Mystery Coach

by Matt Christopher

  “He suggested how I could play my position better at second base. He told me what I was doing wrong and how to correct it.” Chris’s eyes lit up. “That’s exactly what we need, Dad! Advice! Coach Edson hardly ever opens his mouth.”

  “Hmmm,” murmured Dad. “Well … seems to be no harm in that. Did he say why he wouldn’t tell his name?”

  “No. And I’m not the only guy he’s talked to so far, Dad. He’s also talked to Tex and Mick. Tex listened to him, but Mick didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know Mick. Nobody can tell him anything … especially a guy who wouldn’t give his name.”

  “Hmmm,” Dad murmured again. “It seems that the man, whoever he is, has taken an interest in your team, all right. And he seems to know baseball, too. Have you seen any strangers at the ball park?”

  “No. That’s what Tex and I can’t figure out. Who could know so much about us without being at our practices or at the game?”

  Amusement flashed in Dad’s eyes. “Seems that your telephone friend not only likes baseball, but likes to play the mystery man, too. Well …” he rustled the paper as he turned to go back into the other room, “as long as he’s trying to help you boys play better baseball, I see no harm in his telephoning.”

  “Why do you think he doesn’t want his identity known, Dad?”

  His father shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want Mr. Edson to know.”

  “Because Mr. Edson might get sore?”

  “Could be.”

  Chris dialed Tex’s number, got Tex after a couple of rings and told him about the call. Tex expressed surprise, then wanted to know what the man said. Chris told him, adding that the man seemed to be an expert on baseball, but that it was sure funny he wouldn’t tell his name.

  “Maybe he figures nobody knows him, anyway,” ventured Tex.

  “Could be,” said Chris. “I tried to recognize his voice, but I couldn’t. I don’t think I ever heard it before.”

  “Me neither,” admitted Tex. “It’s sure spooky, isn’t it?”

  “Well, sort of weird,” agreed Chris.

  There was a long silence, then Tex asked, “You all set for our first league game?” “

  “When is it?”

  “Thursday. Against the Scorpions. Maybe our mystery coach will be there.”

  “How will we know him?”

  “Just yell ‘Coach!’ and see which guy raises his hand,” said Tex, laughing.

  “Clown,” muttered Chris.

  At ten o’clock the next morning Tex was at the house with two other members of the Blazers, Jack Davis and Don Mitchell. If Tex looked excited, Jack and Don looked even more so.

  “You know what?” cried Tex before Chris had the door completely open. “These guys got telephone calls, too!”

  Chris stared. “From ‘Coach’?”

  “Who else?”

  7

  THE BOYS started some detective work to pin down the identity of the man who called himself “Coach.”

  “I know it’s not my father,” said Chris. “It would be ridiculous for him to call me. Besides, I’d recognize his voice. How about you, Tex? Was your father home when the man called you?”

  “Yes. But if the man’s the father of one of our players, then that player would know, wouldn’t he?”

  “Okay,” said Steve Herrick. “Let’s settle it now. Whose father is making the phone calls?”

  “Not mine,” some of them answered. Others shook their heads.

  “Man!” said Mick. “If it’s not one of our fathers, who is it?”

  “Somebody who’s interested in us, that’s for sure,” replied Chris.

  The opening day of the baseball season came around and the Scorpions had first raps. The July sun was hot, and Chris had already worked up a sweat from infield practice.

  A nice crowd filled the stands. Chris knew that somewhere among the many faces were Mom and Dad.

  Abe Ryan, the Blazers’ tall, dark-haired left-hander, got his signal from catcher Frank Bellows, stretched, and delivered. The ball grooved the center of the plate for a strike.

  Frank returned the ball to Abe, and the lefty went into his motions again.

  “Strike two!” yelled the ump as the ball cut the inside corner.

  “Nice pitch, Abe, ol’ boy!” yelled Chris Richards, socking the pocket of his glove with his fist. “Strike ’im out!”

  The other infielders joined in the line of chatter.

  Wham! The Scorpion drove Abe’s third pitch over second for a clean hit.

  Tex and Steve played in closer, anticipating a bunt, but the move didn’t discourage the Scorpion batter. He laid a beauty on the ground between third base and the mound, which Abe Ryan went after, scooped up, and rifled to first.

  “Out!” yelled the base umpire, thumb jabbing the air. The runner advanced safely to second.

  The next Scorpion popped a high fly to second base that Chris yelled for and caught. Two outs.

  Chris remembered the mystery coach’s advice to play closer to second base on a right-handed hitter, and deeper and halfway between first and second on a left-handed hitter. It sure made sense.

  Then—a shot on a straight line to Tex at third base. He caught it with a quick move of his glove, stared at the ball as if he were surprised he had it, then tossed it toward the mound and trotted in to the Blazers’ bench.

  “Surprised you had it?” Chris chuckled.

  Tex laughed. “Know what? I was!”

  The fans cheered the Texan as he stepped to the plate. He fouled off three pitches, took a ball, then flied out to center. Wally, whose mass of red hair made his protective helmet sit high on his head, belted the first pitch for a single. A born showman, Wally bowed to the cheering fans.

  “Look at him,” said Tex. “Thinks he’s a Hollywood star.”

  Steve Herrick went through his regular motions of putting both hands in the dirt, rubbing them off, and swinging the bat over his head a few times before stepping into the box. All this went for nothing as he socked a grounder to third base. The Scorpion caught the hop, glanced at second, then heaved the ball to first to throw Steve out.

  Mick, the Blazers’ cleanup hitter, drove a long ball to deep left for a triple, scoring Wally. Spike Dunne walked and it looked as if the Blazers were really having a hot inning. But Chris, on the two-two pitch, swung at a high one and struck out.

  “If you like pitches over your head,” said Steve as he ran out to the field with Chris, “why don’t you use a flagpole? You might be able to reach ’em.”

  “Very funny,” said Chris.

  Abe Ryan lost control of his first pitch and hit the Scorpion leadoff man on his hip. The Scorpion dropped his bat and trotted to first base.

  “Let’s get two!” yelled Chris. He moved closer to second base as a right-handed batter stepped into the box.

  Crack! A hot grounder to short. Jack fielded it, whipped it to Chris and Chris pegged it to first. A double play!

  A high pop-up to Frank Bellows ended the top half of the second inning.

  “He’s got nothing on it,” Steve Herrick said to Jack, referring to Howie Little, the Scorpions’ pitcher. “It’s as straight as a string.”

  Jack corked Howie’s second pitch through the second baseman’s legs, then advanced to third on Frank’s double to left center field. Abe, batting left-handed, drilled one out to deep right. The ball was caught, but Jack tagged up, then scored.

  Tex knocked Frank in on a single over short, then perished on base when both Wally and Steve flied out.

  Scorpions 0, Blazers 3.

  The Blazers were hot.

  The Scorpions’ leadoff man tagged Abe’s first pitch for a triple, then scored on a two-bagger to deep right field. Chris looked at Abe, hoping that the two long hits wouldn’t make him so nervous that he’d lose control and start walking every Scorpion coming to bat.

  But that was exactly what was starting to happen. Abe walked the next two Scorpions to
fill the bases.

  “Take your time, Abe!” Chris shouted. “Groove ’em!”

  He felt the tension beginning to grow among the Blazers. A long hit could wipe the bases clean and put the Scorpions ahead.

  “Ball!” shouted the ump as Abe breezed in his first pitch.

  A strike followed. Then three consecutive pitches, none of which crossed the plate, sent the batter to first and walked in the Scorpions’ second run.

  Chris stared across the diamond at Coach Edson. Coach! Aren’t you going to do something? Can’t you see that Abe’s completely lost control of his pitches?

  A hard drive to third! A ball that sailed through the air like a rocket. Tex intercepted it. One out. He touched third—two outs. He rifled the ball to first. Three outs!

  A triple play!

  The Blazer fans went wild and cheered Tex as he ran in to the bench.

  “Thanks, Tex,” murmured Abe, relief bright on his face. “You saved my life.”

  Tex laughed. “Anytime, Abe,” he said.

  Mick Antonelli led off in the bottom of the third and dropped a single behind first base. He’d hit the ball at the end of his bat. Spike Dunne tagged a long one to left but it wasn’t long enough. The ball was caught and pegged to second to hold Mike on first. One out.

  Chris stepped into the box, anxious to redeem himself after that strikeout in the first inning. He let the first pitch go by—a called strike—then dropped to the dirt on a close throw.

  He got up, dusted himself off, then belted a waist-high pitch to left center field. The blow was high and it looked for a moment as if it might drop over the fence. It didn’t. It struck the fence, bounced back, and the fielder picked it up and pegged it in. The shortstop caught it and relayed it to third in an attempt to get Chris. The throw was late and Chris was on for a triple with an RBI credited to him.

  There, Mr. Herrick, he thought, looking at Steve. How do you like those sour apples? But Steve wasn’t looking at him.

  Jack Davis popped up to the catcher and Frank grounded out to short, ending the half-inning.

  Scorpions 2, Blazers 4.

  The Scorpions came up in the top of the fourth as if their stingers had all been plucked. Chris felt sure that this would be the fastest half-inning ever.

  He was wrong.

  The first Scorpion drilled Abe’s first pitch through the mound, almost knocking Abe’s pins from under him. The next cracked a double to right center, advancing the runner to third.

  Abe stood off the mound awhile, wiped his sweating forehead, then stepped back on the rubber. He checked the runners on second and third, then delivered. Smack! A hard grounder between Chris and second base! Chris sprang for it, but the ball brushed the tip of his glove and bounded to the outfield. He landed on his belly, mad at himself for having forgotten to play his position where he should have on the right-handed hitter. He had been playing it as if a left-hander were batting.

  Two runs scored.

  The next hit was a soft fly behind second. Chris, still hurt thinking about the previous play, dropped back.

  He reached for the ball—and missed it! The runner on first bolted for second and the hitter was safe.

  “Richards!” bawled Steve Herrick angrily. “What do you need to catch a ball? A basket?”

  8

  CHRIS KICKED at the dirt, wishing he could make himself invisible. He was playing the worst he had ever played. Steve was right. He should use a basket instead of a glove.

  “Forget it, Chris!” Tex yelled from third. “Get the next one!”

  Oh, sure, thought Chris. But the next one won’t cancel out the error I made on that easy, blooping fly.

  Abe Ryan managed to put two strikes over the plate on the next Scorpion, then was hit for a single that brought in another run. A pop-up to Tex and then a slow grounder to short accounted for two quick outs. Now the runners were on second and third and the Scorpions’ cleanup hitter was at the plate.

  Abe pitched to him. His first two throws were so wide that Frank had to stretch for them. His next pitch cut the inside corner for a strike. Then the Scorpion lambasted a belt-high pitch to left center field for a double, and both runners scored.

  “Time!” yelled Steve Herrick.

  “Time!” echoed the umpire.

  Steve trotted toward the mound, looking at Coach Edson sitting in the dugout. Chris looked too. You’d think that the coach had his mind a thousand miles away. But suddenly he turned to Bill Lewis sitting beside him and motioned him to go in.

  Bill dragged himself out of the dugout and to the mound as if he were loaded down with weights.

  What a team, thought Chris. Bill should have been warming up ever since the Scorpions had started to knock Abe’s pitches all over the lot. But it was Coach Edson’s job to have instructed Bill to do so. No one else’s.

  A smattering of applause rose as Abe Ryan walked off the field, his head bowed. He handed the ball to Bill, who stepped to the mound and started to do what he should have been doing in the bull pen.

  After seven or eight throws the umpire called time-in and the game resumed.

  Bill hurled his first pitch too far inside. The hitter couldn’t dodge it and was hit.

  “Take your base!” cried the ump.

  This is just great, fumed Chris. From the frying pan into the fire.

  The next Scorpion went the limit, then smacked the three-two pitch for a high-hopping grounder to second. The ball was to Chris’s right side, but he was playing his position as the mystery coach had reminded him to do on a right-handed hitter. He caught the ball, made the play at second base unassisted, and the terrible half-inning was over.

  He headed for the drinking fountain behind the dugout.

  “Well, where are you going on your vacation?” asked a voice behind him.

  He turned, spat out part of the water, and frowned at Steve Herrick. “What vacation?”

  “What vacation? The Blazers have fallen apart, man! Didn’t, you see what went on out there? You were a part of it.”

  “I’m no pro,” said Chris. “Neither is anybody else.”

  Mick Antonelli came running forward. “Man, did we blow that lead,” he exclaimed. “And Bill wasn’t even warmed up when he went to the mound!”

  Chris’s temper flared as he looked from Mick to Steve. “What do you mean? That this is it? That we won’t be playing other games just because the Scorpions had a hot time at bat?”

  “At the same time you and some other guys played like real beginners,” said Steve, matching Chris’s tone of voice.

  “Besides that, Coach Edson just sits in the dugout like a statue,” added Mark. “I’m with Steve. I think we ought to fold.”

  “You don’t want to give us a chance!” retorted Chris. “This is only our first game!”

  “Our second,” corrected Steve. “We lost one the other day.”

  “That was a practice game!”

  “So is this as far as I’m concerned,” replied Mick, and started to walk toward the dugout.

  Steve caught up with him. Chris trailed, still seething.

  “If you quit,” he said, “you’re a couple of cowards.”

  Both turned. “Listen,” snorted Steve. “You want to see us lose every game? You want everybody in the neighborhood to laugh at us everytime they see us? Is that what you want?”

  “How do you know we’ll lose every game? Sure we will if we don’t stick together. But we’ve got to stick together.”

  “Then we’ll have to get rid of Coach Edson and get a new coach,” said Mick.

  “Who’s going to tell him that?” asked Chris, eyeing Mick unflinchingly. “Are you?”

  “No. But somebody should.”

  “Sure. And break his heart,” said Chris. “Make him sicker than he already is.”

  “Come on,” said Steve. “If I’m lucky, be up this inning.”

  They reached the front of the dugout and saw that Bill Lewis was on first base.

  “How’d he get on?�
�� asked Steve.

  “Singled over short,” replied Spike.

  Tex Kinsetta was batting. He had two strikes on him, then belted the next pitch to the pitcher. The Scorpion snared the hop and whipped it to second for the first out. The second baseman pegged to first to complete a quick double play.

  “Save me a rap, Don!” cried Steve.

  Don Mitchell, pinch-hitting for Wally Munson, did. He cracked a single over second. Then Steve drilled one through the hole between left and center for two bases. But the Scorpion center fielder, a fast man with an excellent throwing arm, kept Don from scoring.

  Mick, batting next, flied out to third.

  Scorpions 7, Blazers 4.

  In the top of the fifth Don misjudged a fly in left field, permitting the hitter to chalk up two bases on the error. The next Scorpion blasted a drive over Chris’s head for a single, scoring a run, and Chris feared another wild half-inning. That would give both Steve and Mick more to chew on.

  Two walks in a row filled the bases, and the next hitter was a left-handed batter.

  Chris, his heart pounding, moved closer toward first base and waited.

  9

  CRACK! A sharp blow to second base! Chris caught the hop and pegged it home. Out!

  Frank whipped the ball to first, but the hitter was there by two steps. There were still three men on.

  “Get two!” shouted Chris.

  Bill Lewis stepped to the mound. He looked at the runners, stretched, and delivered. A hard blow to short! Jack reached for the hop. The ball glanced off his glove, struck his chest, and rolled to the ground. Quickly Jack retrieved it and snapped it to second. Chris, covering the bag, caught the ball for the out, and fired it to third.

  “Safe!” yelled the ump.

  Two outs. In the meantime another run had crossed the plate.

  Chris ran out to his position and looked at Steve. The first baseman was standing at ease beside the bag, his arms crossed, his eyes hard as glass. It didn’t take two guesses to know what was boiling in his mind.

  The next Scorpion popped to Frank, ending the half-inning. The Scorpions now led, 9 to 4.