It was Tiny Zimmer’s fault, Jimmie told himself. Tiny was the one who had asked Paul to play with the Red Rockets.
Suddenly, Jimmie had an idea. Maybe if Mr. and Mrs. Karoski came, Paul would come, too!
He went to his mother.
“Mom, why don’t you invite Mr. and Mrs. Karoski over? It’s Saturday night, and they haven’t been over in a long time.”
“I thought about that, too.” His mother smiled. “I’ll call them right now.”
The telephone was in the living room. She dialed a number.
“Hello? Josie? This is Lynn. How are you?”
They talked a bit. Finally Mrs. Todd invited Mrs. Karoski and her husband over for the evening.
“Tell them to bring Paul, too!” Jimmie whispered.
“Bring Paul with you,” Mrs. Todd said.
She hung up, smiling. “They’ll be glad to come!” she said.
Forty-five minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Karoski came. But Paul wasn’t with them.
“Where’s Paul?” Jimmie asked Mr. Karoski.
Mr. Karoski was a middle-aged man with a mustache and horn-rimmed glasses. He shrugged his shoulders. “He’s home. He didn’t want to come.”
“Why not?”
Mrs. Karoski answered. “I don’t know. He just didn’t want to come. I don’t understand that boy. Sometimes he won’t say anything.”
“I know why,” a small voice said.
Jimmie looked at Ervie. Something that felt like wire clamped around his chest.
Ervie looked up at Mrs. Karoski. His blue eyes seemed bigger than ever. “He’s mad at Jimmie,” he said. “Paul wants to pitch, and Jimmie wants to pitch. They both want to pitch for the Planets.”
Jimmie bit his lip. His face flushed.
“Thanks a lot, Ervie!” he cried loudly, and ran out of the room.
11
The whole Todd family went to church Sunday morning. Afterward, Mrs. Todd cooked steak, mashed potatoes, carrots, peas, and corn. She cooked onions with the steak, too, but neither Jimmie nor Ervie liked onions.
Jimmie helped his mother with the dishes. Then the family drove to the park.
It was a nice day. The golden sun splashed its warmth over the green grass, trees, and everywhere. The park was crowded with families. Children laughed. Mothers wheeled baby carriages.
Mr. Todd parked the car. Everybody piled out. They walked on the grass that felt like a carpet under their feet. They stopped and talked with friends.
Then they walked up a small hill. Here and there rosebushes and geraniums decorated the park. Chestnut trees loomed into the sky. Gray squirrels jerked their tails as they hopped over the grass.
“Look, Mom!” Ervie cried. “Squirrels!”
Cries and yells echoed from beyond the hill.
“Sounds like a baseball game,” Mr. Todd said.
They reached the top of the hill. A ball game was going on in the field beyond.
Jimmie saw that boys of his own age were playing. He recognized some of the boys from his team. Then he saw who was pitching, and he stopped in his tracks and shoved his hands hard into his pockets.
“What do you want to watch that game for? It’s just a scrub game,” he said.
“Paul Karoski is pitching,” Mr. Todd said. “Let’s just watch a few minutes.”
They went closer to the field. They stopped beside other people who were watching. Jimmie remained behind. He didn’t want any of the boys to see him. They might ask him to play, and he didn’t want to. Not with Paul there. Paul was annoyed at him. He’d probably quit if Jimmie played.
Paul went through his windup. His left arm went back. His right leg lifted. Then his arm came around and the ball snapped from his fingers. It sped toward the plate like a bullet. The batter swung.
“Strike three!” the umpire shouted.
Mr. Todd chuckled. “Say! Paul looks good, doesn’t he? He has beautiful form for a kid. That boy will make a great pitcher someday.”
The words stung Jimmie. They hurt more because his father had said them.
“One of these days I’ll be as good as he is,” he said stiffly. “I can throw faster than he can now. All I need is control.”
His father looked at him. “Oh? You told me you were pitching, but you didn’t tell me you were that good.”
Jimmie’s face colored. “Well, that’s what Mr. Nichols said.”
He met Ervie’s eyes. His face grew hot and sweat shone on his forehead. He had said the wrong thing again. He could tell by the look Ervie gave him.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I’m getting tired standing here.”
His father patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, Jimmie. We’ll go.”
12
On Monday morning Jimmie sat on the steps of the back porch. He was alone. Ervie was somewhere in the house, playing by himself.
Jimmie had never been so unhappy in all his life. Just because he wanted to pitch, he thought. What was so wonderful about pitching, anyway?
If he had let Paul pitch for the Planets, everything would be all right. They would have a good team, and he and Paul would still be pals.
At last he went into the house and brought out a tennis ball. He stood in the driveway, threw the ball against the wall of his house, and caught it on a bounce. He did this for a while, then he yelled for Ervie.
“Ervie! Will you come out?”
A few minutes later Ervie came out of the house. “Did you want me, Jimmie?”
“Yes. Will you get my bat and hit some grounders to me?”
“Sure!” Ervie said, and scampered back into the house. He came out with Jimmie’s yellow bat. Jimmie handed him the tennis ball.
“You stay here,” he advised Ervie. “I’ll get down by the fence. Just hit ’em on the ground.”
Jimmie trotted to the fence at the edge of the lawn. Ervie tossed the ball up with his left hand, then tried to hit it with the bat. The ball dropped to the ground before he could swing the bat around. “Come on, Ervie! You can hit it! It’s easy!”
Ervie tried again. The same thing happened. At last he did hit it, but the ball dribbled so slowly that it stopped before it was halfway to Jimmie.
Jimmie shook his head.
A boy walked by the end of the driveway. Jimmie caught a glimpse of him before he got behind the next building.
“Wishy!” he shouted. “Wishy Walters!”
Wishy poked his head around the corner and waved. “Hi, Jimmie!”
“Come here!” Jimmie motioned.
Wishy came forward. His heels clicked on the cement driveway.
“Would you like to hit me some grounders?” asked Jimmie.
“Grounders?” Wishy’s forehead puckered in a frown. “You’re a pitcher. Why do you want me to hit you grounders?”
Jimmie thought a moment. He didn’t know whether to tell Wishy. But Wishy was a good friend. He could trust Wishy with a secret.
“If I can get Paul back on the Planets, I’ll play an infield position,” Jimmie said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be a pitcher, Wishy.”
“Oh, sure, you will,” said Wishy. “All you need is control. You have a lot of speed, Jimmie.”
“But time is going fast, Wishy. The day when we play our first league game will be here before we know it. And we’re not ready. We’ve lost every practice game we’ve played.”
“But we’ve only played two,” argued Wishy. “Anyway, Paul won’t play with us now. He’s going to stick with the Red Rockets.”
Jimmie paled. “How do you know?”
“He told me,” said Wishy. “And when Paul says something, he means it.”
Jimmie stared at the ground. “But—he was my best friend. He’ll play with us if I tell him he can pitch. I’m sure he will.” The thought of it excited him. “Come on, Wishy. Hit me grounders!”
“Okay,” said Wishy. “If you want me to.”
Wishy tossed the ball up just as Ervie had. But he hit it. Jimmie caught the ball on a hop. He threw it back to
Wishy, who caught it, and hit it back to him. At first he hit it easy, then harder. The tennis ball would bounce across the lawn like a wild rabbit. Sometimes Jimmie missed it. But most of the time he caught it.
He began to like it.
“Wait!” he said. “I’ll get my baseball and glove!”
This was more like the real thing. A couple of times Wishy hit the ball over the fence and Jimmie sent Ervie after it.
Finally Jimmie had to sit down.
“Boy, I’m tired!” he said. He sprawled out on the lawn. His chest heaved.
When he caught his breath he sat up. “Will you come over after supper, Wishy?”
Wishy nodded. “Sure.”
“Thataboy!” said Jimmie.
13
The Planets had batting practice that afternoon. Jimmie pitched to four men. He didn’t do any better than he had before, so Mr. Nichols asked Johnny Lukon to pitch to the batters. Johnny was good at it. A lot better than Jimmie.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Mr. Nichols said as Jimmie waited for his turn to bat. “I thought your control was improving, but I guess it isn’t. You have speed, and a nice curve. If you had control, you’d be the best pitcher in the league.”
Jimmie didn’t say anything. What Mr. Nichols had just told him didn’t make him feel bad. He wasn’t worried, or hurt.
His turn to bat came. He swung at the first four pitches without missing. The fifth throw was high and he missed it by a mile. He knew he shouldn’t have swung at it. But he felt as if he could hit anything today.
After the boys hit, Mr. Nichols had the infielders practice. Jimmie sat on the bench and watched them. He knew the routine. The third baseman would catch the ball and throw it to first. The first baseman would throw it home. Home to third again, and back around the horn.
He watched Lou Rodell at short. Lou seemed to be afraid of grounders. He would back up a lot. Jimmie noticed that Mr. Nichols didn’t hit the ball too hard to him.
After infield practice was over, Mr. Nichols called the boys together.
“I’ve arranged another game with the Pirates,” he said. “They didn’t beat us as bad as the Mohawks did. The game will be played here tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. Tell your folks to come if they’d like to.”
Jimmie didn’t tell his mother and father about the game. He didn’t want them to see him pitch. Anyway, his father couldn’t go. He had to work. Jimmie was glad of that.
The game began. This time the Pirates had last raps. Johnny Lukon led off with a single. Alan flied out. Then Billy Hutt hit a grounder past third for a two-bagger. Johnny stopped on third as the fielder threw in to cover home.
Lou grounded through second, scoring Johnny and Billy. Jimmie came to bat. He let a knee-high pitch go by.
“Strike one!” said the umpire.
The next two pitches were balls. Then another strike.
Jimmie pulled his helmet down tight, braced his feet in the dirt, and waited for the next pitch. The ball sped in, chest-high and over the heart of the plate.
Jimmie blasted it. It sailed high into center field. The fielder ran back, caught it, and threw it in!
“Get back! Get back!” yelled the coach on first to Lou.
The Pirates’ second baseman caught the throw-in from center field and snapped the ball to first. It reached there before Lou could tag up.
“Out!” shouted the umpire.
Three outs. The Planets took the field.
The first batter grounded out to third. The ball was hit solid. That was just luck he hit straight at Alan, Jimmie thought. Jimmie would have walked the next hitter, but the batter swung at bad throws and struck out. The third man flied out to center.
“Nice going, Jimmie!” Lou yelled.
“Nice pitching, Jimmie!” Alan said.
After that things weren’t so good. Jimmie walked a man in the second inning, and in the third he hit a man on the shoulder. He began to worry. The Pirates started to hit him hard. When they didn’t hit, Jimmie helped them by walking their men.
In the fourth, Mr. Nichols went out to the mound. He called Johnny from first.
“I think Jimmie is wild because he’s worried he might hit another batter,” Mr. Nichols said. “You two boys switch positions for the next two innings. We’re only playing five. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jimmie said.
He didn’t care. Matter of fact, he was glad.
He liked first base. He moved into position and mixed his cries with the other infielders’.
“Come on, Paul!” he shouted. “Come on, P—!”
His throat caught. He looked around hurriedly. He hoped nobody had heard him yell Paul’s name instead of Johnny’s.
14
During practice the next day, Jimmie went up to the manager. “Are all the names of our players in yet, Mr. Nichols?” he asked.
“Not yet. I’ll have to have them in before Thursday.”
“Thursday?” Jimmie’s brows puckered. “Is that when we play our first Grasshoppers League game?”
Mr. Nichols nodded. “That’s right! Better work hard on your control, Jimmie. Winning that first game is important!”
“I know,” murmured Jimmie.
After practice, Jimmie didn’t go home with the others. He asked Wishy Walters to stay with him.
“I want you to hit me some grounders, Wishy,” he said. “Will you?”
“Sure,” said Wishy.
“Hit ’em hard as you can!” Jimmie said, and ran out to shortstop position.
Wishy hit five grounders to him. Jimmie caught them all. Then Mr. Nichols, who had been watching, picked up Wishy’s glove and went to first base. He watched Jimmie run behind the grounders and catch them as if it was easy. Jimmie saw Mr. Nichols on first and pegged the balls to him. His throws were good. They seldom were directly over the bag, but they were close enough. Once in a while he made Mr. Nichols stretch for one, but not often.
Finally, Mr. Nichols exclaimed, “Say! You look sharp out there! How long have you been playing infield?”
“I played infield last year,” Jimmie said. “The last few days I’ve been practicing at home.”
“Oh, you have?” Mr. Nichols seemed surprised. “What about pitching?”
Jimmie didn’t answer right away. He thought a moment, then said, “I’ll tell you about that tomorrow, Mr. Nichols. I have to find out something first.”
15
The next morning Jimmie and Ervie went to Paul Karoski’s house. It was eleven o’clock. Paul should be home, Jimmie thought. He wanted Ervie along because even though Ervie was a little guy he was somebody. Jimmie didn’t want to go alone to see Paul.
He knocked on the front door. His heart beat so loud he could hear it.
The knob turned. The door opened. Mrs. Karoski stood there, her hair in a bun, a comb pressed into it. Her nose wrinkled up as she smiled.
“Jimmie and Ervie Todd!” she cried. “How are you?”
“We’re fine, Mrs. Karoski,” Jimmie replied. “Is Paul home?”
“Paul?” Mrs. Karoski’s smile faded. “Isn’t he at your house?”
Jimmie shook his head. “No. Isn’t he home?”
Mrs. Karoski lifted her shoulders. “No! Maybe he went to play with somebody else. I don’t understand what happened to that boy. Doesn’t he play with you anymore?”
Jimmie looked away. “Well—I’ve been busy practicing baseball. I guess he has, too.”
She looked at him curiously. “Don’t you play for the same team?”
“No. Paul plays with the Red Rockets. I play with the Planets. That’s—that’s what I wanted to see him about.”
Mrs. Karoski shrugged. “Well, I don’t know where he is. If he comes home soon, I will tell him you’re looking for him.”
“All right, Mrs. Karoski. Thank you.” Jimmie took Ervie’s hand. “Let’s go to the park,” he said. “Maybe he’s there.”
The park was four blocks away. They walked around the swimmin
g pool, then up the hill to the baseball diamond. Nobody was playing ball. Only two or three kids were around.
“He’s not here,” Jimmie said. “Let’s go to Tiny Zimmer’s house. Maybe he’s playing catch with Tiny.”
But Tiny said he hadn’t seen Paul all morning. Why didn’t they try some of the other boys’ houses? They went to Mose’s house, then to Johnny Lukon’s, then to Billy Hutt’s. They tried every house they thought Paul might possibly go to—but nobody had seen Paul.
“I wonder where he could be, Ervie,” Jimmie said worriedly. “Let’s go home. Maybe while we were gone he came to our house to see me!”
They hurried home.
“Was anybody here to see me, Mom?” Jimmie asked anxiously.
Mrs. Todd shook her head. “No. But where have you been? Aren’t you going to eat lunch?”
“I’m not hungry, Mom,” he said, his heart sinking in despair. “We’ve been looking for Paul Karoski ever since eleven o’clock. He’s not home, and he’s not at any of the boys’ houses we’ve been to. I think he’s lost, Mom.”
“Lost in the city? Don’t worry. He must be somewhere around. Relax, and eat something. It’s after one o’clock.”
They crunched on toasted cheese sandwiches and drank a glass of milk each, then went outside again.
Wishy Walters was coming up the walk.
“Hi, Wishy,” said Jimmie. “Have you seen Paul Karoski today?”
Wishy thought a moment. “Yes. I saw him this morning.”
“You did?” Jimmie’s heart cartwheeled. “Where? When?”
“About ten o’clock. He was getting into a car.
“Whose car?”
Wishy shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t close enough to see.”
Jimmie breathed fast. “What color was it? Maybe that’ll help.”
Wishy thought again. “Brown. No—blue.”
“Blue? You sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure. Blue.”
“Blue. Blue.” Jimmie repeated the word over and over again, trying to think of someone who owned a blue car.
It dawned on him. “Don Perkos!” he shouted. “Don has a blue car! And Don is Paul’s cousin! I bet it was his car!”
Baseball Pals Page 3
