Stealing Home

by Matt Christopher

  Copyright © 2004 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Catherine M. Christopher.

  Text by Paul Mantell

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Summary: Joey is sure he will not get along with the exchange student from Nicaragua who is staying with his family for a year, but they find common ground on the baseball field.

  First eBook Edition: July 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-316-02571-3

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Matt Christopher

  To Clay and Matt, my inspiration, and, as always, to Avery.

  1

  Joey Gallagher bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He pounded his mitt with his right fist and stared in toward home plate from deep center field, ready to catch the ball that came his way.

  Nicky Canelo, the Marlins pitcher, reared back and fired the ball so hard that he went airborne for a second. The Oriole batter, with his bright-orange helmet, swung a second too late. The ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt, sending up a cloud of powdery dust. The batter fell to his knees in a twisted, frustrated heap.

  “Stee-rike two!” the umpire yelled. Parents clapped and yelled on both sides of the field. Joey bounced up and down on the balls of his feet some more and looked around him. In left field, Huey Brewster had his glove hand on his hip. Ellis Suggs, in right, was digging a hole in the outfield grass with his cleats. “What is he doing, looking for worms?” Joey asked himself disgustedly.

  Neither of the other two outfielders looked prepared. And why should they be? None of the Orioles was going to hit Nicky Canelo’s fastball. Nobody ever did. Still, it was important to be ready. Joey shook his head and turned his attention back toward the plate. Nicky went into his windup and fired another unhit-table blur.

  “Stee-rike three! Yer out!” the umpire said with gusto. It was impossible not to appreciate Nicky’s awesome talent, even if umpires weren’t supposed to take sides. The batter threw down his bat in disgust and marched back to the bench.

  Nicky Canelo stepped off the mound, all six-foot-one of him. He whirled his pitching arm round and round like a windmill, keeping it loose. Too bad league rules didn’t let teams use one pitcher all the time. The Marlins could use Nicky only for three innings per six-inning game.

  The first three innings . . . well, those were the Marlins’ biggest problem. Starter Matt Lowe was pretty accurate, but he got hit around a lot. The Marlins could only hope to stay close till Nicky took the mound in the fourth inning. If they were ahead by then, it was curtains for the other team.

  Like today. They were up, 2–0, with two outs in the bottom of the fourth inning. One more batter — then two more innings — and the Marlins would be 4–0. A perfect record. Sure, the season was young, and a lot could still happen, but so far Coach Joe Bacino had come up with the perfect formula for success. “Hang on for three, then bring on Nick-eee!”

  Three wins, no losses. And the last three innings of each game, with Nicky on the mound, had been mad boring for all the Marlins fielders. Nobody got any action except Pete Alessandra, the catcher.

  Joey had lots of time to think out there in center field. He thought about last year, in sixth grade, when he’d pitched and played shortstop for the Mets. This year, he’d moved up a league. Most of the Marlins were eighth graders, much bigger than he was. Joey felt lucky — at least he got to play most of every game. The other seventh graders usually rode the bench till “Nicky time” and never saw any balls hit to them at all. Still, Joey kept bouncing. “Gotta stay ready. Never know when you’re gonna get your big chance,” he muttered under his breath.

  The next hitter came up for the Orioles. It was their “big bat,” Andy Norton. Joey was friends with him, sort of — they were both seventh graders, and they had history, English, and gym together. Joey knew that Andy was leading the league in home runs because Andy never missed the chance to brag about it. Joey couldn’t wait to see Nicky Canelo strike him out.

  “Keep on bouncin’, keep on bouncin’,” he sang softly to himself. “Gotta stay ready. Never know when it’s comin’ to you.”

  Yeah, right. Like anyone was ever gonna hit Nicky . . .

  And then, in an instant, everything changed. Andy Norton squeezed his eyes shut and swung. SMACK! The bat hit the ball dead on. It rocketed toward the mound, where it hit Nicky right in the pitching arm. There was a sickening sound on impact, and the ball ricocheted all the way to first base.

  Charlie Morganstern picked it up and stepped on the bag to end the inning, but no one was watching — not even the umpire. Everyone was crowding around the mound, where Nicky Canelo had fallen in a heap. Joey could hear Coach Bacino yelling for someone to call 911 and asking if there was a doctor in the stands.

  Joey was so surprised that someone had hit the ball that it was a full ten seconds before he raced toward the mound. He got there just in time to see Nicky being helped to his feet. The Marlins’ star pitcher was sobbing, grabbing his arm with his glove hand.

  Joey was stunned. It must be bad, if a kid like Nicky Canelo was crying. They walked him over to the bench and put a cold pad on the spot where the ball had hit. Nicky was calmer now, but you could still see him sniffing back tears. Sirens sounded in the distance. Joey edged closer. Now he could see the ugly, swollen, purple bruise on Nicky’s upper arm.

  “He can make a fist and bend the elbow,” said one of the parents. “That’s a good sign, but he’ll still have to get x-rayed to make sure nothing’s broken.”

  Nicky’s teammates clapped for him as Coach Bacino led him to the ambulance. Everyone wished him good luck at the hospital. “I’ll be okay,” he assured them bravely. “Hey, you guys — win this one for me, okay?” They all promised to do just that.

  But how? They were only up by two runs, and Matt Lowe had already pitched his three innings.

  “Okay, who’s gonna pitch the next two innings?” Coach Bacino asked his team as they gathered around the bench. A sea of willing but incapable hands went up. Joey stuck his hand up, too.

  Coach Bacino stroked the little beard on his chin and squinted, looking doubtfully down the line of them. His eyes came to rest on Joey. “Gallagher,” he said. “Didn’t you say you used to pitch last year?”

  “Uh-huh,” Joey said.

  “Okay, you’re it.” Coach Bacino put the ball in Joey’s mitt and squeezed it with both his hands. “Just get it over the plate. It’s okay if they hit it. That’s what your fielders are for.” Joey nodded and swallowed hard. He rubbed up the ball and tried to remember how he used to pitch way back in the old days, last year. Then he started warming up his arm, soft-tossing the ball to Pete on the sidelines.

  The Marlins went down quickly at bat. Before he knew it, it was time to get out on the mound. Funny, but the minute he got up there, he didn’t feel nervous anymore. His team had a two-run lead, didn’t they? Besides, he felt like he couldn’t lose, no matter what happened. If he pitched badly and they lost, he had the perfect excuse: “Hey
, I wasn’t prepared,” he could say. “I didn’t have any practice.” On the other hand, if he had the least bit of success up there . . .

  He focused in on Pete Alessandra’s great-big catcher’s mitt, reared back, and threw. The hitter swung hard, popped it up, and Charlie Morganstern caught the ball in foul territory. One out already — on only one pitch! Joey drank in his teammates’ cheers. They were behind him all the way. He could feel it. He bore down on the next hitter and threw another meat-ball, right over home plate.

  THWACK! A line drive to right field. If it had been Nicky pitching, Ellis Suggs would’ve been caught napping, digging holes with his cleats in the outfield grass. But because Joey Nobody was on the mound, everyone was ready for anything. Suggs got his carcass moving just in time to make a diving play on the liner, and there were two out.

  “All right!” Joey yelled, totally pumped now. If Ellis Suggs could make a play like that, then surely he, Joey Gallagher, could get four more batters out. He threw a change-up on the first pitch to the next hitter and caught the overanxious Oriole off guard. Swinging too soon, he popped up to Joey, and the inning was over.

  Joey could scarcely believe it. Three outs on three pitches — and this was in the seventh-/eighth-grade league! Quickly he contained his urge to celebrate. There was still one more inning to go. He walked to the bench, barely acknowledging his teammates’ cheers and backslaps.

  The Marlins again went down quickly at the plate. The Orioles weren’t 3–0 for nothing. Even if they lost today, they’d still be in second place to the Marlins. Their number-one pitcher was still out there, and while he was no Nicky Canelo, he was still pretty tough to hit.

  Joey got back on the mound and blew out a big, deep breath. This was it. This could be his day of glory — to remember forever. All he had to do was get three outs before the Orioles scored two runs.

  The first batter fouled off six pitches and finally worked out a walk. The next batter lined a sharp single up the middle. The runner on first put on the gas. Before Joey knew what had hit him, there were Orioles on first and third, with the top of the order coming up, and he still needed three outs!

  Coach Bacino trotted out to talk to him. “You okay, kid?” he asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you gonna get this next guy out?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How you gonna do that?”

  “I’m uh . . . I’m gonna make him hit it,” Joey said, remembering.

  “That’s right. You can’t get three outs at once. Just get ’em one at a time. And never mind that run on third base. It means nothing. Just throw it over the plate. We don’t want Alessandra digging pitches out of the dirt. Next thing you know, the guy on first is stealing second and getting in scoring position. So throw some strikes. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Go get ’em.”

  Joey blew out another big breath. He stared at Pete’s catcher’s mitt and threw a really slow change-up. The hitter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he swung, but he was way too early. The ball was only halfway to the plate. He’d finished his swing completely before it even hit the catcher’s mitt.

  “Stee-rike one!” the umpire yelled.

  “Try that again, you wimp!” the batter called to him.

  “Yeah?” Joey yelled back. “You want another one?” He reared back and threw as hard and high as he dared. The batter, taken totally by surprise, swung at air again.

  “Stee-rike two!” the umpire said.

  “All right,” the batter said, spitting in the dirt. “You’re dead meat now.” He waggled his bat over his shoulder. Now Joey threw him the second change-up he’d promised him, and this one was even slower than the first.

  The batter started his swing, then stopped it midway when he realized what was coming. He tried to restart his swing, but there was so little force left behind it that he hit a soft grounder right back to the mound. Joey grabbed it, turned, and threw to second. Shortstop Jordan Halpin took the throw, stepped on the bag ahead of the runner, then threw to first in plenty of time for the double play.

  “Yes!” Joey screamed, throwing his mitt high in the air. The game wasn’t over yet, though, and the runner on third had scored to make it a 2–1 game. Still, the bases were empty, and if he got this batter out, or even the next one, he wouldn’t have to face Andy Norton. Joey went after the hitter, throwing nothing but fast-balls. On the third one, the Oriole hit a harmless grounder to Charlie Morganstern, who stepped on the bag to end the game.

  Sweet.

  “We won! We won! I can’t believe it! We won!” all the Marlins shouted. They mobbed Joey at the mound, picked him up, and marched him around the infield on their shoulders — Joey the Hero. Yes, the short, skinny kid with the freckles, the puny seventh grader who put it to the Orioles when Nicky Canelo went down. It was only one day in his life, but try as he might, Joey could not remember a better one.

  Coach Bacino gathered the Marlins around him afterward. “Okay, guys, this was a great victory,” he said as he put away the team’s equipment. “But we’ve got a lot of baseball to play yet this season, and we may be without Nicky for a lot of it — maybe all of it. For now, Gallagher’s our second pitcher.” A big round of applause greeted this news. “If we all keep playing like this, we’ll still make the play-offs. Let’s do it for Nicky!”

  Everyone cheered, exchanged high fives, then ran toward the line of cars that was waiting at the curb. Joey, still practically floating, headed for his mom’s old bomb of a station wagon. Wait till he told her what happened!

  “Hi, Mom!” he said, hurtling himself into the seat beside her.

  “Hi, honey!” she said, giving him a quick hug and kiss. “Guess what?”

  “Um, I don’t know,” he said, thrown off. “Hey, Mom, I just —”

  “The papers came through, Joey!”

  “The papers?”

  “Yes, isn’t that exciting? We’re picking up your new brother next week!”

  2

  My new brother?

  It took Joey a minute to figure out what she was talking about. It wasn’t really a new brother — only an exchange student, coming to live with them for the summer and the next school year.

  “Would you stop saying that?” he pleaded. “He’s not my brother, okay?”

  “Sorry,” she quickly backtracked. “But seriously, aren’t you excited? It’s really happening!”

  He slumped down in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. As his mom steered the car toward home, Joey flashed back to the night his parents had first brought up the matter.

  “You know, I’ll bet you’re missing Sandy a lot, aren’t you, Joey?” his dad asked. Sandy, Joey’s older brother, had left for college a month earlier.

  “Of course he is,” his mom said quickly, answering for Joey like she always did. “How could he not miss his big brother?”

  “Here’s something interesting,” his dad said, pointing to an ad in the magazine he was reading. “Host families wanted for exchange students, ten to sixteen years old.” He looked up, staring straight at Joey. “We could have a boy your age from another country come and stay with us for a whole year. What do you think about that?”

  “Wow, what a great opportunity!” his mom interjected before Joey could even open his mouth. “We could learn each other’s languages, and Joey’d have a brother his own age.”

  “Yes, Sandy was always so much older,” his dad agreed. “It wasn’t like they could be best buddies all the time.”

  But Sandy had been his best buddy. Even though he was eight years older, and a lot better in school, and not much of an athlete, Sandy had always been a great friend and the person Joey looked up to the most.

  Joey had missed Sandy ever since he’d left. But that didn’t mean he wanted a replacement brother from who knew where. So he didn’t say anything at all, hoping it would blow over and just go away.

  As the months went by, his parents had brought up the subject a few more
times. But Joey had always just shrugged his shoulders and said he didn’t want to talk about it.

  And now, two years later, they were telling him it was about to happen? When had he ever given his explicit permission? Didn’t he get a vote?

  “Well?” his mom asked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “You’re being awfully quiet. Aren’t you excited?”

  He’d been excited a minute ago, all right — excited about winning the big game for his team. But was he excited about getting a “new brother”?

  “Not really, Mom, to be perfectly honest” was what he wanted to say. But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he just sighed and said, “So what’s this kid’s name?”

  “I don’t know,” his mom replied. “Why don’t you open the packet and find out?”

  Joey hated that his parents pretended they were doing this for him. It was they, not Joey, who missed Sandy so much that they had to bring in another kid to replace him. It was his mom and dad who were inviting a total stranger to be part of their close little family.

  “I’ll open it when we get home,” Joey said.

  They arrived at the house. After removing his cleats, dumping his baseball stuff in the bin in the garage, and washing up, Joey went to the kitchen table and opened the packet while his mom heated their dinner. Roast beef. Joey didn’t really like roast beef, but what did his mom care about that? Roast beef was Dad’s favorite. If his dad was happy, she was happy. It didn’t matter what Joey thought. It never mattered.

  Joey opened the packet, and a bunch of papers spilled out. There was a letter from the supervisor at the exchange organization. There was a handwritten note in Spanish and a photograph in black and white.

  A tall boy with curly brown hair and a big, goofy smile stared back at Joey from the photo. The boy was standing under a palm tree on the side of a dusty dirt road. He was waving at the camera. The boy’s knees were knobby, and he seemed bowlegged.

  Joey read the letter from the head of the exchange program. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher and Joey,” it began. Well, at least they know our names, Joey thought. With every passing second, it was sinking into his brain that this was really about to happen to him. “We are thrilled to pass along the news that your exchange student will be arriving on June 5 at 5:00 P.M. Please be at the airport to greet Jesus Rodriguez.”