They managed to put across a run, making the score 5 to 3. Now, with two outs and two men on, they had their best chance of tying it up — or even going ahead of the Royals.
Their cleanup hitter was up. Already he had knocked out two doubles.
Anxiously, Don Drake looked toward the dugout at Coach Day.
“Pitch to him, Don,” said the coach.
Chico backed up in left field. Louie Carlo stepped back, deeper in center. This batter was a long-ball hitter. If he met the ball squarely, it would go.
Chico waited.
11
Crack!
The sound of the bat connecting with the ball was like a shot. The white pill streaked out to deep left, curving toward the foul line.
“It’s going over the fence!” someone in the bleachers yelled. “It’s a homer!”
Chico raced back. Near the fence, he turned and looked over his shoulder. The ball was coming down a few feet inside fair territory. It was over his head.
He leapt high. Smack! The ball struck the pocket of his glove and stayed there.
Chico trotted in with the ball. His heart hammered with triumph. Ahead of him, his teammates were jumping with joy. Fans were cheering.
“Beautiful catch, Chico! Nice leap!”
“You saved the game for us, Chico!” Coach Day’s eyes and face were bright as Chico approached. “Best catch I’ve seen in months!”
“Thank you, Coach,” Chico said. And then he stood there while every member of the team shook his hand. String was last in line. He gripped Chico’s hand lightly, then let go.
Chico was sure that String shook his hand only because the others did.
That night Buddy came to visit Chico. They went over the list of batting averages. String was leading with a whopping .397. Buddy’s average was .388, Chico’s .297.
“String is a much better hitter than either of us,” said Chico. “I wish I could hit as well as he does.”
“Who doesn’t?” said Buddy.
Chico thought about it awhile. “I’ll try harder,” he said finally. “Maybe if I hit better, String won’t make fun of me so much. I know he doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, sure he does,” said Buddy. “That’s just his way, Chico. He’s always ragging on people.”
Chico shrugged. He remembered how lightly String had gripped his hand that afternoon. “Maybe,” he said.
Nevertheless, he made up his mind to use a different bat. Maybe he couldn’t beat String’s average, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.
On Monday the Royals played the Colts. When Chico batted, he gripped the long, yellow wood near the knob and swung at the pitches with all his might. The bat was an inch longer than the one he had used in previous games. It was the same size String and some of the bigger boys were using.
But the bat didn’t help Chico. He struck out.
The next time he was up, he hit a dribbling grounder to the pitcher. He made a shoestring catch of a fly ball, though, which kept the Colts from scoring two runs. The Royals squeezed through with a win, 8 to 7.
Chico went without a hit.
The next game was a rematch against the Lions. Chico used the same long bat. He was sure he’d clout the ball today. Just one pitch — the right one — was all it would take to blast it over the fence.
But Chico didn’t clout the ball. He hardly touched it. He went down swinging twice.
“C’mon, Chico!” yelled String. “Quit aiming for that fence! You’ll never hit it then!”
Chico blushed.
On top of his poor showing at the plate, he also missed a high fly in the field that accounted for one of the Lions’ runs. It was a bad day for Chico. Coach Day took him out in the fourth inning and put in Louie Carlo.
“You’re trying too hard at the plate, Chico,” said the coach. “You’re too tense.”
Chico, though, knew what his trouble was better than anyone.
12
The Lions blasted Frankie off the mound in the fifth inning. Don Drake held them to three hits, but the Lions were roaring. They took home the win, 9 to 3.
Perhaps, thought Chico, he had better not use the long yellow bat anymore. He would use the one he always batted with. Even though he’d never socked a homer with it, he had been able to get hits. And that’s what counted most.
On Monday they played the Marlins. After the game, the boys were going to a picnic at Orchard Falls Park.
The Marlins had a right-hander on the mound, Dick Mills, who could throw sharp curves and knucklers. Chico wasn’t worried. He was confident he could hit anything the pitcher threw to him. He was going to use his old bat again.
“These guys are a cinch,” String Becker said. The Royals were sitting in the dugout, watching the Marlins take their infield practice. “We trounced them twelve to one in the first round. We ought to be able to do it again.”
“We’ll make it a shutout this time,” said Dutch Pierce.
Infield practice ended, and the game started. Dick Mills mowed Ray and Joe down with curves, but he couldn’t fool Dutch. Dutch blistered an inside pitch past the third baseman for a single. String acted anxious to send one over the fence, but four balls gave him a stroll to first.
This was a chance for the Royals to score. But with two strikes on him, Billy Hubble swung at a knuckler that must have looked as big as a balloon to him. Strike three, and the sides changed.
The Marlins’ lead-off man punched out a single over short and then stole second. An error on shortstop Ray Ward put another man on. The man on second stayed there.
“C’mon! Look alive!” yelled String at first base. “Let’s get ’em!”
Frankie worked hard on the third man, a left-hand hitter. A one-bouncer came back at him. Frankie caught it, spun, and whipped the ball to second. Ray stepped on the bag, then pegged to first.
A double play!
The cleanup hitter was a tall, husky righthander. Chico moved back a dozen steps in left field. He remembered the first game with the Marlins. This guy had driven one to deep left. If it hadn’t gone foul, it would have been a homer.
Crack! The ball whizzed out to left field like a torpedo. Chico stepped back a little and caught it easily. He knew that if he hadn’t played deep for that hitter, he wouldn’t have caught that ball.
“Nice catch, Chico,” Coach Day said as Chico came running in. “Pick up a bat. You’re up after Buddy.”
Buddy singled.
Chico walked to the plate. He was using his regular bat now. He was sure he could hit whatever pitch Mills threw to him.
“Strike!” He had let that one go by.
Another pitch. A hook. Chico swung. Missed.
“Strike two!”
Chico stepped out of the box, and the umpire called time. Chico adjusted his belt, pulled his helmet down tighter, and stepped back into the box.
Mills threw two more pitches, both balls. Now the count was two and two.
The next pitch came in. A hook. Chico swung. Whiff!
“Strike three!” said the umpire.
Chico turned glumly, tossed his bat and helmet aside, and walked back to the dugout. He shook his head. He couldn’t understand why he had missed those pitches. He just couldn’t.
Dale Hunt flied out. Then Frankie started a rally with a hot single through short. The Royals scored twice before the Marlins got them out.
They managed to keep the Marlins scoreless for that inning.
Chico was up again in the third. String and Billy were on base. This was a chance for him to get some RBIs.
“Strike one!”
“Strike two!”
Chico couldn’t believe it. Those hooks looked so easy to hit.
Then came the knuckler. The ball turned so slowly you could see the seams. Chico swung.
“You’re out!” shouted the umpire.
Angrily, Chico tossed his bat aside as if it were the bat’s fault that he hadn’t got a hit. He trembled as he returned to the dugout. He was ashamed to face anyone.<
br />
“That’s all right, Chico,” Coach Day said comfortingly. “You’re too anxious. You’ll hit it.”
In spite of Chico’s failure to hit, the Royals picked up two more runs. Then the Marlins pushed across three runs at their turn at bat, making the score 4 to 3, Royals’ favor.
The Royals scored twice again in the fourth, bringing their score to 6. Chico ended their at-bat by popping up. At least this time he’d get the feel of the ball.
Chico ran out to the field, wondering what he was doing wrong. He tore up a handful of grass, and flung it angrily behind him. Three times at bat and not one hit!
The Marlins began to hit and drove in a run. Then a man laid down a neat bunt toward third. Neither Frankie nor Dutch could get to it in time.
As Frankie released the first pitch to the next batter, the runner on first stole second. Dale didn’t make the play on him. The man on third might try to run home.
The score was now 6 to 4. There were two men on and no outs.
Chico saw the next batter come to the plate, but he paid him little attention. He was thinking about his own hitting. It seemed impossible that he couldn’t hit that big fat ball Mills threw. You would think he had never hit before!
Frankie stretched, then pitched. Crack!
Chico saw the ball shoot into the air toward left — deep left. His eyes widened, and just for an instant he glanced at the batter, who was now scrambling for first base.
It was the Marlins’ slugger! Their long-ball hitter!
Chico turned and raced back as fast as his legs could carry him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the ball streak over his head! It hit the ground and bounced to the fence. Chico ran after it, picked it up, and pegged it in.
Dutch Pierce caught it and relayed it home. The runner was racing in. He slid, dust exploding in front of his feet. Dale put the ball on him.
“Safe!” yelled the plate umpire.
A home run!
Chico felt terrible. It was his fault. He had been thinking so much about his poor hitting, he had neglected to watch who was batting.
Kenny Morton took his place after that, but neither team scored again. The Marlins won, 7 to 6.
String Becker glared at Chico as they walked off the field.
“You lost the game for us, you know that?” he cried. “You knew that guy hits a long ball. Why didn’t you back up when he came to bat?”
“I know. I’m sorry,” said Chico.
“Sorry, yeah!” said String with disgust. “That helps a lot now!”
13
All right, boys!” said Coach Day. “Don’t forget the picnic at Orchard Falls Park!”
Chico headed straight toward the gate. His head was down. String’s strong words were still ringing in his ears.
“Chico!” called the coach. “You’re coming to the picnic, aren’t you?”
Chico turned and paused. Yes, he wanted to go. But if everyone blamed him for losing the game, why should he? How could he enjoy himself?
“Come on, Chico!” said Buddy. “We’ll hike and swim and have a lot of fun.”
“Sure!” said Coach Day, smiling. “Don’t worry about today. It’s all over with. Get home, change your clothes, and I’ll pick you up in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Chico thought about it a moment. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll be ready.”
Orchard Falls Park was ten miles beyond the city limits. A huge playground area was on the right side as you drove in from the highway. Farther in was the large lake. Sitting atop a high platform, a sun helmet on his head, was the lifeguard. He was busy watching the swimmers.
At the far edge of the lake were the high, frosty-white falls. A heavy mist hovered near the bottom, where the water dropped into the lake with a loud, steady roar.
Scattered in dozens of places under the trees were picnic tables and fireplaces. Three cars, including Coach Day’s station wagon, hauled in the boys. They found two empty tables close to each other and put them end to end. Then the men began to prepare the dinner.
Most of the boys dashed to the bathhouse, where they changed into their bathing suits.
“I don’t really want to go swimming yet,” said String to Buddy. “Let’s go on a hike along the gorge.”
“Okay!” said Buddy. “Want to come along, Chico?”
“Does he have to go everyplace you go?” String snorted.
Buddy smiled. “No. But he’s never been here. Have you, Chico?”
Chico shot an icy look at String. String was always making fun of him. “That’s all right, Buddy. You two go alone.”
“Never mind. Come on,” said String. “I’m only kidding.”
Only kidding. He always says that, thought Chico. But I know he means it.
“I just hope we don’t come across any snakes,” said String. “I hate them!”
“Yikes — me, too!” said Buddy, laughing.
They told Coach Day where they were going, then started toward the woods. Near the foot of the falls, they found the path that led up the steep, tree-filled hillside.
“My dad told me the park people cleared out a deep swimming hole up here,” Buddy commented. “They thought the park could have two swimming areas. But most people stay down at the lower one because of the falls.”
They paused awhile and watched the water gush over the falls. The thunderous roar made it hard to hear anything else.
They went on, climbing higher and higher. String and Buddy walked side by side, with Chico trailing behind them. On both sides of the path were smelly dead leaves, pine cones, and broken twigs.
Chico felt excitement bubbling inside him. There was adventure here, and danger. Danger because the steep path was slippery from the rain that had poured the day before — and only inches to their left was the sharp drop of the gorge.
Soon they came to the upper pond. They stopped and threw rocks in for a while.
Then Buddy said, “Let’s keep going, up to the overlook, okay?”
“Shouldn’t we be heading back?” asked Chico.
String turned. His eyes mocked Chico. “What’s the matter? Scared to go any higher?”
“No. But maybe dinner’s ready. By the time we get back —”
“Don’t worry,” said String. “There’s plenty of food for everybody.”
Chico shrugged. He was sorry he had said anything.
They continued slowly up the path, looking at the water below them and the lake birds flying around in slow, lazy circles.
Suddenly something on the ground caught Chico’s eyes. It was at the edge of the path — a snake about three feet long!
“Look out!” he yelled. “Snake!”
Just as he yelled, it slithered across the path behind the two boys. Buddy spun, his eyes wide. String spun around, too. His face turned white. He saw the snake and jumped back.
One foot slid onto some leaves at the edge of the path, and he lost his balance. He fell, then slid on his back down the steep bank. He tried to stop himself but couldn’t. “Help! I — I can’t swim!” he screamed.
The next instant he was falling through space, his feet sprawled out in front of him. Far below, he struck the water and disappeared.
14
He sank!” cried Buddy. “I can’t see him!” Panic was in his face and eyes.
Frozen with shock and horror, Chico was unable to move.
“What are we going to do?” Buddy moaned. “He’ll probably drown!”
Suddenly Chico came to life. He quickly started stripping off his T-shirt. “I’ll dive in after him,” he said.
“Dive in? Are you crazy? That’s about thirty feet! You could hurt yourself bad!”
“I won’t get hurt,” Chico assured him. “You said yourself there was a deep pool cleared out down below here!”
Buddy stared down at the water. “Look!” He pointed. “There’s String! He came up! But he looks ... he looks unconscious or something.”
Chico pulled off his sneakers and socks. Carefully he hurri
ed down the bank a few feet, stood in diving position for a moment, then pushed himself forward. He dived gracefully, his feet together behind him, his hands stretched over his head and spread slightly apart. It seemed a long time that he was suspended there in the air, holding his breath. Then he struck the smooth, mirrorlike top of the water. He went down deep, then swam back up to the surface.
The water was cool, and he shivered. He gulped in fresh air, whipped his hair away from his face, and looked around for String.
About twenty feet away from him — in the direction of the falls — he saw String bobbing in the water.
“String!” Chico yelled. “String!”
String didn’t move. Terror took hold of Chico. Maybe Buddy was right. String was probably unconscious!
Chico started swimming as swiftly as he could toward String. The falls were not too far away. If he didn’t get to String soon . . .
The horrible thought of what would happen made Chico swim even faster. Suddenly he didn’t see String. String had gone down!
No! There he was again!
Chico swam harder than he had ever swum in his life. The gap between them began to close. At long last he reached String, put his left hand under String’s chin, then turned and swam toward the shore.
The current was strong against them, but Chico swam with powerful strokes. He reached the shore, pulled up String beside him with panting breath, and held String’s head in his arms.
String’s eyes were closed. Suddenly he coughed hard, sputtering water.
“String!” Chico cried. “String! Can you talk?”
“Who — who is it?” gasped String.
The words were like music to Chico. His eyes brightened. “It’s me! Chico!”
“Where — where’s Buddy?”
“Up on the path. I’ll bet he went after Coach Day.”
String didn’t say any more. Chico looked at his wet face. It was pale and tired-looking. Chico grew worried. Would String be all right?
After what seemed like a long while, he heard voices nearby. Then Coach Day and the other men came hurrying along the narrow shore. They saw him and String and rushed forward.
Baseball Flyhawk Page 4
