Bucky watched the game on TV with Dad, enjoying every minute of the one-sided action. “They’re on their way,” he exulted as another Mosley home run made the score 7-0 after six innings.
“There’s a long way to go,” Dad grinned as he reached for another large handful of popcorn. “A lot can happen in a seven-game series.”
“If they win tomorrow, I think they’ll be in good shape,” Bucky asserted.
But the team didn’t win Wednesday afternoon. Travis Hellman, usually reliable from the bullpen, gave up three runs in the eighth inning on two walks, a passed ball, and a critical error by the San Francisco shortstop. The Mets boarded their plane back to New York with a 6-4 win and the split they had come to California to obtain.
Thursday morning in English class, the diehard fans were subdued. “It’s do-or-die in the Big Apple this weekend,” whispered one boy. “Giants gotta take two out of three for sure.” Miss Cochran walked to the front of the room wearing a smart fall outfit – and a San Francisco baseball hat.
“All right, Miss Cochran!” grinned Bob, the perennial optimist. “Looking good!”
The young teacher smiled. “I saw yesterday’s game and thought this might cheer you up, Bob.”
The class came to order. “I’ve read your papers, class,” the teacher announced, “and I think we’ve got some good writing talent here. I’m going to read five or six of these aloud this morning, and I want you to pay close attention, not only to the style these students exhibit, but also to the persuasiveness of their convictions.”
She sat down behind her desk, put on her seldom seen glasses, and began to read from the top paper. A small smile played on her lips. “‘It is my deeply-held conviction that the noble warriors known in the Western Hemisphere as the San Francisco Giants will achieve total and complete victory over the inferior – indeed, the hapless – minor-league motley dog-barf collection of has-beens disdainfully known as the New York Mets.’”
The class exploded into laughter. “Gotta be Bob’s!” someone said.
Miss Cochran put down the paper. “Yes, this is Bob’s,” she smiled. “But, class, amazing at it may seem, it’s pretty good writing. And the man actually typed it!”
She returned to her reading. Bob had concocted a hilarious but persuasive piece explaining clearly just how the Giants were going to make mincemeat of the team from back east. If Bob were to be believed, there was no way the New Yorkers should be permitted on the same ball diamond as the heroes from the Bay Area.
The delighted class chuckled with every line. Maybe their team would take the title in six games.
Miss Cochran read several other themes, explaining to the class why each one warranted their attention. One wrote about world peace, another about the HIV scourge in Somalia, and a third spelled out five compelling reasons why the school day should be shortened by an hour and a half.
“One more,” Miss Cochran concluded, looking up at the clock. “This one’s by Bucky Stone.”
Bucky sat up at the unexpected announcement, his face reddening slightly. He’d had no idea that anyone but his teacher would read what he had penned.
Miss Cochran read the title slowly and deliberately. “The Trouble With Evolution.”
A snicker came from the back of the room. The teacher looked up sharply. “Hey. Hush it up, you. We haven’t read any papers so far expressing religious convictions,” she said simply. “This one is well done and I want you to hear it.”
Quietly, the teacher read Bucky’s short essay. In simple clear language he had expressed his belief in intelligent design. The students listened without comment.
The class bell rang just as she read Bucky’s closing lines. “Some good points there. All of today’s featured writers, really. Okay, guys, you’re dismissed,” she announced. “No assignment tonight.” She looked over at Bucky briefly.
As the class filed out, she came over to his desk. “May I talk to you for a moment?”
“Sure.” He looked up expectantly.
Miss Cochran sat in the seat next to his and took off her glasses. “I hope you don’t mind my reading your paper, Bucky,” she said slowly. “You’ve impressed me as a young man who isn’t afraid to have his viewpoints known by his peers. And it was a nicely written essay.”
“No, I didn’t mind,” Bucky said after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t know what the kids thought of it, though.”
“Well, I haven’t been teaching that long, but I know most students will respect someone’s opinion if it’s shared openly and honestly.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Anyway,” she went on, “I wanted to say something else to you. What you wrote made me do a lot of thinking. I’m not a church-going type; haven’t been for years. But I was raised in a Christian home, and the things you said have given me a reason to think about it all again. I wanted to thank you for that.” She stopped suddenly.
Bucky didn’t know what to say. “You’re welcome.” He felt his face flushing, and for a moment he grappled to think of something else to say. “Well, I guess I better be getting to Spanish class,” he managed.
“All right,” she said softly.
That night he prayed for Sam and Miss Cochran.
Chapter Seven: The World Series!
It was a long Saturday night for Bucky. With the Giants having fallen to the Mets 6-2 in Game Three, he settled down, a flickering hope still in his heart, to watch the fourth contest with Dad. All season long, the Giants had displayed the frustrating habit of getting a lead, but wastefully leaving more runners in scoring position, and failing to put a game on ice.
In both the sixth and seventh innings the visiting team put a lead-off runner on third with just one out, but failed to capitalize and get an insurance run. As a result, the Giants took a scant two-run lead into the bottom of the ninth inning, still seeming to be on the verge of a win. Then, disaster. With two outs and the bases empty, the Giants’ pitcher walked the number eight man in the Mets lineup on four pitches.
“No!” Bucky protested at the screen as the Giants manager came slowly to the mound, signaling the bullpen for a reliever.
Penn came in to pitch and quickly took his eight warmup tosses. The eager New York hitter stepped up to the plate to face him. One pitch. Home run! The fans at Shea Stadium went wild as the two Mets base runners dramatically circled the bases, tying up the game.
The contest dragged on until the fourteenth inning. Then, after four and a half grueling hours, Pete Sommers, the Mets’ leading slugger, abruptly ended it all with a towering home run over the center field wall. Fireworks bathed the ballpark as the hometown fans screamed in ecstasy, waving to the ESPN cameras.
Final score: New York, 5; San Francisco, 4. Bucky shook his head slowly in dismay. Down three games to one. What a killer weekend the trip to New York was turning out to be!
Dad stood up, stretched sleepily, and shut off the TV. “Well, my boy, what do you think? Is it all over for your marvelous Giants?” He tried to keep a teasing sarcasm out of his voice.
Bucky picked up the empty potato chip sack and put it in the trash basket under the kitchen sink. “I don’t know. I thought for sure they were going to win tonight. One out away!”
“Well, we better get to bed. It’s past ten o’clock. Think of those poor New York fans; yikes, it’s one in the morning back there.”
“You don’t mind staying up till one in the morning when your team wins,” Bucky retorted sullenly, trudging slowly up the stairs to bed.
Sunday evening the Giants, with their backs to the wall, staved off elimination by eking out a nail-biting 2-1 victory. The team was coming home and still had a chance to win two in a row in front of friendly San Francisco fans!
At school on Monday there was a gentle tension in the air. Students who didn’t care about baseball enjoyed needling the diehard fans about the precarious state of affairs.
At a brief unofficial meeting of the ski club after school, Bucky returned Sam’s eager gri
n as they anticipated the proposed January trip.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here!”
Bucky turned around at the sound of Lisa’s voice. “Someone has to go along just to keep an eye on you,” he retorted lightly, trying not to smile.
The club president, Don Jackson, whistled to get everybody’s attention. “Just one announcement, you guys,” he called out. “We have approval for our trip January 17 and 18 to Heavenly Valley at South Lake Tahoe.”
There was a spatter of clapping. “How much?” someone wanted to know.
“Tickets are $47 for members,” Don replied, craning his neck to see who had asked. “That’s each day, of course. We’re working on a special rate on lodging; it’ll probably run $24 per person.”
Bucky leaned toward Sam. “I’ve never been to Heavenly. I wonder how good it is?”
“They say it’s really great. Eighteen lift chairs, lots of runs for intermediates. That’s me.”
“Any beginner slopes?” Bucky asked, half-seriously.
“Yeah, that’s my speed,” Lisa laughed. “You boys go on Killer Mountain and leave me on the bunny hill, where I belong.”
The president spoke again. “I know it’s still a couple months away, but it doesn’t hurt to plan ahead. We already have faculty approval for the day away from school, because it’s a club function. But you’ll have to arrange with individual teachers to make up assignments. You can wait on that, of course, until later. But we do need to get a $20 deposit as soon as possible from everyone who is going.”
Bucky made a mental note to ask Dad about the deposit. And it might be a good time to bring up the subject of new skis . . . please! The group broke up its meeting after one additional announcement from the president about a new ski film the club was showing as part of its November party.
The threat of rain hung heavy in the air Tuesday morning. Game six of the playoffs was scheduled to begin at noon at AT&T Park. All over the high school radios were buzzing with the action and diehard enthusiasts kept checking scores on their phones.
During a break between classes, Bucky made his way over to the library. A small knot of students had gathered around a small TV in one corner. “What’s happening?”
“Two to nothing,” whispered an anxious viewer without taking his eyes from the screen.
“San Francisco?”
The student nodded.
The action continued at a tense pace, with the Giants giving up the lead twice, only to regain it each time. New York’s pitchers seemed unable to keep San Francisco runners from stealing or taking the extra base on every hit. The game went into the ninth inning with the Giants up by one.
The Mets led off the top of the ninth with a leadoff triple. Quiet groans erupted from the anxious group of fans. Bucky winced. The librarian looked over at the small crowd and frowned but said nothing.
The San Francisco manager brought in Travis Hellman, the ace reliever who had been so unlucky the previous Wednesday.
“Oh, no,” moaned one student, snapping a pencil in two. “Not Hellman again! He stinks!”
But this time things were different. In short order, Hellman got the first Mets batter on a harmless pop-up. The second hitter, too anxious at the plate, grounded back to Hellman, who looked the base runner back to third, and then threw him out. Finally, on a 2-2 pitch, the Mets’ final hope hit an easy fly ball to left field.
“Giants win!” A burst of cheers exploded from the now-relieved students. “Game seven tomorrow! Sweet!”
Bucky nodded in satisfaction as he walked quickly to his final class of the day. Already the news of the win was spreading through the hallways. It was weird, after so many years of San Francisco being mostly a football city, how the Bay Area was gripped now with orange-and-black fever.
That evening the Boston Red Sox wrapped up their series with the Kansas City Royals, winning easily eight to one. Bucky watched snatches of the game in between bouts with the polynomials in his algebra book, but had thoughts only for the National League finale, due to start the next evening.
Game seven was all the sports writers had promised and more. For twelve innings the two teams were deadlocked at two runs apiece. Then in the top of the twelfth, the Mets loaded the bases, with one out.
Bucky shifted nervously in his seat as he watched the Giants’ dugout on the screen. The manager sat impassively on the bench, not making a move. It was in the hands of Shannon, win or lose.
“And here’s the pitch,” announced the NBC sportscaster. “Ground ball to the left side; could be two! To second for one; on to first . . . double play! And the Giants dodge a big bullet!”
“You can say that again!” Bucky yodeled, smashing a fist into the palm of his hand in exultation. “Now, come on, you turkeys!”
Dad smiled broadly and sat up to pay closer attention. In the bottom of the inning, the Giants put the lead-off man on base with a walk. The next batter perfectly executed the hit-and-run, driving the ball right through the spot vacated by the second baseman covering the bag. First and third, no outs!
The Mets intentionally walked the next batter to load the bases. With the infield drawn in for a force play at the plate, and the outfielders playing in close Mosley lofted the first pitch to medium-deep center field.
“Pitt is going to try to score!” exclaimed the announcer, excitement rising in his voice, “Hernandez has a gun for an arm; here’s the throw . . . he is . . . safe! And the San Francisco Giants are the National League champions!”
“Ya HOO!” Bucky bounced up and down on the couch, raising both hands in the air and pumping his fist toward the television screen. “Boston Red Sox, we are coming to get you!”
Dad smiled indulgently. “Well, right now, it’s bed, we are coming to spend some time with you. Look what time it is!”
“Ten-thirty,” Bucky replied, amazed, as he glanced at his wristwatch. “Guess I’ll skip the champagne celebration, Dad.” He made his way upstairs, grinning.
“G’night,” he called down quietly from the top step.
“Good night, son. See you in the morning.”
Morning came before Bucky was ready for it. “Not already!” he groaned, opening one eye to glance at the clock. Wordlessly, he hit the delay button that would grant him an extra fifteen minutes of sleep.
The next few days went by in a blur of seesaw World Series action. The Boston Red Sox were a match for the team from the Bay Area, especially playing in their home park with its high home-run fence in short left field – the Green Monster. Boston’s lineup was ideally selected to take advantage of the short field, and they took the first two games on home runs to left.
As the Fall Classic progressed, it seemed that every game ran late, and Bucky’s usual 9:30 bedtime fell into disuse by family consent. The delay button on his morning alarm clock, on the other hand, began to find its way into every morning’s routine. It was after game six – a taut overtime thriller won by the Giants in eleven innings – that Mom finally mentioned it. “You know, honey, I know you’ve been up late watching all these games.”
“So?”
“Are you still spending time with Jesus each morning?” The question was asked quietly.
Bucky flushed impatiently. “Mom, it’s only for one more day. Game seven is tonight, then it’ll be over. What’s the big deal, anyway?”
She gave him an understanding look. “I know how you like baseball,” she said. “And I’m sure it’s been fun having the Giants get into the series like this. But . . .” She paused for a moment. “What’s most important to you?”
Bucky was silent. Her words burned into his conscience. “I guess I just got kind of carried away,” he admitted finally. “I didn’t think . . .”
She gave him a motherly pat on the arm. “I know you love the Lord,” she smiled. “He loves you too, honey, and wants the time with you. Remember that. Put him first, son. Everything else will fall into place.”
“You’re right, Mom,” he nodded, chastised. “
Thanks for reminding me.”
She took a coat out of the hall closet and put it on. “In a way, I’m to blame, too. With these ball games you’ve been watching, you’ve missed family worship all week.”
Bucky’s mouth flew open. “I forgot all about evening worship!”
“I know you have. Rachel Marie and I have been having our own up in her bedroom each evening. I could see you were all wrapped up in your games.”
Bucky shook his head ruefully. “No more, Mom. Tonight, no matter what the score is, call me for worship.”
And she did. It was the third inning, with the score tied at three, but Bucky was true to his word. Together the three family members enjoyed their brief Bible story, a favorite text, and Rachel Marie’s bedtime prayer.
When Bucky returned to the game, the Sox were ahead by one. “What’d I miss?”
Dad looked at Bucky over his newspaper. “Homer by Camp.”
In silence, the pair watched the innings unfold. In the seventh inning it looked as though the Giants might run away with it. Ahead by a run, the San Franciscans loaded the bases with nobody out. But an aborted squeeze play and a strikeout brought the rally to naught.
“A dandy game!” the Fox broadcaster exulted as they headed into the ninth with the score unchanged. “What a way to wrap up the season!”
The Giants went out in order in their half. Then, in the bottom of the frame, with one out, the Red Sox put runners at first and second. The Giants changed pitchers as Bucky nibbled nervously on his fingernails. The next batter worked the count full, and then jumped on the next pitch.
“There’s a drive to right center field!” The color man’s voice rose. “There’s nobody there! It’ll roll to the wall!”
The two base runners were scooting frantically around the base paths. “The tying run is in. They’re going to send in Noonan! He will be – safe at the plate! Boston wins!”
The roar from the crowd at Fenway Park poured through the speakers on the big-screen television set. Bucky slumped back in his chair. “Oh, man . . . it’s over.” A sinking feeling of defeat washed over him.
Bucky Stone: The Complete Adventure (Volumes 1-10) Page 5
