Lucky Seven

by Matt Christopher

Butch’s head turned toward the Bobcats’ bench, and even through the face guard Tim was able to see the worried look in Butch’s eyes. Tim remembered what he had asked Butch to tell Coach Higgs. What an awful thing to do! What would Uncle Al and Aunt Marge think, if they knew that? They were sitting somewhere behind him, expecting to see him play. That was the only reason they had driven all the way from their home. Uncle Al had said so himself. But what had Tim done? He had pretended he didn’t feel well so that Butch would play and take all the blame.

  His throat ached. He got up and walked over to the coach. “Coach Higgs,” he said, trembling a little. “Let me go in. Please.”

  Coach Higgs frowned. “I thought you didn’t feel well. I was surprised that you even showed up.”

  “I—I just said that because my uncle is here today and I wasn’t playing well,” confessed Tim. “But, Butch—he just can’t—”

  Coach Higgs smiled. “Okay, Tim. Get ready.”

  A Tiger forward dribbled the puck across the center line and then across the Bobcats’ blue line. Jack Towns tried to take it from him, but the Tiger passed it to another forward. The forward dribbled it toward the net, then snapped it.

  Like a streak, the puck shot toward the left side of the net. Tim pounced on it like a cat and caught it in his mitt. A save!

  “Yea!” screamed the fans. “Thataway to go, Tim!”

  A few moments later, Chip blasted the puck past the Tigers’ goalie. Bobcats, 2—Tigers, 3. In the second period the Bobcats seemed to be back in form. They tied the score, then went into the lead 4 to 3, then 5 to 3. And Tim was making one save after another. He missed one later, a high one that grazed past his ear, but the Tigers deserved that goal. The Bobcats scored again and the game ended 6 to 4 in the Bobcats’ favor. And Tim had never been so happy—or so tired—in his life.

  In the locker room, Coach Higgs and the guys praised him for his defensive job at the goal. “Guess practice paid off, didn’t it, Tim?” Coach Higgs smiled. “And so did that extra effort.”

  “I guess it did,” said Tim.

  Then Uncle Al came in, a big smile on his face. “Say, fella, you really showed me something,” he said. “I’m glad I came!”

  Tim grinned as he took Uncle Al’s outstretched hand. “So am I, Uncle Al,” he said.

  Baseballs and Bumblebees

  YOU could tell it was spring. Baseballs were flying like happy, white butterflies fresh out of cocoons, and George Maxwell Jones was perched on a branch of a cherry tree, gently detaching handfuls of delectable fruit and eating them with gusto.

  The tree, a mighty stanchion that had withstood many winter storms, was one of several on his father’s land. Far below in the valley was the Jefferson High School baseball field, where figures were scooting around like worried ants.

  George Maxwell Jones uttered a deep-throated sound in indignation at the sport going on down there and cast another hand ful of cherries into his mouth. Once or twice he had pictured himself in a Jefferson High uniform and had to admit to himself that it didn’t look bad on his six-foot-two frame. Only when he visualized himself scampering after a ground ball did he switch off the picture as he would a TV show. Somehow his long legs never wanted to progress at any speed that demanded extra exertion, and a slowpoke could never make the team.

  A bumblebee the size of a golf ball decided just then to have some fun with George. He made a semiorbit of the tree and charged in, all afterburners turned on full. When George saw the insect, he yelled and ducked. His head hit a branch and bounded back like a rubber ball. The bee came to a dead stop six inches from George’s nose. Suddenly it zoomed and George moved with the most exertion he had ever shown in his sixteen years. He fell backward, and with a crashing of branches and a scream, George went through space. Trying to ease his fall, he put out his hands. He made a one-point landing on a soft mound of earth and then felt pain in his right wrist that shot through his body like an electric charge. Once more George howled and then looked for the monster that had sent him to his disaster. The flying beast had landed on a glowing, bruised cherry and was, no doubt, sucking its delicious nectar.

  “You rat!” said George.

  He rose to his feet, brushed the dirt from his pants, and looked at his hurt wrist. There was a bump on its left side about the size of a large marble.

  George had no way of knowing then that his fall was going to make him a figure of distinction at Jefferson High.

  When his wrist continued to hurt the next day, he asked some of his friends what to do about it.

  “Best way to cure a sore wrist is to throw a baseball,” advised Eddie Vassy, second base-man for Jefferson High’s baseball team. “Isn’t that right, Walt?”

  “And who knows better than me?” quipped the stocky, yellow-haired catcher who was having a pitch-and-catch game with Eddie. “Didn’t I get a sore wrist last year? And didn’t I throw to cure it?”

  George looked uncertain. The boys were always kidding him, but these two seemed absolutely earnest about what they were saying now. Maybe this time they were being honest with him. Maybe Walt really did cure his sore wrist throwing a baseball.

  “Here, try it,” said Walt. He tossed the ball to George, who made an ungraceful stab at the ball and miraculously caught it. “Go ahead,” Walt encouraged. “Throw it to Eddie. You remember; he’s that boy standing there with the glove on his hand.”

  George gripped the clean white sphere between his thumb and first two fingers, reared back and threw. As the ball left his fingers pain pierced his wrist and he let out a violent yell. He cut the yell short, though, as he saw the ball suddenly twist into a spiral! Eddie’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened in disbelief as he tried to follow the ball with his glove. It twisted in and hit him on the chest.

  “Hey! Where’d you get that pitch?” cried Walt excitedly. “Never saw anything like that before in my life!”

  “Don’t throw it to me any more!” scowled Eddie, rubbing his sore chest. “Who do you think I am, Jerry Grote?”

  “But, Eddie! That curve! Did you see how crazy it was?” Walt couldn’t get over his amazement at George’s throw. He was turning red with excitement and perspiring as if he had just completed a hundred-yard sprint. “Give me that ball, Eddie! I’ve got to see this hayseed do it again. You can do it again, can’t you, George? Because if you can, you’re the man our team’s looking for. We didn’t win a game last year, not one. Know why? We didn’t have a pitcher, that’s why. Not one guy could throw a single, measly curve. Here, George, throw him another one, just like that first one you threw.”

  “Not to me, he isn’t!” yelled Eddie. “You come down here, pal! See how you like catching it on the chest!”

  “Chicken!” said Walt, and ran down to replace Eddie. “Okay, George! Fire it!”

  George stared intently at the baseball. A cold chill formed in a spot in his back and began to spread. He had thrown a baseball a few times in his life but it had never performed the way it had this time. Of course, it was an accident. He’d never do it again in a million years.

  “Come on, George! Hurry up before the bell rings, will you?”

  Scarcely had the words left Walt’s lips when the bell began to shrill.

  “George! Throw it, will you?”

  Quickly, George reared back and once again fired the ball, aiming at the target Walt was giving him. Breathlessly he watched, wondering if the ball was going to repeat its fantastic performance. It was shooting straight as a bullet toward the outside of Walt’s glove. Then, suddenly, it cut sharply to the left, curved up, shot to the right exactly as it did before! Walt was a little better in getting a glove on it than Eddie. The ball struck his thumb and then his chest.

  “You did it again, George!” screamed Walt.

  “What kind of a pitch is it?” asked Eddie excitedly. “What do you call it, George?”

  George’s brows rose as far as they could go. “Kind of pitch?” he asked. “How should I know?” And then he turned and ran toward th
e open door of the school. “Come on! The bell’s rung!” he cried over his shoulder.

  At practice that afternoon it didn’t take Coach Bobo Wilson more than ten seconds to recognize outstanding performance when he saw it. He was even satisfied by the brief rejoinder, “I don’t know,” to his question: “Where and how did you learn to throw that crazy curve?” The coach even had to teach George how to stand on the rubber when the neophyte pitcher prepared to make his delivery. George had never played baseball in his life and didn’t know any of the rules.

  “Just throw that ball over the plate and don’t balk,” said Coach Wilson. “Those are the only rules you have to worry about, kid! Keep pitching like that and you’ll break our losing streak!”

  Barton High was Jefferson’s first opponent. The game was on a Tuesday, right after school, and a crowd had assembled even before the teams got onto the field. Evidently word of George Maxwell Jones and his crazy curve ball had spread like wildfire. The sky was overcast, the air warm, and George’s wrist, although the bump had not changed in shape or size, felt fine.

  The teams had their pregame warm-up, and Jefferson took the field. The coach had procured the biggest mitt he could find for Walt to catch George’s throws. George lobbed three pitches with just enough thrust to get them to the catcher. Then Walt pegged to second and the umpire shouted: “Play ball!”

  George waited for the batter to step into the box. He was prickling with excitement as he got in position on the mound exactly as Coach Wilson had instructed him. He stood tall as a giant, a proud glimmer in his eyes. He remembered dreaming about this.

  Without winding up George reared back, lifted his left leg high, brought his arm around and released the ball with only part of his strength. It was silly to throw any harder than he had to, yet.

  The ball shot straight for the plate. Unless it switched plans it would be a perfect strike, or be lambasted for a long hit. Then, about two-thirds of the way, it shot into its crazy pattern. The batter, who had prepared to swing at a beautiful straight ball, stared.

  “Strike!” said the umpire as the ball corkscrewed over the plate.

  The ball struck the edge of Walt’s mitt and dropped to the ground. Walt picked it up hastily and tossed it back to George.

  “Thataway, George, ol’ boy! Beautiful pitch! Beautiful!”

  George rubbed the ball with satisfaction, stepped on the mound and threw again. This time the ball favored the outside corner. Was it actually too far out? It was hard to tell, but it made no difference. The batter swung at it for strike two.

  “Time!” yelled the batter, holding up an angry hand at the umpire. “Take a look at the ball, ump! No baseball can do what that one’s doing!”

  Walt laughed. “Sure! Here, look at it!”

  The umpire took the ball from Walt, curled it around in his hand, and said, “If it’s a trick ball, I can’t see it. Anyway, here’s another one.”

  He took a brand new baseball out of his pocket, handed it to Walt, and stuffed the other ball back into his pocket.

  “Play ball!” he ordered.

  Walt tossed the ball to George. George caught it and stepped into the pitcher’s box. He waited till the batter got ready, then reared back and aimed the throw for Walt’s huge mitt.

  The ball left his hand quite naturally, sped in a straight line, then went into its spiral. The batter gawked. His jaw sagged open and he made a futile and late attempt at a swing.

  “You’re out!” bellowed the umpire.

  One hundred and sixty fans cheered and whistled. The second batter was no better than the first, nor the third better than the second. Inning after inning, George Maxwell Jones threw the ball the only way he knew how and let it take its unnatural course.

  This is how the game continued until twenty-seven Barton High men were out. George had walked four, thrown four wild pitches, and six batters had managed to tick the ball for a foul. But Barton High didn’t score, and Jefferson won the game, 3 to o, breaking its streak of eleven losses.

  George was hoisted on stocky shoulders and carried like a hero to the school locker room. Everyone began shaking his hand—his left one—so that his right would be well enough to go again in the next game. Coach Wilson actually had a teary glimmer in his eyes as he praised his newly-discovered hurler.

  Davidson High was the next to falter under George’s unorthodox curve. Three times as many spectators as before witnessed the game. There was even a photographer who took pictures of George in various positions on the mound. George, unaccustomed to such accolades, blushed most of the time.

  “What do you call that pitch?” a reporter asked as he cornered George before the hero could get off the playing field.

  “Don’t call it anything,” replied George innocently.

  “You don’t have a name for it?”

  “No,” said George. “No name. I just throw it, that’s all.”

  “Did anybody teach it to you? A big leaguer? Or a friend who knows how to pitch?”

  “No,” repeated George. “I just throw it, that’s all.”

  “Amazing!” murmured the reporter. “Kid, some big league team will snatch you up quicker than you can say George—by the way, what’s your full name?”

  “George Maxwell Jones.”

  “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is,” said George.

  Washington High fell next, and then Clem-son and St. James went down before George’s corkscrew pitch. On two occasions Steve Buckner had to relieve George on the mound. Both times George was hit by a pitched ball—once on his foot, and once on his left elbow. In each case the incidents happened during the last two innings when Jefferson was ahead. Coach Wilson wanted to protect his star hurler from possible serious injuries, so he pulled him. An ordinary baseball player could have dodged the pitches easily, but, of course, George Maxwell Jones was no ordinary base-ball player.

  Big league scouts came to witness his fantastic performance, and there wasn’t one who wouldn’t have signed him on the spot—if it had been legal to sign up high school players. George could hardly wait till he graduated. Walt had told him that some bonus babies signed for a hundred thousand dollars! Just imagine that! A hundred thousand dollars!

  The season ended with Jefferson High copping the pennant and the championship. George Maxwell Jones was named the most valuable player of the year. If that wasn’t enough, he was also selected as an all-state player.

  During summer vacation George liked to relax on his father’s farm. The apple trees there provided plenty of good places to sit and dream of a big league future.

  George was sitting in one of these trees, picking off the small green but delicious apples, when a large bumblebee, yellow, with black stripes on its back approached.

  It droned along sleepily, but suddenly it picked up speed and dodged around a score of apples as if it were a contestant in a race. George watched it; a nerve began to tingle at the base of his back. The bee banked sharply to the left, and headed directly for George’s head.

  “No!” shouted George, and reared backward hastily.

  There was nothing at his back to catch him and he plunged to the ground. He put out his hands to cushion his fall and made a three-point landing. He groaned as pain shot through his tall, lean frame. George sat there momentarily, watching the bumblebee buzzing around the apples. In a little while, as if not satsified with what it found, the bee streaked away, a bolt of yellow, at a speed that looked as if it could well break the sonic barrier.

  George snarled as he rose to his feet. He brushed off his pants and felt his right wrist. He had removed the tape from his pitching arm after the season had ended, and now he looked at it with a dismal sensation coming over him. He turned his wrist this way and that and felt no pain at all.

  He stared at it with foreboding. He hurried home, got his glove, and called on Walt.

  “What gives, man?” said Walt, staring. “The season’s been over a long time.”

  “I wa
nt to throw one pitch,” George told Walt, breathlessly. “Just one is all I’ll need.”

  Walt looked at him as if George had cracked up, but without further argument he got his mitt and took his stance about sixty feet away from George. He only had his regular-size mitt at home during the summer, and a worried frown marked his face.

  George looked at the target Walt gave him, reared back, and threw. The ball streaked straight as an arrow—all the way to Walt’s mitt. It didn’t curve up, down, or sideways. It didn’t spiral. It didn’t do anything. It just went straight.

  “Just what I thought,” murmured George sadly. “It’s all over, Walt.”

  “It didn’t curve!” yelled Walt, horrified. “It’s the first one that didn’t curve!”

  “I know,” said George, looking at his wrist.

  “Throw me another!” cried Walt. “You can’t lose that curve just like that!”

  “But I have,” murmured George. “It’s gone!”

  He proved it when he threw again—a per fect straight ball so wide of Walt’s target Walt almost missed catching it.

  So ended George Maxwell Jones’ pitching days.

  But to this day his name is remembered and is inscribed on a tall, golden trophy displayed in the hall of Jefferson High:

  “In honor of our hero, George Maxwell Jones, pitcher of eleven straight victories for Jefferson High School.”

  To this day George can never see a bee without smiling slightly and shaking his head. Some of his friends know his story, but others wonder why he acts that way.

  No Spot for Jerry

  JERRY BELL braced himself and looked directly into the blue eyes of the guard opposite him.

  “One! Two! Hip!” Quarterback Dave Wheeler’s voice snapped like a whip.

  At the cry, “Hip!” the lines lunged at each other. Jerry pushed forward and felt himself thrust aside. The next instant he was sprawled on the ground, his brown and white helmet cocked slightly on his head.