Lucky Seven (3 page)

He paused, as if waiting to see whether Jamie might have something to say. Jamie didn’t. There were too many things to think
about.

Jamie knew suddenly that Ted was right. Everything Ted said hit home. He truly hadn’t realized that the ball club had come
pretty far since the season had started, and the
reason for the players’ success had a lot to do with the way Ted had managed them.

“Guess maybe you’re right, Ted,” Jamie finally said, the words barely squeezing past the lump in his throat.

He turned and went to the dugout, feeling Ted’s look boring into his back. He half-hoped Ted might change his mind, but when
the game started against the Bluejays Dickie Stutz was playing left field.

The game got a slow start. Neither team scored until the third, when the lead-off man for the Magpies, Harold Jones, banged
a double, followed by three singles in a row by Petey, Artie, and Steve Johnson. Steve was batting clean-up today.

The game ended with the lopsided score: Magpies 11, Bluejays 3.

Jamie, on the bench, had never suffered through a longer game in his life.

The win placed the Magpies one game away from the pennant. It was now between them
and the Catbirds, the only other team who had suffered just one defeat all season.

The final game pitted the two top contenders and was played on a neutral diamond. What a terrible surprise it was to Jamie
when he discovered that again Ted Salin had left him out of the lineup.

He felt deeply hurt. Was Ted deliberately humiliating him in front of the team? And this—the big game of the year!

He tried to be reasonable about it. Maybe Ted was right in doing this. Maybe Ted meant to show that a manager was there for
a definite purpose and orders were given to be obeyed.

The game got under way. Marty Abrams, on the mound for the Magpies, shot the ball in like a bullet and kept the Catbirds scoreless
for the first two innings. In the bottom of the second Johnny Myers, the Magpies’ fleet-footed centerfielder, banged out a
single. Kenny Schatz walked. Danny Myers, Johnny’s tow-headed brother, connected with a terrific
double that brought in two runs. In the next inning they scored two more on errors.

The fans went wild. The only person who felt glum was Jamie Wilcox, who sat with his arms crossed and chewed gum very slowly.

Something surprising happened in the top of the third. It was as if the Catbirds had been playing possum all this while. They
got to Marty and started hitting him all over the lot. No matter what he threw, they hit it.

Ted took Marty out while they were still ahead, 4 to 3.

Bernie Dingle, the tall, long-armed redhead who replaced Marty, wasn’t much more effective. The Catbirds scored three more
runs before the Magpies could get them out.

Score: Catbirds 6, Magpies 4.

Artie led off with a walk in the bottom half of the third. Then Steve got a scratch hit, putting himself on first and Artie
on second.

Dickie Stutz was walking toward the plate when Ted’s voice boomed from the dugout: “Dickie, wait a minute!”

Ted came over and looked at Jamie. A grin spread across his even white teeth. “All right, Jamie. You’re back in the game!
Get up there and lay one down!”

Jamie’s heart, rising in the knowledge he was back in the game, hit rock bottom again at Ted’s last three words.

“What—again?” he exclaimed.

Ted laughed. “Again, Jamie. They’ll expect you to hit away. Only, we can’t take a chance of hitting into a double play. We’ve
got to advance those runners. It’s a surprise attack, Jamie. We need it—and you can do it.”

“Oh—all right!” Jamie said despairingly. “You’re the boss!”

He sprang from the bench, picked up his favorite bat and strode to the plate.

The pitch came in. His right hand slid down to the fat part of the bat.

A beautiful bunt!

The runners advanced one base. Jamie was thrown out at first, but that didn’t matter.
Johnny Myers doubled and the ball game was tied up, 6-all.

Both teams continued to play heads-up ball. The game remained deadlocked until the top of the sixth, when Artie flied out
and Steve grounded to short for the second out.

The crowd tensed. The Magpies’ fans were shouting for a hit, the Catbirds’ for a strikeout.

Once again it was Jamie’s turn to bat. From behind he could hear his teammates urging him to send one out of the lot.

“Hit it!” he heard Ted Salin say. “Hit it, Jamie!”

He watched the first one breeze in. It was chest-high. He swung.

He connected solidly and started running around the bases. The tremendous roar that exploded from the grandstand told him
it was a home run.

The Catbirds went down, one… two… three. The Magpies won, clinching the pennant.

Ted Salin shook Jamie’s hand afterwards,
holding it in both of his. “I figured you’d pull out that plum sooner or later!” he grinned.

Jamie smiled warmly, sorry that he had ever thought Ted didn’t know what he was doing.

“I guess sitting on the bench did me good!” he laughed.

TIM COURTNEY braced himself in front of the net, his hockey stick gripped in both gloved hands. His eyes peered intently through
the slot of his face guard. What a game! Nine to two in favor of the opponents, the Beavers. Good thing there were only a
few minutes left in the game, or the Beavers would turn the game into the biggest slaughter the Bobcats had ever known.

The Beavers’ speedy left forward, Monk Thomas, came skating toward the goal, dribbling the puck. Tim waited breathlessly.
Chip Flint, the Bobcats’ strong left forward, glided in from Monk’s left side and tried to steal the puck. Monk passed to
another Beaver. Before
Tim could move, the puck sailed past his left skate into the net for another score.

“Come on, Tim!” Chip yelled. “You’ve got to move faster than that!”

Nobody had to tell Tim that. Of course he had to move faster. He just couldn’t, that’s all.

He glanced at the clock. One minute and twenty seconds to go, plenty of time for the Beavers to score another point or two.
A poor attitude to take, but that’s the way things were going. The Beavers were gnawing their way to a one-sided victory just
because the Bobcats had a poor goalie.

The face-off. The referee dropped the puck between the two centers. Chip stole it from the Beaver center and dribbled it across
the Bobcats’ blue line. But a second later the ref blew his whistle. Fats Bailey, the Bobcats’ chubby right guard, was off
side.

A face-off in the Beavers’ attacking zone. Chip and a Beaver forward struggled for the puck. Chip got it again. He smacked
it across the center line. Nobody got it. It struck the
boards and glanced behind the Beavers’ goalie before a Beaver touched it.

The referee’s whistle shrilled again. The official folded his arms, indicating the icing infraction, and the puck was brought
back into the Bobcats’ defensive zone for another face-off.

Left guard Jack Towns and a Beaver forward squared off for the puck. Their sticks clashed as they fought for control. Suddenly
the puck skidded across the ice toward the net and Tim struck it with his stick, sending it against the boards at the right
side.

“Thataway, Tim! Nice Save!” shouted the fans.

Oh, sure, he thought. Nice save, and we’re trailing 10 to 2. Was somebody being funny?

The game finally ended, and he wished he could cut a hole in the ice and crawl into it. He skated to the locker room, hoping
he wouldn’t be seen in the crowd. Yet he heard someone
yell, “Tough luck, Tim! Get em’ the next time!”

Coach Jim Higgs had little to say. “The Beavers were on today and we were off,” he said. “See you Tuesday night at practice.
Are you going to make it, Tim?”

Tim had avoided his eyes. Now he looked up. The coach was eyeing him. “I’ll try to,” he said.

“You were at only one practice last week,” reminded Coach Higgs. “If you want to play, you’ll have to practice too, Tim. It’s
not fair to the other boys.”

Tim’s face colored. “I’ll be there,” he promised.

The game was the topic at the supper table. Mom, Dad, and Janie, Tim’s younger sister, always attended the games and talked
about them afterward. After a while the conversation changed to the skiing contest held on Berry Peak at the same time the
Small Fry Hockey League played its games. Tim wished that he could have seen it.

“Cathy Erickson won it, I heard,” said
Janie. “Next week she’s competing in the finals.”

“She ought to be good,” said Tim. “She practically lives on those skis.”

Janie’s large brown eyes swung around to him. “Maybe if you’d practice more you’d be good too,” she said.

The remark stung, and Tim made a face at her. “I was too busy to practice much last week, and anyway, why aren’t you in the
skiing contest, competing against Cathy?” he snapped back at her.

“I haven’t skied as long as she has, that’s why,” replied Janie. “But next year I will. You wait and see.”

“Okay, kids,” said Mom, tapping a fork against the table top. “Better end it right here before things get any hotter.”

“And melt both the ice and snow,” added Dad. Janie and Tim laughed, then looked at each other.

“Well,” Tim admitted, “Janie’s right. I don’t practice enough.”

The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Janie. She
went to answer it and a moment later returned with a broad smile on her face. “It’s Uncle Al!” she cried happily. “He and
Aunt Marge are coming over this Saturday!”

“Good,” smiled Mom. She looked beyond Janie toward the phone. “Janie, is Uncle Al still on the phone?”

“Oh, I forgot, he wants to talk to you, Daddy.”

Tim looked at her and shook his head. What a crazy sister, he thought—forgetful, blunt and honest.

Suddenly Janie’s words echoed and re-echoed in his mind. “
Uncle Al and Aunt Marge are coming over this Saturday
.” His spirits dropped. Why did they have to come
this
Saturday?

Tim didn’t need a second guess. They were coming because Uncle Al wanted to see the Bobcats play hockey, or rather, he wanted
to see
Tim
play hockey. He had been a hockey star in college, had played professional hockey for a few years, and still played it to
keep in
shape.
One look at me as a goaltender and he’ll be ashamed to claim me as a nephew,
Tim thought.
Why did I ever start playing hockey, anyway? Why wasn’t I satisfied just to skate?

When Tuesday rolled around Tim joined the practice session in the rink. The A Line played the B Line, with Tim playing for
the A’s. Butch Sales tended goal for the B’s. After working out for half an hour, the lines rested. Butch, Tim noticed, was
still at the net.

“Come on, some of you guys!” Butch yelled. “Try to drive that little black puck by me! Just try to!”

Chip grinned. “I think he wants to steal your job, Tim,” he said.

“He can have it,” replied Tim.

Chip stared at him. “What’s the matter? I thought you liked playing goalie.”

“I did. I don’t anymore.”

He still did, but he wasn’t going to admit it to Chip. He kept looking at Butch. What did Butch think he was going to do,
anyway?
Take over as first-string goalie? Talk about being slow—a snail could move faster than Butch!