Keeping Score

CLARION BOOKS
N
EW
Y
ORK

Clarion Books
a Houghton Mifflin Company imprint
215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003
Copyright © 2008 by Linda Sue Park

Book design by Michelle Gengaro-Kokmen.
The text was set in 12-point Warnock Pro.

All rights reserved.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this
book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003.

www.clarionbooks.com

Printed in the U.S.A.

Full cataloging information is available from the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 978-0-618-92799-9
LC number: 2007046522

QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Nancy Quade,
with thanks for all those Opening Days

1 The New Guy 1
2 1—Pitcher 16
3 The New Favorite 36
4 Playoff 50
5 Dear Jim 65
6 Game Seven 80
7 Territory 92
8 Points 105
9 Not Enough 118
10 The Old Sock 127
11 The Plan, Part Two 139
12 After the Game 149
13 The New Plan 157
14 The Railway Bridge 171
15 Proof 183
Acknowledgments 196
Author's Note 197
Keeping Score 202

"How's come you guys don't bunt?"

Maggie was sitting on the stoop. On the sidewalk in front of their house, Joey-Mick finished tying his shoe with a double knot. He shrugged but didn't answer.

Then he picked up his glove and glared at it. He tightened the worn leather lace that was always coming undone, and prodded the hole in the top of one of the fingers. The glove was a hand-me-down from their uncle Leo, and the only reason it was still in one piece, Maggie thought, was because it didn't want to face her brother's wrath if it fell apart.

"They bunt all the time in the majors," Maggie said. "Well, not all the time, but when they need to. Nobody on your team bunts, hardly never. Don't they teach you how?"

"We
know
how," Joey-Mick said as he started plunking a ball into the pocket of the glove,
thunk—thunk—thunk.
"But it's lots more important to get good at hitting." He stopped plunking long enough to
tug at the bill of his cap; Maggie thought that the cap over his new crewcut made him look like he didn't have any hair at all. "If you played, you wouldn't hafta ask that."

Maggie pressed her lips together hard. Whenever she tried to talk baseball with Joey-Mick, he always used that older-so-I-know-way-more-than-you voice and said she didn't or wouldn't or couldn't understand because she didn't play ball herself.

It wasn't fair. She was nine-going-on-ten, and she knew plenty about baseball, and way more about the Dodgers than he did. Unless she was in school, she never missed a game on the radio. Joey-Mick might go out to play with his friends during a broadcast, but not Maggie.

Like today. The Dodgers' game would be starting soon, in Pittsburgh against the Pirates, and here was Joey-Mick waiting for his friend Davey, so they could go to the park to have a catch.

Maggie stood up. She was leaving as well, to walk the two blocks to the firehouse and listen to the radio with the guys.

"Gotta go," she said. "Us
real
fans have a game to listen to."

New York was the only city in the whole country with three baseball teams. The Yankees of the American League were the winningest team in all of baseball. They had been World Series champions a whopping
thirteen
times. And the National League Giants had won the World Series four times in their history.

The Brooklyn Dodgers, who were in the National League with the Giants, had
never
won the World Series.

Not ever.

Not even once.

It was what Maggie wanted more than anything in the world: for the Dodgers to win the World Series. It seemed like she had wanted it ever since she was born. Every year the Dodgers—whose nickname to Brooklynites was "Dem Bums"—came close, either winning the National League pennant or finishing in the top three. But the biggest prize, the World Series championship, always seemed to slip away from them.

Although Maggie knew it wasn't true, she felt as if the first words she had learned when she was a baby were "Wait till next year!"—the unofficial official slogan of Dodger fans.

Charcoal, the mostly black firehouse dog, always knew when Maggie was coming, and she knew he knew, so even before she saw him, she took from her pocket a folded paper napkin that held a half-slice of salami. When he bounded down the street to meet her, she was ready.

She held out the salami, which he snapped down without chewing.

"Charky! Where are your manners?" she said, shaking her head and smiling at the same time.

The dog led the way to the firehouse, where the guys were sitting out front on folding chairs, boots and suspenders and toothpicks, with the radio already tuned to the game. As soon as George caught sight of her, he jumped to his feet and went and got another chair. After greetings, they all settled in to listen, Charky flopping down at Maggie's feet. A routine, but one she never got tired of.

The call came in at a crucial moment: The Dodgers had just tied the game.

"Shouldn't be long, Maggie-o," George said as he opened the door on the driver's side of the fire engine and waited while Charky bounded onto the seat. "Doesn't sound like anything serious. You better get that lead and keep it for us."

"I will," Maggie promised, stepping to the side of the bay to get out of the way. "Stay cool," she called out as George hopped into the engine's cab.

Whenever Dad left the house to go to work, Maggie and Joey-Mick always told him to "stay cool." It came from something he often said to them: "When things get hot, you gotta stay cool."

During Dad's firehouse days, Maggie would get sent home if an emergency call came in. But now she didn't have to leave when the guys went out on a job.

"You're in charge," George had said the first time she stayed. Which had made her feel quite important.

She watched until the engine was out of sight, then walked over to the radio at the side of the bay and turned up the volume so she could listen while she worked.

George was very strict about keeping the firehouse tidy. He had learned it from Maggie's dad, how keeping the whole place neat and organized could save precious time in an emergency. Most days at the firehouse when there weren't any calls, the guys spent a lot of time cleaning. Today Maggie planned to surprise them by sweeping up while they were out.

Dad had been a fireman at this station until three years ago. One afternoon when Maggie was six, Mom answered a knock at the door. Two cops were on the stoop. There had been a fire, and Dad was hurt. They didn't know how bad.

Maggie could still remember every detail of the ride to the hospital, the dome light flashing and the siren shrieking and Mom holding her hand tight enough that it hurt. They saw Dad for a few moments before the operation to fix his leg, his face so black with soot that you couldn't tell where the soot ended and his hair and mustache began, and when he smiled at them, his teeth looked the whitest they had ever been—smiled even though the pain must have been too awful to imagine. And he said, "You weren't none of yous worried, were ya?"

Maggie had seen the tears tracking down her mother's face as she cleared her throat and answered, "Pish, I couldn't be bothered. I was getting the dinner, and it'll be gone cold now, thank you very much."

They were clustered around his hospital bed when he woke up from the operation. "Everybody staying cool?" he asked groggily, the first words out of his mouth.

Later he told them a little more about what had happened. "I went crashin' through the floor, right? And when I got my wits back, I got down low, where
the air was a little better, and I started crawling. Every inch I crawled I tried to think about something cool. Maggie eating ice cream, Joey-Mick hosing down the wagon, your mom at Jones Beach when we were courting—"

"What's so cool about that?" Joey-Mick asked.

Dad winked. "—in her bathing suit—"

"Joseph!" Maggie's mom put one hand to her mouth, half annoyed and half laughing.

"Can't help it, Rosie, it's the truth."

And staying cool had helped Dad save his own life, and maybe George's and Vince's too, for even with a shattered leg he managed to crawl as far as the door, where the other guys found him and dragged him out just as the whole roof collapsed. If he hadn't made it to the door on his own, all three of them might have died inside.

"Some guys would hate it," George had said to Maggie when Dad was reassigned to a desk job. "They couldn't stand bein' in an office, they'd sorta dry up and—and shrivel away. But not your pop. 'Cause he loves the department, see. Really loves it."

Maggie knew without asking that Mom was glad not to have to worry about Dad on the job anymore. But she also knew that he missed being at the fire-house. It was one of the reasons she still went there.

"Told ya," George said to Terry. "Told ya she'd get the lead for us."

The guys were back. As George had predicted, the call had been an easy one, nothing but smolder by the time they got there. Garbage in an alley had caught fire from a carelessly tossed cigarette butt. The owner of the shop next to the alley had telephoned for help first, and then gone out with a bucket of water and doused the fire himself. The guys had helped clean up the alley and cautioned the shop owner not to let trash pile up like that again.

Maggie made a tiny gesture that no one else could see, moving her forefinger against her thumb in the sign of the cross. She always did that when the guys came back safely.

George took off his helmet. He ran his hand over his head the way he often did; the other guys always said he was making sure he still had some hair left. It might have been true, but Maggie liked how his hair receded in a curve; it looked like a smile.

"Terry said we were gonna lose the game," George said. "He said sure, we got it tied up, but that would be it for us, and the Pirates would come back and score."

"Hey, it was a good guess," Terry said. "Happened
twice
in the past week." Blond and stocky, he stood in front of Maggie so she could snap his suspender straps against his ample belly. She didn't remember how this ritual had gotten started, but she had been snapping his straps for ages now. Whenever he got back from a call.

"Yeah, but you know what
I
said," George answered. "I said, we left Maggie-o in charge, she's gonna take care of everything. And look"—he waved his arm broadly—"she got the place swept up, too!"

"So what happened?" Terry asked eagerly. "How'd they do it?"

Maggie explained: how Brooklyn had scored three runs in the top of the sixth inning to go ahead, 7–4, and one more in the top of the ninth, and how the Pirates had been held scoreless the whole rest of the game.

"How many'd he strike out?" Terry asked. "He got six before we left—he get any more?"

Maggie knew who Terry was asking about: Preacher Roe, the pitcher.

"Yep," she said. "He got—"

She stopped, frowning. At least one more, she knew that for sure. But had there been another one? Or maybe even two? Or was she getting it mixed up with earlier in the game?

Terry waved away her hesitation. "'Sokay, Maggie-o. I can find out tomorrow."

"I think maybe two," Maggie said. "Anyway, he was pitching really good."

"Musta been, seeing how they didn't score any more."

The talk about the game continued until it became talk about the season and the team, other teams, other players, and especially, dreams of future glory, the way it always did.

On the walk home, Maggie went over the game again in her head. Why couldn't she remember how many strikeouts Preacher Roe had gotten? She knew he was Terry's favorite player; she should've been paying more attention. But no matter what Joey-Mick thought, she didn't believe that playing the game
herself would make any difference, would help her remember any better.

The thing was, Maggie didn't want to play baseball. Not because it was a boy thing—it wasn't anymore. There had been a real league for women during the war, and Maggie's best friend, Treecie, had once said that if they had the chance, girls could do anything boys could do—"except pee standing up." Maggie had laughed in both shock and admiration. She couldn't even think of things like that, much less bring herself to say them.

To Maggie, being a fan was a whole separate thing from playing the game yourself. Joey-Mick might be able to tell you that Carl Furillo's batting average was around .300 and that Don Newcombe had won most of his games so far. But Maggie had it down cold: Furillo was batting .304, and the Newk had six wins.

It was like the movies. You could go to the pictures every week, know all about the stars, read everything in the magazines—and still not want to be an actress yourself. Their mother, Rose, was like that. She had told Maggie that when she first came to New York from Ireland, she went to the pictures every chance she got, "sometimes three or four in a week!"

Mom was kind of solid around her middle now, with a few streaks of gray in her hair that Dad sometimes teased her about—his own hair being jet black—but her eyes were as blue as a calm sky, and her skin so clear that her face always looked like she had just washed it. Maggie could imagine a much younger Rose getting dressed up and going out for a good time.

Baseball and the Dodgers were even bigger than the movies. You had to go to the movie theater to see a picture, but the radio, with announcer Red Barber, brought the Bums right into Maggie's home. Into her street, too, so Maggie didn't mind running errands during a game. She would walk past the row of houses that looked just like hers, all built of dull brownish yellow brick, one window downstairs two windows up—to Pinky the butcher or Mr. and Mrs. Floyd at the bakery or the drugstore, and she wouldn't miss a single pitch. Everyone would have their radios on, the sound of the game trailing in and out of each doorway like a long thread that tied the whole neighborhood together.