t look too good, does he?” he whispered, jerking his chin toward Sean.

  Stu glanced over at the sub. “He looks like he’s going to be sick!” Stu stood up. “Come on. If we’re going to win that championship, we’ve got to get him in tip-top shortstop shape!”

  Stu walked over, planted himself in front of Sean, and said, “Tomorrow’s Sunday, so there’s no official practice. But can you meet me and Manny at Belford Park at two o’clock in the afternoon?”

  Sean looked from Manny to Stu and back. “Why?”

  Stu threw an arm around Manny’s shoulders. “We’re going to teach you everything we know about playing shortstop, that’s why!”

  Sean blinked. A small smile tugged at his lips. “Really? You’d do that for me?”

  Stu snorted. “Dude, you’re part of our team. The better you play, the better we do as a team. So we’re doing it for us—all of us.” He let go of Manny. “So, two o’clock? I’ll bring some baseballs. Manny, you bring a bat, and we’ll all bring our gloves.”

  Sean was grinning broadly now. “Two o’clock at Belford Park,” he said. “I’ll be there!”

  3

  Sean and Stu left soon after that. Manny was just shoving the last of his gear into his bag when he looked up to see his parents approaching.

  “Manuel! You played a fine game!” his mother said excitedly. “Such a good throw to Stu for that out!” She clasped her hands in front of her as if to contain her happiness.

  Manny looked down, embarrassed. He had inherited his mother’s sleek black hair and deep brown eyes, but not her exuberant manner. He was quieter, more reserved; in that way, he was like his father.

  “Nice game, son,” Mr. Griffin said with a smile.

  “Thanks,” Manny said. “Did you keep scorecards?”

  His father pulled out a notebook and opened it. On the pages were two elaborate tables, one for each team. Boxes on the tables represented innings, and a diagram of a baseball diamond for each inning was used to record what happened during each at bat.

  “I haven’t tallied the individual stats yet,” Mr. Griffin said, pointing to the final columns. “Maybe we can do that together later?”

  Manny nodded eagerly. He loved poring over the figures with his father. It was like reliving each moment of the game. And it didn’t hurt to know who the best players on the opposing teams were, either!

  Mrs. Griffin looked over her husband’s shoulder and made a puffing sound with her lips. “You and your charts and figures!” she said with a laugh. “Put them away and help your son with his equipment. I’m sure he wants to get home for his favorite dinner.”

  “Tacos?” Manny asked hopefully.

  “Tacos,” Mrs. Griffin confirmed.

  Manny made a fist and pumped the air once. “Yes! Let’s go!”

  Half an hour later, Manny emerged from his bedroom, clean from a shower and ready to eat. He hurried to the kitchen, where he found his parents and his older brother, Matthew, waiting for him to join them. Or rather, his parents were waiting—Matthew had already started on his first taco.

  “Sorry, bro,” he said around a mouthful. “I was hungry!”

  “No problem,” Manny said as he slid into his seat. “I would have done the same thing.”

  Mrs. Griffin had set all the ingredients—meat, cheese, shredded lettuce, sliced black olives, diced tomatoes, and crispy shells—in the middle of the table so they could all fix their own tacos. Manny took a shell, spooned the spicy meat into the bottom, and then layered lettuce and cheese on top. One big crunchy bite later, he was in heaven!

  While the family ate, they caught up on one another’s days. Afterward, Manny and Matthew cleaned the kitchen. Only when that was done did Manny and his father sit down together to look over the scorecards from the day’s game. Mr. Griffin filled in the blank areas on the Wolverines card, leaving Manny to fill in those same squares for the Grizzlies.

  When Manny tallied Sean Wilson’s at-bat efforts, he was surprised to discover that the substitute shortstop had three hits in five trips to the plate that game. One of those hits had gotten a Grizzly home to tie the game.

  Those figures answered something Manny had been wondering about—namely, why Coach Flaherty had chosen Sean to start at shortstop over the other subs. After all, the coach hadn’t seemed impressed by Sean’s infield play. But maybe he had been impressed by Sean’s hitting!

  “Would have been nice if he’d said as much to Sean after the game,” Manny muttered.

  Mr. Griffin looked up from his sheet. “What’s that?”

  Manny sighed. “You know how Coach Flaherty likes to yell, right?”

  “I’d have to be deaf not to know that,” his father said drily.

  “Well, I guess I just wish he’d yell good stuff to us sometimes, instead of always yelling about how we’re doing this wrong or that wrong. You know?”

  Mr. Griffin put down his pencil and adjusted his glasses. “Yes, I do know. In fact, I’ve been considering talking to him about his, er, coaching technique.”

  Manny widened his eyes in alarm. “No, don’t do that!”

  “Why not?”

  Manny searched for an explanation that would make sense. “Yelling is just his way,” he finally said. “And I don’t think it bothers anyone else but me.” An image of Sean with his head hanging low crossed Manny’s mind, but he pushed it away. “I don’t want anyone to think I can’t take it.”

  Mr. Griffin regarded him for a long moment and then nodded. “Okay, I won’t say anything. But if you change your mind,” he added, “just say the word. And if you ever want to talk about it—or about anything else, for that matter—I’m here.”

  “I know. Thanks, Dad,” Manny said, relieved.

  4

  When Manny went to bed that night, a light rain was falling. It was still misting when he woke up the next morning. It was ten o’clock
, so he stood up, stretched, and went to the kitchen to find something for breakfast. On the table was a plate of bagels along with a note telling him that his parents had gone to do errands and that he should call Stu. He grabbed a sesame bagel and spread it with cream cheese before picking up the phone and dialing the Fletchers’ number.

  “About time,” Stu groused good-naturedly. “I called over an hour ago. Can you come to the field at eleven o’clock instead of two? Sean has to be somewhere this afternoon.”

  Manny peeked out the window. It had stopped raining, but the ground was dotted with puddles. “I can make it, but it’s going to be a little wet, don’t you think?” he said.

  Stu laughed. “Look at it this way: the muddier the park, the fewer people who will be there to bug us. Right?”

  “Can’t argue with that logic,” Manny agreed. “See you in an hour.”

  He polished off the rest of his bagel, drank some orange juice, and filled a water bottle to bring to the ball field. By the time he’d changed into his shorts and T-shirt, it was nearly eleven. He scribbled a note to his parents; grabbed his cell phone, his glove, and a bat; and set off for the park at a trot.

  The mist had stopped and the sun was starting to peek through the clouds as Manny hurried along the sidewalk. In ten minutes, he’d reached Belford Park. A combination sports field, playground, and amphitheater, the park had one of the town’s three baseball diamonds. Sometimes, organized teams reserved the field, so it wasn’t always available for pickup games or practice sessions. But as Stu had predicted, today the field was empty, thanks to the earlier rain.

  Stu was already there. “Finally!” he said when he saw Manny. “Come on, let’s play ball!”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Sean?”

  “What would you rather do,” Stu countered, “sit around or hit around?”

  In reply, Manny picked up his bat.

  Stu trotted to the mound with a sack full of baseballs. He dumped the contents on the ground and selected one.

  Manny stepped into the batter’s box. “Think you can find the strike zone?” he teased.