Mystery Coach (2 page)

They rode along the side of the street, turning carefully into the line of traffic only when a parked car was in their way.
Patches trailed behind them like a faithful rear guard.

“I wonder how that guy knew you weren’t playing your position right,” said Chris. “I
didn’t see anybody watching us practice yesterday, did you?”

“No. That’s what gets me.”

“What did he say?”

“He said I should bend my knees more on grounders and should hold my glove closer to my body instead of reaching out for the
ball,” replied Tex.

Chris looked at him. “Did his voice sound familiar to you?”

“Not a bit. Anyway, he didn’t talk long. He probably realized I was nervous talking with a stranger, because I didn’t do more
than mumble a couple of times.”

“He give his name?”

“No. I mentioned it to my father. He said if the guy calls again to hang up unless he gives his name.”

“I wonder if he called any of the other guys, too,” said Chris.

“Maybe. But how would he know who they were? That’s what gets me.”

“Yeah. Gets me, too,” admitted Chris.

They rode to Chris’s father’s gas station, and told him about the call. He was under a car on the lift, giving it a lubrication
job.

“You’re sure there was no one sitting under a tree in the outfield?” he asked. He was a tall, strapping man with oil smudges
on his face. “Somebody had to be watching you fellows practice.”

Chris thought hard, but couldn’t remember seeing anybody sitting or standing in the outfield. “Could be,” he said. “But I’m
sure there was nobody out there, Dad.”

“Well, you’ve probably heard the last of it, anyway,” said Dad.

The boys returned home and started to play pitch and catch, and to talk about the phone call, when Steve Herrick and Ken
Lane came around the corner of the house. The sight of them started Chris’s heart pounding.

“Just throwing won’t help you on ground balls, Richards,” said Steve. “I don’t think hitting you grounders would help, either.”

Then he laughed and headed for Chris’s bike, parked against the garage. He pulled it away, got on it, and rode it out of the
driveway.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” cried Chris.

“Cool it,” grunted Steve. “I’m not going to steal it.”

He rode out, pumping hard. Just then Patches began barking furiously. Ordinarily Chris would have yelled “Patches,” but he
didn’t, and the little animal hightailed after Steve.

The three boys ran to the driveway, paused, and a soft “Oh-oh” broke from Ken.

Patches had caught up with Steve and had sunk his teeth into Steve’s right pantleg, deep enough to tear a long piece out of
it.

Chris felt a mixture of worry and pride. He had been sure that Steve wouldn’t have gotten away with riding the bike — not
with Patches around. But he might’ve prevented the dog from ripping Steve’s pants. He just hadn’t tried.

Steve returned with the bike, slower than he had departed with it, and grunted sourly, “I’ll get ’im for this. Just wait.”

I
T WAS
almost noon when the telephone rang. Chris’s mother turned down the flame under the toasted cheese sandwich she was preparing,
and went to answer it.

Chris, sitting at the kitchen table, flipped the pages of a sports magazine and listened to Mom’s end of the conversation.
It was short.

“Okay, dear,” she said. “He’s here.” She held the receiver out to Chris. “It’s Dad,” she said.

He took the phone. “Hi, Dad.”

“Chris, Mr. Herrick just called. Said that
your dog ripped his son’s pants. What’s your story?”

“Tex and I were playing pitch and catch when Steve and Ken Lane came over,” explained Chris. “Then Steve got on my bike, took
off with it, and Patches took off after him.”

“Oh. So Steve took off with your bike. Mr. Herrick didn’t tell me that.”

“Probably Steve didn’t tell him,” said Chris.

“Probably not. Well, all right. Fortunately, Patches didn’t bite Steve’s leg. And Mr. Herrick said that we don’t have to buy
his son a new pair of pants, which I had said I’d do. He said his wife would repair them.”

“Was he sore, Dad?”

“No. He seems like a real nice guy. He’s an invalid and seldom gets out of the house,
he told me. Well, good-bye. I just wanted to hear your side of the story. That’s all.”

“’Bye, Dad.”

Later that afternoon Tex came to the house and he and Chris walked to the baseball park. Batting practice was already in session.

“Cover second awhile, then bat after Mick,” said Steve Herrick from his position at first base. Bill Lewis was throwing in
the pitches.

Chris frowned. “Where’s Coach Edson?”

“He can’t be here. He asked me to take over.”

Tex stared at him. “For the season?”

“Don’t get shook,” snapped Steve. “Just for today.”

“Phew! You had me worried,” replied Tex, sighing.

Chris smiled and trotted out to second
base. When it was Mick’s turn to bat, he went in, too. After Mick batted, Chris took his turn. He fouled Bill’s first steaming
pitch, blasted the next one into foul territory in right field, and hit the next two in the same place.

“Let up, Bill!” yelled Steve. “He can’t get his bat around fast enough!”

Chris tightened his lips. Steve had hit the problem right on the head.
But what can I do about it?
he thought.
The pitches are strikes
.

He fouled three attempted bunts before Steve yelled to him to quit trying and let someone else bat. Hiding his disgust, he
tossed aside his bat, picked up his glove, and ran out to second base.

After batting practice Ken Lane hit grounders to the infielders. His first hit to Chris, a fast, buzzing grounder, was to
the
second baseman’s right side. Chris lunged for it and tried to backhand the hop, but didn’t get within a foot of it.

Ken hit another, this time directly at him. Chris caught it easily, snapped it to Steve, and Steve fired it home.

The next time around, Ken again hit to Chris’s right side, and again Chris failed to snare the hop.

“Knock ’em to him nice and easy, Ken,” chided Steve.

Chris blushed. Ken, a friend of Steve’s, was the Blazers’ infield substitute.
I wonder if he’s working on
my
weakness so that he can ease me out of the starting lineup
, thought Chris.

He wasn’t surprised when, at last, Steve yelled, “Okay, Chris! Let Ken take your place for a while and you hit ’em!”

By the time practice ended, Chris was exhausted.
He went home, showered, got into fresh clothes, and took Patches with him to Dutchmen’s Creek.

He sat under a shady tree and watched the fish swim in the clear water. Later, he lay back and wrestled with Patches, his
happy laughter mixing with the dog’s low, steady growl.

Suddenly Patches bounced back and froze. His eyes looked up and beyond Chris. The growl started again. This time it had a
definitely strong, angry sound to it.

Chris turned and saw Steve Herrick and Frank Bellows standing not ten feet away. And breaking loose from Frank’s grasp was
his German shepherd, Starky. The big dog bolted for Patches.

“Starky!” yelled Frank. “Get back here! Get back!”

But Starky paid no attention.

S
TARKY
and Patches met head on. The bigger dog was twice the size of the smaller one, but size apparently meant nothing to Patches.
He nipped at Starky, tangled with him, fought desperately, and seemed to be holding his own.

But even so Chris was afraid for him. The brave little animal couldn’t possibly continue like this for long.

“No, Patches!” he yelled. “No more fighting!”

Frank rushed forward and grabbed
Starky’s leash. “I’m sorry, Chris,” he apologized. “He broke away from me.”

Chris rushed forward too and picked Patches up in his arms. Then Frank looked at Steve and anger flashed in his eyes. “No
wonder you wanted me to bring Starky. You wanted him to get in a fight with Patches.”

Steve stood staring at the ground, his face red, his lips pressed firmly together.

“Why?” cried Frank. “Why did you want them to fight?”

Steve turned away, not answering.

“Patches ripped his pants when Steve took off on my bike yesterday,” explained Chris. “He wanted to get even.”

“Oh, man,” said Frank. “No wonder he wouldn’t tell me. He just said let’s go for a walk to the creek and bring Starky along.
He knew Starky doesn’t get along with most other dogs.”

They watched Steve walking away, his hands in his pockets.

“It was partly my fault,” confessed Chris. “I could’ve stopped Patches if I’d yelled at him. I just let him go.”

He felt Patches’ heart beating hard as he held the little animal close to him. The dog’s body felt hot. “Wonder if Coach Edson
will be at practice tomorrow,” he said, changing the subject.

“I don’t know. Steve said that we have a scrimmage game, with the Pipers. I hope Coach Edson will be there. I’m not crazy
about playing under Herrick.”

“Neither am I,” admitted Chris.

When he got home he found that Mom had packed a picnic lunch. When Dad came home and washed up, the four of them (Patches
was included), went to Rock Center Park and had their supper. Then they
all went swimming and didn’t get home till after nine o’clock.

Chris was glad to see Coach Edson at the scrimmage game the next day, Friday. But the coach was as quiet as he had been at
the practice sessions, and Chris wondered how long it would be before he’d quit coming altogether.

The coach selected Steve as captain. A man who had come to watch the game agreed to act as umpire and flipped a coin to see
which team would bat first. The Pipers’ captain won the toss and chose to bat last.

The teams went through their usual warm-ups. Then the Pipers ran out to the. field, and Tex Kinsetta, the Blazers’ leadoff
hitter, stepped to the plate.

Harvey Keller, the Pipers’ tall right-hander, breezed in his pitches with ease and ran the count to three balls and one strike.
Then Tex socked a long ball to center, which the fielder nabbed for an easy out.

Wally Munson grounded out on the first pitch, and Steve Herrick belted a pitch through short for a neat single. Steve had
been avoiding Chris, as if he were ashamed of yesterday’s incident.

Mick Antonelli, the powerhouse, came up. He tugged at his sleeves and dug his toes into the dirt; then popped up to the pitcher.

Bill Lewis, pitching for the Blazers, seemed frightened when the first two Pipers hit safely. Then a strikeout and two grounders
hit to the infield pulled him through.

Spike Dunne, leading off in the top of the second inning, struck out; bringing up Chris. Chris was about to swing at Harvey’s
first pitch, then decided against it. Strike one.

Harvey couldn’t find the plate after that, and Chris walked. He perished on first,
though, as Jack Davis flied out to left, and Frank Bellows grounded out to third.

The Pipers’ leadoff man blasted a hit through second base, just a bit to Chris’s right side, which he missed by inches. The
hit turned into the Pipers’ first run.

“Just can’t field the balls hit on your right side, can you, Richards?” said Steve. His words felt like needle jabs. “You
know what I’d do if I were coach, don’t you?”

He didn’t say what he’d do, but Chris knew. He’d play Ken Lane at second, that’s what.

Bill Lewis led off in the top of the third, and Harvey Keller again had difficulty getting a pitch over the plate. Bill walked.

“Lay it down,” the coach advised Tex.

Tex bunted the first pitch towards third, and Bill galloped to second safely. Tex was thrown out by four steps. Wally Munson tied his shoelaces before stepping into the batting box, then cracked a double, scoring Bill. The Blazers’ bench went wild.

Steve stepped cockily to the plate, swung as hard as he could on two pitches, missed them both, and fell on his, rear after
the second one.

Nice show
, thought Chris.
Steve was always swinging for the fence
.