Lucky Seven (6 page)

I’m just a scrub, thought Jerry. I’m no good here at all. But I can’t quit; I love to play football.

On the Browns’ twelve-yard line, the Indians tried a pass. The throw was too high. Defensive right halfback Jim Philips intercepted
it and raced all the way down the field
for a touchdown. Mike kicked the extra point, and the score was tied 7 to 7.

The cheerleaders sprang in front of the fans and gave three cheers for Jim. Seconds later the half ended.

In the locker room Coach Ward talked to his boys a bit, pointing out their errors and their good plays. Then the team went
out on the field to pass a couple of footballs among themselves.

Jerry mingled with the others. He got the ball often and heaved it far out to whomever called for it. His throws were like
bullets and accurate almost every time. He enjoyed this. At least he could throw a football and throw it well.

The Indians showed their strength again at the start of the third quarter. Within two minutes they scored a touchdown. Their
try for the extra point missed, and the score was Indians 13, Browns 7.

Late in the quarter, the Indians threatened to score again, but the Browns held them.

In the fourth, quarterback Dave Wheeler tried almost every play the Browns knew to gain yardage. Yet, at the end of each series
of downs, they would always have to punt to put the ball as far away as possible from their goal line.

Jerry was on the bench. Suddenly, Coach Ward looked at him.

“Jerry, go out in Jim Philips’ place. Tell Dave to call the twelve flair play. I saw you throw that ball during the half.
Let me see you throw it the same way in the game.”

Jerry’s eyes widened. His mouth became dry.

“I’ll try, Coach.”

Jerry ran in. Dave and all the players stared unbelievingly at him as he repeated what the coach had said.

The ball was on the Browns’ twenty-three-yard line. It was first and ten.

“Twelve! Two! Blue!”

The ball snapped from center. Dave faked to Mike, then stepped back and handed the ball to Jerry. Jerry took it, faded back,
and looked at the two men, Fred Jones and Bert Buck, who were running out for the pass.

Bert was farthest away and in the clear. Jerry heaved the ball to him. It sailed high and long. Then it came down right into
Bert’s arms. He pulled it to him and raced on down the field for a touchdown.

The Browns’ fans sprang to their feet and yelled lustily. What a beautiful throw! What a magnificent catch!

Mike kicked the pigskin between the uprights for the extra point, putting the Browns ahead, 14 to 13.

The Indians couldn’t do much after that. Their spirit seemed broken by the Browns’ unexpected score. Soon the game was over.
Dave, Mike—they all pounded Jerry on the back and shook his hand.

Coach Ward came over, his face covered with a big grin. “I know where there’s a spot for you now,” he told Jerry happily.

THE sharp crack of the baseball as it struck the deep pocket of the catcher’s mitt echoed off the barn door and resounded
in the rolling meadow beyond. Feeling the sting against his swollen palm, Durwin Ack-royd raised himself again to his stocky,
five-foot-eight height and looped the ball back to his older, taller brother.

Perc’s sunbronzed face broke into a soft smile. “Holler if I’m throwing ‘em too hard, kid,” he said.

Durwin smiled halfheartedly as he tugged at his pantlegs and crouched back into position. “Maybe you’ve got a smoke arm,”
he said, “but you’ve got to do a lot better than that to pulverize this guy’s hand!”

He raised the mitt up to his right side as a target for Perc, then watched as Perc lifted up his arms, brought them down and
fired the ball toward him. Perc was over six feet, thin as a guard rail, so that when he stretched to release the ball it
seemed he was a third of the way to the piece of board that represented home plate. The ball came in as if it had been shot
from a Winchester rifle. It cut in a sharp hook right for the spot where Durwin had made a target. Durwin made a lightning
move to snare the bullet-like ball, and the resounding smack of horsehide against the mitt sang out again over the fields
and meadow.

After a few more throws Perc wiped the sweat from his sunbleached brows and called it enough. Durwin pulled the glove off
his hand and looked at the swollen flesh. Perc came over and took a look.

“Well!” he exclaimed good-humoredly. “Not pulverized, huh? What do you want it to look like? Hamburger?”

His hand throbbed, but Durwin didn’t
mind. “You should’ve seen it yesterday,” he grinned.

The next day was Monday, which meant baseball practice after school. Perc pitched a little for batting practice, and the coach
had Rusty Woods catch him. Chuck Wesley relieved Rusty, and finally Durwin took a turn catching. Batting practice was a routine
and monotonous chore for Durwin. He was a sophomore, and he felt that he was hardly present as far as the coach was concerned.
He was sure that if he failed to show up for practice tomorrow afternoon the coach would never miss him.

That night in bed Durwin had plenty of time to think the whole thing over. He considered playing one of the infield positions,
but visualizing his small stature trying to nab a high throw from short was comical. He rolled over in bed and tried to picture
himself dashing after a hot grounder near the keystone bag. He saw his stubby legs churning the air but his stocky form getting
no place.

Perhaps there was a place for him in the outfield. He might be able to perform a little better out there, but probably not
well enough. No, he couldn’t see where he could fit in except as a catcher. And he couldn’t make even that, he thought bitterly.

Durwin didn’t show up for practice the next night. When Perc came home, he looked with puzzlement at his sophomore brother.

“Where were you?” he asked. “Why didn’t you show up?”

Durwin shrugged. “The coach say anything?”

“No. But if you do that again he might take you off the team. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I know that,” he said. But, he thought grimly, how would the coach know if he didn’t even miss him? “I just catch ‘em
before the game starts,” he said. “A warmer-upper, that’s me.”

Perc didn’t answer. He looked away, turned, and walked casually toward the house.

* * *

In the game Thursday against Berkshire, Perc performed like a veteran for St. Lucy’s. For three innings he set them down without
a hit. St. Lucy’s meanwhile picked up a run in the second. In the fourth, Berkshire’s first baseman slugged a line drive over
short for a neat single. A sacrifice bunt put him on second, and an error by the shortstop, Cal Miller, gave him third. Perc
struck out the next batter, but his first pitch to the following man proved costly. It was his fast hook, dropping sharply
across the outside corner of the plate, and Rusty couldn’t get his mitt there quick enough. The ball whizzed through him and
bounded back to the bleachers.

The runner sped home to tie the score, 1 to 1. Durwin saw the coach kick his spiked heel into the dirt, and chew harder on
his gum.

The next man up lined a double to right field and then second baseman Tommy Meirs booted one that gave the opponents another
run to put them in the lead 2 to 1. Perc fanned the next batter.

In the sixth, St. Lucy’s tied the score on a three-bagger that brought in a man from first. A wild peg over first by Berkshire’s
shortstop scored another run. St. Lucy’s continued in the lead up to the eighth when Berkshire’s pitcher, who had fanned twice
so far, got onto one for three bases.

“Lucky stiff!” grunted Durwin.

The lead-off man came up and swung at the first pitch. He ticked it for a foul; the ball took a vicious hop into the catcher’s
waiting mitt. Suddenly the ball was on the ground in front of Rusty, and Rusty was flinging off his mitt and hugging his hand.

“Time!” yelled the umpire.

The coach leaped forward, followed by Chuck and Durwin. From the box Perc was running in, too.

“What happened, Rusty?” the coach said.

The boy seemed to be too much in pain to speak. He lifted his right hand and showed two swollen, bruised fingers.

“Okay, kid,” the coach said. “You’ll need
first aid right away. Chuck—Durwin, help him take off his stuff.”

As Durwin proceeded to remove Rusty’s shin guards, he heard the coach say to Perc, “Boy! If that isn’t tough luck!”

“Sure is,” agreed Perc.

The coach drew in a deep breath and expelled it. He scratched the back of his neck and looked around at Durwin and Chuck.
A hopeless expression seemed to settle in his grey eyes.

Finally he said, “Okay, Chuck. Get in there in place of Rusty.”

Durwin glanced at Chuck, saw the boy’s face cloud with worry. He knew what had passed suddenly through Chuck’s mind.

Durwin looked at Perc and met his brother’s eyes. His heart started pounding. He stepped up to the coach.

“Coach, let me get in. I can catch Perc. We’ve… practiced.”

The coach gazed soberly at him.

“Honest! I can do it!” Durwin pleaded.

The coach turned to Perc. “What do you think, Perc?”

Perc grinned. “I think he’ll surprise you, Coach,” he said.

The coach smiled, tapped Durwin’s shoulder. “Okay, kid. Get on those guards. Surprise me.”

After a few warmup pitches, the umpire called time in and Durwin, his heart thumping wildly, crouched behind the batter and
signaled Perc for a curve. The lead-off man was still up. He cut at the ball and missed. Durwin whipped the mitt over fast
and snared the pill.

“Strike tuh!” cried the umpire.

“Come on, Perc!” Durwin yelled, settling down into the game now. “Let’s get ‘im outa there!”

Perc reeled in a fast drop. Again the batter swung.

“Strike threeeee!” said the umpire.

Durwin grinned. He caught Perc’s glance. Perc winked and he winked back. They were in this together.

The next hitter popped a fly to short for out number two. One more to go, thought Durwin. The tying run was on third, the
possible winning run was at the plate. They just had to get this man out.

Durwin signaled for one low inside. Perc nodded, lifted his arms and delivered. The ball shot toward the plate almost exactly
to the spot where Durwin held his glove. The batter swung.

There was a crack; the ball bounded across the diamond between short and third. Cal Miller darted for it. Coming home was
the runner from third, running as fast as he could in an effort to tie the score.

Miller snared the ball, heaved it in. The crowd’s roar was in his ears as Durwin straddled home plate and waited for the long
throw. It looked as if it might be a tie. Then the ball was there slamming into his mitt. He fell with it in front of the
plate. He felt spikes graze his glove as a shower of dust blasted into his face.

He didn’t know what the call would be.
It was that close. Then he rose, and hands began to pound his back. Voices cheered in his ears. He saw Perc’s grinning face,
and he knew the inning was over.