Hard Drive to Short

by Matt Christopher

  Rod caught streaking grounders at second base. As the game went on he pulled off sparkling plays. One was an over-the-shoulder catch of a pop fly to short right field. He doubled, knocking in two runs, and then had bad luck when he hit into a double play.

  Rod argued with the base umpire about the call at first, taking off his cap and whipping it hard against his thigh. He was angry — real angry — about the call.

  “There he goes,” a fan behind Sandy remarked. “There goes his hot head again.”

  Sandy felt a shiver pierce through him, then thought: Rod won’t argue long. He’ll stop any second now and walk to the bench. But Rod didn’t. He kept on arguing.

  Suddenly the manager leaped out of the dugout and ran down the baseline toward first. “Rod!” he yelled. “Stop that and come here and sit down!”

  “But I was safe!” Rod yelled back.

  “Safe or not, get back here!” cried the manager. “You can’t change his mind!”

  “Good ballplayer, if it wasn’t for his being a hothead,” the fan said as Rod walked off the field.

  “He’s lucky,” another said. “If the manager hadn’t run out there, Temple would’ve been thrown out of the game.”

  The Redwings won 4 to 3. Rod had gotten two hits out of four times at bat. “I was robbed at first,” he said to Sandy as they headed for home on the motorbike. “That ump’s as blind as a bat.”

  Sandy didn’t say anything. But it looked to him as though the umpire had made a good call.

  They reached a junction where a road turned left, heading toward Deerhead Lake. Rod maneuvered the bike onto it. The road dipped sharply and Rod sent the scooter blazing down it like a red bullet on wheels.

  “Hang on!” yelled Rod. The wind whipped against their faces and flapped their pant legs. It was the fastest ride that Sandy had ever had on the bike. He hung on the handgrips as hard as he could.

  Far ahead of them was a truck. It was going downhill in the same direction they were, but very slowly. Rod approached it and started to pass. They were almost abreast of it when Sandy saw, a short distance beyond them, a car coming around a curve!

  Sandy sucked in his breath. What was Rod going to do? Try to pass the truck, or slow down and get behind it again?

  Rod didn’t do either. As the car came closer Rod swung to the left — off the road. Sandy closed his eyes tightly, knowing that he would never have done what Rod had done.

  The bike struck a rock on the side of the road, skidded into a two-cabled railing, and fell on its side, sending Rod and Sandy spilling over the ground.

  11

  SANDY rose to his feet. His right shoulder ached. It had taken most of the shock of his fall. He pulled up the sleeve of his sweater and saw the scrape on his elbow. It was bleeding a little. He pulled the sleeve down and looked at Rod Temple.

  Rod was rising to his feet a couple of yards away. “You hurt?” he asked.

  “Just an ache in my shoulder and a scratch on my elbow,” said Sandy. “How about you?”

  “That’s about what I’ve got.”

  Rod brushed dirt off his uniform, picked up his cap, slapped it against his leg and put it on. Two men came running down the hill. Their car, the one Rod had driven off the road to avoid, was parked a short distance away.

  “You boys hurt?” one of the men yelled.

  “No, we’re okay,” said Rod.

  “You sure?” asked the second man. “That looked like quite a spill.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How about you?” the man asked Sandy. “You all right?”

  Sandy nodded. “I’m okay.”

  The men shook their heads, as if the boys’ not getting hurt was a miracle. They picked up the bike and looked at it. It was badly scratched, and the front wheel was twisted.

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to ride this,” observed the first man. “Look at that wheel.”

  “I’ll leave it here and have someone pick it up later,” said Rod. He took the bike, looked over the damage, then set it against the cables. “It won’t be much of a job to fix,” he said. “Come on, Sandy. Let’s start walking.”

  “Want us to drive you home?”

  “No, thanks. We can walk. Let’s go, Sandy.”

  The men shrugged, and Sandy stared at Rod. Why didn’t he accept their invitation? There was still a long way to go. Was it because Rod was embarrassed for having gotten into that accident? Well, he wouldn’t have if he had slowed down and stayed behind the truck.

  They reached the bottom of the road, walking on the left-hand side, facing traffic. Five minutes later they reached the bridge and to the far right of it was the gorge. A path wound alongside the creek that led to the gorge. The boys crossed the bridge and Rod started to lead the way up the path.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ll take a shortcut up.”

  Sandy frowned. “A shortcut? How?”

  Rod looked at him as if he were stupid. “How? We’ll walk through the gorge and climb up it to the upper road, that’s how. Otherwise we’d take a week getting home on this road.”

  “Then, why — why didn’t you let those guys drive us home?” asked Sandy, puzzled.

  “Just because, that’s why,” Rod snorted. “Think I want to listen to them tell me how I should drive my bike? I knew I shouldn’t have driven off the left side of the road like I did. But I did. And I would’ve been all right if I’d seen that lousy rock. But I didn’t see it. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. And don’t you tell anybody about it, either, see?”

  Sandy swallowed an ache in his throat. Rod had never talked like this to him before. He had never expected Rod to sound off like this. Not to Sandy, his friend. Suddenly Sandy wondered, Am I really Rod’s friend? Would he talk to me like that if I were?

  At that moment he wished he were anywhere else but here with Rod Temple.

  The path wound alongside the creek and snaked around a bend. Layers of rock rose to enormous heights on both sides. Does Rod expect us to climb that? Sandy wondered.

  Straight ahead, like a carpenter’s long, silver pencil, Deerhead Falls glistened in the sunlight. A vapor spray looked like a steadily moving silk curtain at its bottom.

  “Look!” said Sandy. “A rainbow!”

  “I see it, I see it,” grumbled Rod.

  They had walked within a hundred yards of the falls, when Rod looked up the steep, rocky bank. “This looks like the best place to climb,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The bank was almost straight up, with trees and brush here and there to grab hold of and help them along. Sandy didn’t think they could climb it, but he didn’t say anything. Rod would only grumble at him again.

  They started the climb. Sandy followed almost the exact steps Rod was taking, grabbing hold of the same brush and trees. Gradually the path and the creek below sank farther and farther away. Maybe Rod was right, after all, Sandy admitted. Climbing the steep bank was easier than it looked.

  “How you doing?” Rod asked when they were halfway up.

  Sandy grinned. “Okay.”

  He held onto a tree stump and looked down. He got dizzy and shut his eyes. The path and the creek seemed a mile below them. He opened his eyes and promised himself not to look down again.

  They climbed another twenty feet or so, and then Rod stepped onto a flat ledge that seemed big enough for both of them to stand on.

  “Watch that nest,” cautioned Rod. “Could be a hawk’s, or an eagle’s.”

  The large nest lay near the edge. Inside were broken pieces of eggshells. Sandy looked at their surroundings. Layers of rock curved out behind them like the side of a dish. A cold, prickly sensation came over him and he looked at Rod. Their eyes seemed to meet at the same time.

  “We’re stuck!” cried Rod. “We can’t get out of here!”

  Sandy backed against the wall, striking his head against a rock. “Can’t — can’t we go back down?”

  “Oh, yeah? Take a look down there. Think you can climb back down the
re?”

  Sandy looked over the edge and drew back. “No,” he said. “What — what are we going to do, Rod?”

  “Yell, that’s what.”

  Rod began yelling. “He-llooooo, there! He-lloooo!”

  He and Sandy alternated their yells. And then they yelled together. But minutes passed. Only Rod dared to look down through the long, empty space below them.

  “No one hears us,” he said softly. “There’s no one down there.”

  He smacked a fist hard into the palm of his other hand. “Darn! I wouldn’t mind it so much if you weren’t with me. Another big kid and I… we’d figure this out. But you —” He stopped and struck a fist into his palm again. “A kid! What did I have to get mixed up with a kid for?”

  The remark was like a hard slap on the face. Sandy’s eyes blurred. “It — it’s not my fault we’re stuck up here,” he said.

  “Shut up!” shouted Rod. “Shut up! Hear me?” And then he blinked, took a deep breath and exhaled it. His eyes turned friendly. He put an arm around Sandy’s shoulders.

  “Sorry, kid. I didn’t mean it. Honest, I didn’t. You’re okay. Come on. Let’s yell some more… together.”

  12

  MOM will be waiting for me, Sandy thought, and I’ll be late. She won’t be able to go to work till Pop comes home.

  Sandy looked at his watch. Five after six! Still there was no one below. No one who had heard their yells.

  “He-lloooo!” Rod yelled again. “He-lloooo down there!”

  Fifteen minutes passed. A half hour. And then Rod shouted, “Look! There are people down there! They’re looking up! He-lloooo! He-elp us! We can’t get doown!”

  Sandy, flat on his stomach, peered over the edge of the precipice. He could see some people at the foot of the gorge. They looked tiny and faraway. He counted five of them. They were looking up! They had heard!

  “We hear you!” a man shouted back. “We’ll get you out of there!”

  Rod slapped Sandy happily on the back. “They heard us!”

  A couple of the men left. Fifteen minutes later — how the time dragged — more men appeared below. And then a voice reached them, loud and clear, and Sandy saw that the man was using a megaphone.

  “Listen, boys! Someone will get down to you from above with a rope! Don’t be frightened! You’ll be all right!”

  At last dirt and stones began falling down around them. Someone was coming down!

  “More to the left!” ordered the voice over the megaphone. “A little more! Okay!”

  Moments later a man appeared over the ledge, a rope secured around his waist. He was holding a second rope, the other end of which ran up the side of the gorge to the ground above.

  “Hello!” he called. “How in the world did you get here?”

  “Climbed up,” said Rod. “Couldn’t make it any farther.”

  “Well, who wants to go first?”

  “Take Sandy,” said Rod.

  “Okay. Get this rope under your armpits, son, and I’ll tie it,” said the rescuer. He helped Sandy, then put a hand to his mouth and yelled up. “Okay, Jim! Haul ’er up! Easy!”

  The rope stiffened. Sandy stepped to the side of the dishlike ledge, then little by little was lifted to the flat plateau above. Three men met him. One was a policeman, and the other two were firemen from the Sharil Fire Department.

  “Hello, son,” one of the firemen said. “What’s your name?”

  “Sandy Varga.”

  “John Vargas son?”

  Sandy nodded.

  “Okay. Get into that car. Let’s get the other boy, Jim.”

  Pop was home when Sandy got there. He looked furious. The policeman accompanied Sandy into the house and explained to Pop what had happened.

  “Don’t be harsh on him, Mr. Varga,” he said. “The other boy, Rodney Temple, admitted that he was the one who had suggested taking a shortcut up the gorge. He took all the blame.”

  Pop took a casserole out of the oven and put it on the table for Sandy. It was almost eight o’clock. Then Pop telephoned Mom and told her that Sandy was home and everything else that had happened.

  Afterward Sandy lay on the lawn, keeping an eye on Jo Ann and Elizabeth. The terrifying experience of being on the ledge passed through his mind like a bad dream. Suppose that no one had showed up below? Would he and Rod have been able to sleep there throughout the night? Not me, thought Sandy. I would be awake all night. He shuddered and tried to drive the nightmarish thought out of his mind.

  Then and there he promised himself that he would never ride with Rod Temple again. At least not until he was bigger. He had been all wrong in thinking that he and Rod fitted like peas in a pod. Rod was too grown-up for him. His kind of fun was different from Sandy’s. He took risks with his motorbike. He lost his temper on the baseball diamond.

  And to top if off he called me a kid! thought Sandy. I really don’t mind that. It was the way he said it. As if kid was dirty. I’m sure Rod liked me a little or he wouldn’t have taken me to the ball game, or on rides on his motorbike. But he’s a lot older than me. And different. Too different. We just don’t fit together, that’s all.

  Just then Sandy caught sight of Nibbs Spry and Jules Anderson walking down the street. He dismissed Rod from his mind and sprang to his feet.

  “Hey, Nibbs! Jules!” he shouted. “Hiya, guys!”

  They looked. They waved. But kept on walking.

  13

  SANDY VARGA had never lived through such a lonesome weekend. He had seen Nibbs Spry and Jules Anderson in the street a few times, but at a distance. They didn’t come over to his house as they used to. None of the other guys did, either.

  They used to play catch in the backyard, play pool on the small pool table in the basement and talk about models. Nibbs was a model buff, too. He liked to assemble model ships. Jules enjoyed putting together models of great athletes — Hank Aaron, Magic Johnson and many others. Ike Norman used to come over with his skateboard and take turns riding it with Sandy.

  Everything was changed. You’d think that Sandy had moved out of Sharil. They had dropped him like a hot iron.

  Well, whose fault was it, anyway? Hadn’t he favored Rod Temple over them? Hadn’t he wanted to be with Rod Temple and his motorbike every chance he had?

  Nibbs, Jules, Ike, all the others —they were his real friends. He had hurt them by favoring Rod over them. How could he tell them he had been all wrong?

  Tuesday’s game against the Ripcords came too soon. Sandy wished it would rain or that he’d get sick so he couldn’t play.

  The guys won’t care whether I show up or not, he thought. But Coach Malone might care. He didn’t know about Sandy’s troubles.

  The Ripcords were up first, and Sandy was at short.

  “Nice to be the coach’s pet,” remarked Kerry.

  Sandy’s eyes flashed. “What do you mean by that crack?”

  “Nobody except a pet could play three or four innings, then go home,” answered Kerry.

  So it was that, too! Not only his going around with Rod.

  A Texas leaguer over first! Right fielder Stubby Tobin came in, fielded the ball and relayed it to second.

  “Come on, Dick!” The infielders’ chatter grew louder. “Let’s get two!”

  Third baseman Kerry Dean and first baseman Ken Bockman played in on the grass, expecting a bunt. It was a bunt! A neat one down the first-base line! But it was hit softly, and Dick Regan fielded it. He whipped it to Sandy covering second. Out! Sandy pegged to first. A wild throw! The runner touched first and went on to second.

  There was none of that “Forget it, Sandy! Get ’em the next time!” coming from the guys. Nibbs, his best friend, didn’t say a word to him.

  The next hitter swung at a low pitch. Crack! A hard grounder down to Sandy’s left side. Sandy went after it, but he had started too late. He hadn’t been ready. He was thinking about Nibbs and the other guys, not about the game. The ball bounded to the outfield for a hit, and the runner on second sco
red.

  The next Ripcord blasted a pitch over second, scoring another run. A strikeout and a pop fly ended the top half of the inning.

  Kerry Dean, batting against Stinky Hayes, the Ripcords’ short right-hander, drew a walk on five pitches. Nibbs Spry fouled a pitch down the left-field line, then singled through the pitcher’s box. The Ripcord center fielder hustled after the ball and kept Kerry on second. Sandy stepped to the plate.

  He didn’t feel well at all. He didn’t care whether he hit the ball or not. Always before the whole bench would yell at him to “Wallop that apple, Sandy!” It was different now. Only two or three of the guys said anything.

  The first pitch was a ball. He cut at the next one, popped it high into the air and trotted to first. He was halfway there when the first baseman caught it for the out.

  Cookie Lamarr was up next. Coach Malone had made a slight change in the lineup. Cookie used to play the last two or three innings.

  The pitch. Cookie swung. A slow grounder to short! Cookie dropped his bat and raced hard for first as the shortstop came in for the hop. He caught the ball and tossed it to third. Kerry was out! The third baseman pegged to first. Safe!

  Two away. Marty Loomis came up and belted the third pitch for a double, scoring Nibbs. Stubby flied out. The first inning was over.

  Dick Regan’s first pitch to the Ripcord leadoff man was so high that Marty Loomis couldn’t reach it. The ball sailed to the backstop screen. Phil Peters ran over, picked it up and tossed it to the umpire. The umpire looked it over and tossed it to Dick.

  “Play ball,” he said.

  Dick settled down and struck the Ripcord out. The next man blasted a double and the next walked.

  “Get two!” shouted Kerry Dean at third.

  A grass-cutting grounder to short! Sandy waited for the hop. The ball struck the thumb of his glove, bounced up against his chest and rolled in front of him. He tumbled backward, chased after the ball, picked it up and heaved it. He didn’t look directly at whom he was throwing to. It was supposed to be to Ken Bock-man at first. But the ball missed Ken by yards!