The Team That Stopped Moving

by Matt Christopher

  Eddie’s eyes widened. “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That time stopped and a red-bearded guy appeared.”

  “And?” Eddie’s mouth was as wide as his eyes.

  Dick chuckled. “They didn’t believe me. Art said I should win a prize for telling tall tales!”

  Eddie laughed. “They asked for it, the stinkers,” he said. “But then, at first I didn’t believe you either.”

  On Thursday they were tied with the Foxes, 8-8, when an incident happened in the top of the fourth inning. The Foxes were batting and had a runner on second base. A Fox drilled a fast grounder to Stan at short. Stan fielded it and fired it to first. It was one of Stan’s wildest throws, and Dick hoped that by stretching out as far as he could he might catch it. Deep inside, though, he felt certain that he wouldn’t.

  Then for the third time everything froze —the ball halfway to him, the players in their positions, everything — and Dick found himself staring at Jack Wanda. Jack was standing there with his arms folded over his chest, looking at him with a sour expression on his red-moustached, red-goateed face.

  “Look, kid,” Jack said. “You’ve played enough games to know that you would never be able to stretch and catch that wide throw. You know what will happen? The ball will zoom by you, the runner on second will run to third and then score, and you’ll boot your- self for not doing the right thing in the first place.”

  “You mean — I should get off the base?” Dick said, his forehead wrinkled.

  “Of course! You want to save a run, don’t you?”

  Dick bobbed his head. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Jack Wanda smiled brightly. “Of course, you do! Okay, kid. Back to the ball game.”

  Just like that the world became normal again, and Dick found himself starting to touch the base with his left foot and stretching out for Stan’s throw. Instantly, remembering Jack Wanda’s instructions, he ran off the bag, caught the wide throw, and watched the runner on second rush back to the base.

  There were runners on first and second now. At the end of the half-inning they were still there.

  The Foxes pummeled the ball hard in the next two innings, however, and came out on the long end, 14-11.

  Dick walked home with Eddie, feeling a lump in his stomach. He told Eddie about seeing Jack Wanda again, and about Jack’s advice to him on the play at first base. But even Jack’s wizardry didn’t seem to be enough to give the Tigers the necessary boost they needed. How long could he, Dick, hold them together if they kept getting drubbed?

  Stan wasn’t present at the Tigers-Bears game on Monday. Coach Banks said that he had gone on a week’s vacation with his parents to California. So Clyde McPherson played shortstop. He made only two errors, which was good, considering that he had eight chances altogether. This game, fortunately, the Tigers won, 9-7.

  On Thursday the Tigers won again, beating the Panthers 3-1. It was the tightest game of their season so far, and brightened Dick’s hopes of keeping the team together.

  Just before the game with the Wolves on Monday, Dick realized that not only Stan was absent, but so were Jim Tanner and Pat Hammer.

  “Wasn’t Stan supposed to be gone only a week?” he asked Coach Banks, the old worry returning to haunt him.

  The coach nodded, frowning. “That’s what he told me,” he answered. “Maybe they decided to stay longer.”

  Dick saw Art standing within earshot of them. Suddenly Art turned and headed for the dugout.

  “Art, have you heard from Stan?” Dick called to him.

  Art paused, then said over his shoulder, “Yes, I heard. He’s home.”

  Dick stared. “Why isn’t he here? Do you know?”

  “He quit.”

  “Quit?” The word was like a death knell. “You sure?”

  Art nodded. “He figured that if we could win two games without him, we don’t need him.”

  “Hogwash!” Coach Banks snorted. “We need him now more than ever. Jim is out because of a bad cold, and Pat will be gone for two weeks on his vacation. If Stan doesn’t play we’ll be short a player, and you know what that means.”

  “It means we would lose by forfeit,” Dick said. “Hold the game up till I get back, Coach Banks. I’ll phone him.”

  He started off on a run, then stopped. “Oh-oh. I need a dime,” he said, looking at the coach like a basset hound begging innocently for a handout.

  “What — again?” said the coach, but wasted no time reaching in his pocket and handing Dick a dime.

  “Thanks, Coach!” Dick said, and bolted away.

  He entered a phone booth just outside of the ball park and dialed Stan’s number. After two rings Stan answered. “Hello?”

  “Stan! This is Dick! We need you, Stan! We’ll lose by forfeit if you don’t play!”

  A dozen seconds cat-footed by. “How can you lose by forfeit?” Stan asked finally.

  “We won’t have enough players, that’s how!” replied Dick, knowing he sounded desperate and was begging, but he didn’t care. “Jim is sick and Pat’s on vacation! Please come, won’t you, Stan?”

  Again there was a dead silence. Then a click! as Stan hung up.

  12

  THE FIELD was empty except for the umpires standing near home plate. The Wolves were waiting at their dugout, the Tigers at theirs. Eddie and Dick kept looking at the entranceway to the park, hoping that Stan would pop around the corner at any moment.

  The umpires looked at their wrist watches. Then the one holding a mask turned to Coach Banks.

  “We’ll have to call it, Steve. Time is about —”

  “Wait!” Dick interrupted. “He’s coming! Stan’s coming!”

  Every Tiger jumped to his feet as he looked toward the entranceway of the park. There was Stan, walking in as carefree as you please, wearing his uniform, ball cap and carrying his glove.

  “Hurry up, Stan!” Dick shouted. “We’re ready to start!”

  Stan seemed to think about it a few seconds, then broke into a slow run.

  “Okay!” the plate umpire yelled. “Play ball!”

  The Wolves had first raps, and began to hit Art’s pitches as if they were still having batting practice. Three runs scored before the Tigers were able to stop them.

  “Maybe it would’ve been better if I had stayed home and let the game be forfeited,” Stan said gloomily as he trotted in to the dugout.

  “Don’t say that, Stan,” Dick said. “I’d hate to lose a game by forfeit.”

  “And don’t say that you don’t want to play because we can win without you,” Coach Banks grunted at Stan. “We need you at every game.”

  Stan gazed straight ahead, his cap tilted back on his head, his arms crossed over his chest. He offered no comment, as if this time silence spoke louder than any words he could think of.

  What an egotist! Dick wanted to shout at him. I’d like to knock that bullishness out of your head, buster!

  “Pick up a bat, Stan,” the coach’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You’re up third.”

  He got up, dragged himself to the pile of bats, and picked one out. Eddie and Dick exchanged a look, then shook their heads.

  “I almost wish he didn’t show up,” Eddie muttered softly.

  “I know what you mean,” said Dick. “But let’s hope he makes up for it.”

  Mark and Ben were thrown out on grounders. Then Stan, after taking two called strikes, smashed a high fly to center that was caught for the third out.

  Dick and Eddie looked at each other and shook their heads.

  The Wolves picked up another run in the second inning, and two in the third to lead the Tigers 6-0. Then, in the bottom of the third, the Tigers began to unleash power that Dick didn’t know they had. Tony started it with a double over second base, followed by singles off the bats of Art, Mark and Ben. Again Stan failed to hit safely, and went back to the dugout, sulking.

  The Tigers ended up by scoring seven runs that inning, a feat that restored their waning confidence.
Especially Dick’s.

  The fourth and fifth innings went by with both teams playing equally good baseball. Then, in the top of the sixth, the field looked like a shower of baseballs as the Wolves’ bats again knocked Art’s pitches all over the lot, scoring five runs. The Tigers were unable to send home more than two, and the game went to the Wolves, 11-9.

  “I knew I should’ve stayed home,” Dick overheard Stan say to Art as they started off the field.

  “Why?” Art said. “We almost beat them, didn’t we?”

  “Almost — phooey!” Stan snorted.

  Dick caught up with them, Eddie at his heels. “Stan,” he said, “thanks for coming. I really appreciate it.”

  “All I did was keep us from losing by forfeit,” Stan said. “I didn’t get a single lousy hit.”

  On Thursday, the Tigers tackled the Lions. This time, batting first, they seemed to be starting off on the right foot. Mark lambasted big Bert Quinn’s pitch to left center for a triple and scored on Ben’s single to right. Stan uncorked a long fly to center, but the Lions’ center fielder made a spectacular catch and Stan returned to the dugout, ignoring the comments — “Tough luck, Stan,” and “Nice hit, anyway, Stan” — that the Tiger fans showered at him.

  Andy and Clyde kept up the onslaught. Then both Dick and Eddie grounded out to end the half-inning. Three runs had scored.

  The Lions managed to get one across the plate during their turn at bat. The second inning turned out better than the first for the Tigers. They tallied four runs to the Lions’ one. Again Stan failed to get a hit. Dick did no better.

  In the top of the third the Tigers’ bats were still unleashing furious power, but it was as if each hit were labeled for a specific fielder. None of the three Lions’ fielders — the shortstop, the center fielder, the first baseman — had to move a foot out of his way to catch the ball hit to him.

  The Lions’ bats rang out as loudly, but produced more satisfying results. Three runs crossed the plate before Stan’s long throw from short to first, after he fielded a sizzling grounder, made the third out. Tigers 7, Lions 5.

  In the next three innings the Tigers chalked up four more runs. But the Lions garnered seven, squeezing by the Tigers, 12-11. Stan had walked once and gotten one hit. He had also committed two errors, the first game in which he had missed more than one grounder.

  “I guess the shoe’s on the other foot now,” Eddie said to Dick after the game.

  Dick frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Stan’s the goat now,” Eddie explained. “He’s gotten only one hit in the last two games and in this game he made two errors. That’s a record for him.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Dick, wishing he hadn’t asked Eddie for the explanation.

  The baseball season had gone past the midway point, and so far all the Tigers had stuck it out. They were up there among the leaders, too, which Dick had never expected.

  His getting the team together had accomplished something else, also. It had helped Eddie get out of his shell and make new friends. That alone meant an awful lot to him — and to Eddie.

  But what about Stan? Did playing with the Tigers help him make new friends, too? Or did it cause him to make enemies? Dick thought about that for a long time. Stan wasn’t one to have many friends, anyway. As a matter of fact, he seemed to be satisfied in having only one real close friend, Art Walker. But Stan wasn’t one to make enemies, either, except one which he had probably made within the last week. Himself.

  On Tuesday, just before the game against the Foxes, Dick learned that Stan had quit the team for the second time. Stan had informed the coach about it over the phone.

  “He says he’s a jinx to us,” Coach Banks explained. “I tried to plead with him, but it didn’t do any good. Fortunately, Jim and Pat are back, so we won’t forfeit. But not having Stan will make a big difference.”

  Dick shook his head, and wondered if he should call up Stan again and try to coax him back.

  He decided not to. The game was about to start.

  13

  THE FOXES batted first and drew first blood. They scored twice in the first inning, and once in the second inning while the Tigers remained literally at a standstill.

  A hit had sailed by Mark that Dick thought Mark could have nabbed had he tried harder. Then Ben made a weak attempt in catching a grounder that bounded over third base, and which Andy grabbed up in left field and pegged to second base instead of third, all of which accounted for the Foxes’ three unearned runs.

  “Come on!” Coach Banks exclaimed, glowering at the boys as they sat in the dugout like a covey of nervous birds. “Half of you guys look as if you’ve been up most of the night watching the late-late show. Snap out of it! Hustle after those balls! What’s eating you, anyway?”

  No one could tell him. Or wouldn’t.

  Only Dick and Eddie knocked out hits, both singles, in the bottom half of the second inning. But even those hits were not enough to spark the other Tigers.

  In the top of the third the Foxes continued on their way, knocking Pat’s pitches all over the lot to the tune of seven runs. Three were on errors by Clyde, whose little finger on his right hand had been injured on the first grounder hit to him. After that he had favored the finger and could neither catch nor throw very well.

  When the Tigers came to bat, Dick’s thought about calling up Stan rocked back and forth in his mind like a pendulum. One moment he wanted to call him up, the next moment he didn’t. He didn’t know what to do. Stan might not want to play, anyway. He had refused when the coach had asked him. Why should he change his mind for Dick?

  I’ll call him, anyway, Dick decided at last. I’ve got to try, at least.

  Noticing that Tony, the Tigers’ first batter, was still at the plate, Dick took off at a fast run.

  He sprinted all the way to the phone booth, dropped in the dime he had come prepared with, dialed Stan’s number, and got Stan’s mother.

  “This is Dick Farrar, Mrs. Parker,” Dick said, gasping for breath. “Is Stan there?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Then Stan’s voice came on. “Dick,” Stan said belligerently, “you shouldn’t be calling me. I’ve told Coach Banks —”

  “Stan, please come to the game,” Dick interrupted. “We’re behind ten to nothing, and the guys don’t have the spirit. They all want you to play. You can’t let us down, Stan. You’ve got to —”

  “Ten to nothing?” Stan echoed.

  “That’s right. Ten to nothing.”

  “But it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

  “It’s never too late, Stan. Hurry! I’ve got to go now. See ya!”

  He hung up and raced back to the field.

  “What did he say?” Eddie asked.

  “He didn’t,” said Dick.

  The Tigers didn’t score during that inning either. They returned to the field, moving like windup robots with their springs half run down.

  “Hustle!” Coach Banks ordered gruffly. “Hustle out there!”

  Then, just as the Foxes’ leadoff batter stepped to the plate, Dick saw a familiar figure come into view at the park entrance.

  “Here comes Stan, you guys!” he cried, jumping to his feet. “HERE COMES STAN!”

  The guys leaped and shouted with joy as Stan came running in toward the dugout. Coach Banks pointed at the shortstop position and waved Clyde off the field. Dick caught Eddie’s look and winked.

  “Play ball!” shouted the ump.

  Pat Hammer pitched, and the Foxes’ leadoff batter uncorked a drive over second base for a single. Then Pat walked the next batter, and Dick’s heart sank. Will things really be any different now with Stan playing? he wondered despairingly. Well, it was still too early to tell.

  Then, crack! A smashing grounder right to Dick! He backed up two steps, caught the hop, then rushed to first. The hitter beat him to it.

  “Safe!” shouted the ump.

  “Oh, Dick!” Stan started to yell something else, bu
t cut himself off short.

  “I know,” Dick said, angry at himself. “I shouldn’t have backed up.”

  Stan turned and started to kick at the sod when suddenly the players, the umpires, the fans, a dog running across the field — all froze. All, except Dick — and Stan.

  And there, standing between them, stood Jack Wanda. A bright smile was on his red-moustached, red-goateed face as he looked at Dick. “Hi, kid,” he greeted warmly. “Missed me?”

  “Jack! You bet I did!” Dick cried. “We really need you, Jack! Stan, this is Jack Wanda. You know, the guy I was telling you about.”

  Stan, his foot inches away from the sod he was about to kick, put his foot down and stared at Jack. “I-I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed, his face the shade of milk.

  Jack chuckled. “Well, kid, seeing is believing, isn’t it?” he said musingly.

  Stan gulped and nodded.

  “I have the most fortunate ability to stop time, Stan,” Jack explained. “I’m sort of a coach, and my job is to help new teams — baseball, football, volleyball, you name it — get off to a good start. Frankly, I’m rather proud of the Tigers. You boys have done much better than many other teams that have needed my help. I’ve only had to help you a few times, and I think you can make it on your own now. There is one thing, however, that is badly in need here.”

  The boys’ full attention was riveted on him.

  “That thing is sportsmanship and teammanship,” Jack explained seriously. “Without those two qualities no team could last very long. You could see it for yourselves. Since you started to play you became more like enemies, not friends. You saw what happened today. Half of the boys wanted to play, half didn’t. All because of you two.”

  A lump rose in Dick’s throat as he looked at Stan and Stan looked at him.

  “I was hoping that Coach Banks would drive this point home to you,” Jack said. “Since he neglected to do so, I decided that I should.”

  “I-I’m glad you did, Mr. Wanda,” Stan said humbly. “It’s been me. I know. I … I have always been too mouthy. Most of the time I just can’t help it.” He looked at Dick. “I’m sorry, Dick.”