Lucky Seven (5 page)

George waited for the batter to step into the box. He was prickling with excitement
as he got in position on the mound exactly as Coach Wilson had instructed him. He stood tall as a giant, a proud glimmer
in his eyes. He remembered dreaming about this.

Without winding up George reared back, lifted his left leg high, brought his arm around and released the ball with only part
of his strength. It was silly to throw any harder than he had to, yet.

The ball shot straight for the plate. Unless it switched plans it would be a perfect strike, or be lambasted for a long hit.
Then, about two-thirds of the way, it shot into its crazy pattern. The batter, who had prepared to swing at a beautiful straight
ball, stared.

“Strike!” said the umpire as the ball corkscrewed over the plate.

The ball struck the edge of Walt’s mitt and dropped to the ground. Walt picked it up hastily and tossed it back to George.

“Thataway, George, ol’ boy! Beautiful pitch! Beautiful!”

George rubbed the ball with satisfaction, stepped on the mound and threw again. This
time the ball favored the outside corner. Was it actually too far out? It was hard to tell, but it made no difference. The
batter swung at it for strike two.

“Time!” yelled the batter, holding up an angry hand at the umpire. “Take a look at the ball, ump! No baseball can do what
that one’s doing!”

Walt laughed. “Sure! Here, look at it!”

The umpire took the ball from Walt, curled it around in his hand, and said, “If it’s a trick ball, I can’t see it. Anyway,
here’s another one.”

He took a brand new baseball out of his pocket, handed it to Walt, and stuffed the other ball back into his pocket.

“Play ball!” he ordered.

Walt tossed the ball to George. George caught it and stepped into the pitcher’s box. He waited till the batter got ready,
then reared back and aimed the throw for Walt’s huge mitt.

The ball left his hand quite naturally, sped in a straight line, then went into its spiral. The
batter gawked. His jaw sagged open and he made a futile and late attempt at a swing.

“You’re out!” bellowed the umpire.

One hundred and sixty fans cheered and whistled. The second batter was no better than the first, nor the third better than
the second. Inning after inning, George Maxwell Jones threw the ball the only way he knew how and let it take its unnatural
course.

This is how the game continued until twenty-seven Barton High men were out. George had walked four, thrown four wild pitches,
and six batters had managed to tick the ball for a foul. But Barton High didn’t score, and Jefferson won the game, 3 to o,
breaking its streak of eleven losses.

George was hoisted on stocky shoulders and carried like a hero to the school locker room. Everyone began shaking his hand—his
left one—so that his right would be well enough to go again in the next game. Coach Wilson actually had a teary glimmer in
his
eyes
as he praised his newly-discovered hurler.

Davidson High was the next to falter under
George’s unorthodox curve. Three times as many spectators as before witnessed the game. There was even a photographer who
took pictures of George in various positions on the mound. George, unaccustomed to such accolades, blushed most of the time.

“What do you call that pitch?” a reporter asked as he cornered George before the hero could get off the playing field.

“Don’t call it anything,” replied George innocently.

“You don’t have a name for it?”

“No,” said George. “No name. I just throw it, that’s all.”

“Did anybody teach it to you? A big leaguer? Or a friend who knows how to pitch?”

“No,” repeated George. “I just throw it, that’s all.”

“Amazing!” murmured the reporter. “Kid, some big league team will snatch you up quicker than you can say George—by the way,
what’s your full name?”

“George Maxwell Jones.”

“That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” said George.

Washington High fell next, and then Clem-son and St. James went down before George’s corkscrew pitch. On two occasions Steve
Buckner had to relieve George on the mound. Both times George was hit by a pitched ball—once on his foot, and once on his
left elbow. In each case the incidents happened during the last two innings when Jefferson was ahead. Coach Wilson wanted
to protect his star hurler from possible serious injuries, so he pulled him. An ordinary baseball player could have dodged
the pitches easily, but, of course, George Maxwell Jones was no ordinary base-ball player.

Big league scouts came to witness his fantastic performance, and there wasn’t one who wouldn’t have signed him on the spot—if
it had been legal to sign up high school players. George could hardly wait till he graduated. Walt had told him that some
bonus babies
signed for a hundred thousand dollars! Just imagine that! A hundred thousand dollars!

The season ended with Jefferson High copping the pennant and the championship. George Maxwell Jones was named the most valuable
player of the year. If that wasn’t enough, he was also selected as an all-state player.

During summer vacation George liked to relax on his father’s farm. The apple trees there provided plenty of good places to
sit and dream of a big league future.

George was sitting in one of these trees, picking off the small green but delicious apples, when a large bumblebee, yellow,
with black stripes on its back approached.

It droned along sleepily, but suddenly it picked up speed and dodged around a score of apples as if it were a contestant in
a race. George watched it; a nerve began to tingle at the base of his back. The bee banked sharply to the left, and headed
directly for George’s head.

“No!” shouted George, and reared backward hastily.

There was nothing at his back to catch him and he plunged to the ground. He put out his hands to cushion his fall and made
a three-point landing. He groaned as pain shot through his tall, lean frame. George sat there momentarily, watching the bumblebee
buzzing around the apples. In a little while, as if not satsified with what it found, the bee streaked away, a bolt of yellow,
at a speed that looked as if it could well break the sonic barrier.

George snarled as he rose to his feet. He brushed off his pants and felt his right wrist. He had removed the tape from his
pitching arm after the season had ended, and now he looked at it with a dismal sensation coming over him. He turned his wrist
this way and that and felt no pain at all.

He stared at it with foreboding. He hurried home, got his glove, and called on Walt.

“What gives, man?” said Walt, staring. “The season’s been over a long time.”

“I want to throw one pitch,” George told Walt, breathlessly. “Just one is all I’ll need.”

Walt looked at him as if George had cracked up, but without further argument he got his mitt and took his stance about sixty
feet away from George. He only had his regular-size mitt at home during the summer, and a worried frown marked his face.

George looked at the target Walt gave him, reared back, and threw. The ball streaked straight as an arrow—all the way to Walt’s
mitt. It didn’t curve up, down, or sideways. It didn’t spiral. It didn’t do anything. It just went straight.

“Just what I thought,” murmured George sadly. “It’s all over, Walt.”

“It didn’t curve!” yelled Walt, horrified. “It’s the first one that didn’t curve!”

“I know,” said George, looking at his wrist.

“Throw me another!” cried Walt. “You can’t lose that curve just like that!”

“But I have,” murmured George. “It’s gone!”

He proved it when he threw again—a per
fect straight ball so wide of Walt’s target Walt almost missed catching it.

So ended George Maxwell Jones’ pitching days.

But to this day his name is remembered and is inscribed on a tall, golden trophy displayed in the hall of Jefferson High:

“In honor of our hero, George Maxwell Jones, pitcher of eleven straight victories for Jefferson High School.”

To this day George can never see a bee without smiling slightly and shaking his head. Some of his friends know his story,
but others wonder why he acts that way.

JERRY BELL braced himself and looked directly into the blue eyes of the guard opposite him.

“One! Two! Hip!” Quarterback Dave Wheeler’s voice snapped like a whip.

At the cry, “Hip!” the lines lunged at each other. Jerry pushed forward and felt himself thrust aside. The next instant he
was sprawled on the ground, his brown and white helmet cocked slightly on his head.

All around him was a tangle of brown and green uniforms. The pileup was behind him. He got to his feet as quickly as he could.

The referee’s whistle pierced the air, and the pile unscrambled. At the bottom was Mike
Towns, fullback for the Browns. His helmet was pushed over his eyes. Dirt smeared his cheeks.

“Huddle,” snapped Dave Wheeler.

In the huddle Mike looked dagger-eyed at Jerry. “That guard busted right through you,” he said. “That’s the second time. Can’t
you stop him?”

Jerry blushed. “I tried,” he said timidly.

“Okay,” said Dave. “We’d better try a pass. Twelve flair.”

Twelve flair meant the pass would be either to right end Fred Jones or left end Bert Buck.

The huddle broke. The teams lined up with the Browns in T formation. The Indians formed a five, four, two defense. The ball
was on the Browns’ thirty-eight-yard line. It was third down and thirteen to go.

“Twelve! Nine! Green!” barked Dave.

The center snapped the ball. Dave took it and handed it to right halfback Jim Philips. Jim faded back, yanked the ball to
his shoulder and heaved it. The ball shot across the field
but wobbled and fell short almost in the hands of an Indians player.

“Pass incomplete,” yelled the referee.

“We have to kick,” said Dave in the huddle. “Okay, Mike. It’s up to you.”

Mike caught the snap from center and booted it hard down the field. The pigskin soared high for twenty-five yards. An Indians
player caught it and carried it back to their forty-one.

The Indians moved down the field steadily, picking up first downs as if there were nothing to it. Jerry felt helpless. He
was the tallest on the team and the most awkward. This was the Browns’ first game of the season and Jerry’s second year as
a football player—if you could call him that.

Coach Ward had tried Jerry at tackle, guard, and end during practice sessions. Jerry didn’t seem to click at any position.
His feet did not lift when he wanted them to, nor did his body move the way he wanted it to go. There was no use trying him
in a backfield
spot. You had to be fast to play in one of those positions.

The Browns stopped the Indians for a while. Then before the first quarter was over, the Indians scored a touchdown. They kicked
the extra point to give them a 7 to o lead.

Coach Ward put in substitutes during the second quarter. Jerry warmed the bench, wondering whether he would go back in again.

With four minutes to go, the coach put Jerry in at right tackle. Jerry’s man was too quick for him. He slipped past Jerry
like an eel whenever the Browns had the ball. He blocked Jerry like a brick wall when the Indians had possession.