No Arm in Left Field
Read No Arm in Left Field Online
Authors: Matt Christopher
Copyright © 1974 by Matthew F. Christopher
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
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to Kenny VanSickle
Contents
T
ERRY DELANEY
took a couple of steps closer to Mick Jordan to make sure his throw wouldn’t fall short, and winged the ball. The worn, dirt-stained
sphere arced through the air and landed in Mick’s outstretched glove. A short throw didn’t bother him, but he just didn’t
have the arm for throwing a long distance.
“Who’d you play with on Long Island?” Mick asked, pushing his long black hair out of his eyes.
“The Fall City Tigers.” Terry smiled.
“Know where we finished up? Next to last!”
Mick laughed. Terry had been telling him about the small town on Long Island where he had lived before moving to Forest Lake,
a suburb in eastern Pennsylvania. Terry’s father, an engineer, had taken a job with a mining concern and brought his family
here in the middle of the winter. Within weeks Mrs. Delaney had joined the Great Books Club in Forest Lake, and Connie, Terry’s
fifteen-year-old sister, had become a varsity cheerleader. The family settled easily into the life of their new town.
Terry, himself a junior high student, had liked winter sports but was pleased that at last summer had finally rolled around,
for with it had come his favorite sport, baseball.
“You have a league here?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Mick, reaching forward to grab Terry’s soft throw. “I play with the Forest Lakers. We’re having practice
in a little while. Want to come with me?”
Terry’s eyes brightened. “You don’t have to ask me twice!” he replied happily.
Just then a voice shouted from across the street. “Hey, Mick!”
Mick held up his throw, turned, and looked at the kid who had yelled. Terry looked, too. A tall, dark-haired boy wearing a
knit sweater and bell-bottom pants came running across the street. He stopped on the sidewalk, let his gaze linger a while
on Terry, then motioned to Mick.
“Come here, will ya?” he said.
His voice was commanding. Terry felt
a sudden change in the atmosphere, as if it had become charged with electricity.
Mick tossed the ball to Terry. “Just a second, Terry,” he said, and trotted over to the newcomer.
“Who’s the Negro kid?” Terry heard the newcomer ask plainly.
Terry’s face grew hot, but his eyes narrowed and he stared at the boy. He didn’t hear Mick’s response, nor could he hear anymore
of what the newcomer said. He had a good idea of the gist of it, however, and that was enough. He shook his head and looked
away.
After a minute Mick’s voice was loud enough for Terry to hear. “Come on. He’s okay, I tell you.”
Terry looked at them, and noticed that the newcomer had a baseball glove and was wearing sneakers.
Terry turned and started for his house, tossing the baseball into the air and catching it as it came down. He wasn’t going
to wait around all day. He whistled in order to drown out the voices behind him.
It had happened again,
he thought, his stomach churning.
A white kid who doesn’t like a black kid. But I bet that one of his favorite baseball players, or football players, is black.
“Hey, Terry! Wait a minute!”
He paused without turning around, and heard Mick’s footsteps pounding up behind him.
“Terry.” Mick stopped before him, breathing hard. “Terry, I’m sorry.”
Terry smiled. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve seen his kind before. He on your team?”
“He’s our shortstop.”
“Is he good?”
“Yes, he is.”
Terry looked over his shoulder, saw the kid begin to walk briskly away and then pause near a bush to look back.
“He’s waiting for you,” Terry said. “Better get going.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Mick asked.
“No.” Terry flashed a grin. “Go on, Mick. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
Mick shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Terry. I wanted him to meet you. I was surprised when he said he — he didn’t
want to.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I feel funny, Terry.”
Terry chuckled. “I know. That’s because it’s brand new to you. Not to me, though I’ll never get used to it. Go ahead,
he’s waiting. I’ve got things to do, anyway.” He turned and headed for the porch.
“See you later, Terry,” Mick said.
“Sure, Mick.”
Terry opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. He closed it and saw Mick running across the lawn toward the kid
who was waiting for him. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the kid smile.
Connie met him as he stepped into the house. Even though she was three years older she was only an inch taller than her athletic
brother.
“Who’s the kid with Mick?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Mick didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask him.”
“Where are they going?”
“To the ball field. Their team’s practicing.”
He started past her and she grabbed his arm. Her eyes were hard as she looked at him. “I know you want to play, Terry. Why
didn’t you go with Mick?”
He reached over and gently lifted her hand from his arm. “Because I’m black, my dear sister, and that other kid just don’t
like black.” A smile cracked his face. “You’ve heard of
that
before, haven’t you?”
Connie didn’t flinch. “Maybe that kid’s the only one who feels that way. There are other black families in this town.”
“I know. But that kid is sure to have friends, and his friends are likely to go along with him. You should’ve heard him. ‘Who’s
the “Negro” kid?’ he asked Mick in
that tone they use and loud enough so I can hear. Right away I pegged him. He’s a leader, Connie. He’s the type guys follow.”
“You’re just guessing, Terry. You don’t know for sure.”
“Okay, I don’t know for sure. But I’ll bet on it.”
The sun was dropping toward the western horizon when a knock sounded on the door. Mrs. Delaney answered it.
“Terry, it’s Mick,” she said.
Terry left the TV set where he had been watching a sports program and met Mick at the door. Mick’s hair was tousled and his
face shiny with sweat.
“Hi, Terry,” he greeted him. “Got some news for you. We need an outfielder.”
Terry crossed his arms. “Don’t look at me,” he said.
“But you said that you’d like to play!” Mick exclaimed. “And there’s nobody else. Come on, Terry. Please come to our next
practice. I’ve told Coach Harper about you.”
Soft footsteps sounded behind Terry and he looked over his shoulder. The warm, pleasant face of his father grinned at him.
“Hi, Mick,” Mr. Delaney said. “I heard what you said to Terry. I think it’s a good idea.”
“What about that kid who was here earlier?”
“Tony Casterline? He can lump it for all I care!”
Terry laughed. Still, he wasn’t sure he
wanted to join a team on which even one member had a grudge against a black boy’s playing. And, as he had said to Connie,
there could be others.
He finally agreed, however, when Dad, Mom and Connie put in their nickel’s worth. He would give it a try, at least. Who knew
but what his playing — if he could only perform well — might make Tony Casterline forget his prejudice and turn him into a
friend? Such things happened. If only his arm were stronger…
The next afternoon Mick stopped at the house. Together they walked to the ball-field where Terry was introduced to Coach Don
Harper and the members of the Forest Lakers baseball team. Some nodded their greeting, some shook hands. Tony Casterline was
one of the former.
Terry couldn’t help but feel conspicuous. He was the only black boy in the group. He noticed, though, that there was another
boy whose skin was darker than the others, whose features suggested a nationality from, he guessed, a country in South America.
The boy’s name was Caesar Valquez.
Terry wondered briefly how Caesar was accepted when he had first come to Forest Lake. Or was he born here?
“Okay, guys,” Coach Harper said, carrying a bat and ball to the plate. “Outfielders, hustle out there. Terry, get out in left.
Infielders, play catch.”
Coach Harper’s hits to the outfielders ranged from line drives to sky-reaching blows. Terry didn’t have a miss and welcomed
the coach’s praises of “Nice going,
Terry!” and “Hey, weVe got an outfielder!”
Batting practice turned into a lot of fun, too. The team batted twice around and Terry knocked his share of grounders and
long flies to his usual corner, deep left. His bunting, though, suffered.
“We’re having a practice game with the Boilers tomorrow afternoon,” the coach said to Terry when practice was over. “Like
to have you here.”
Terry smiled, “f 11 be here,” he promised.
He almost forgot Tony Casterline’s coldness as he walked home with Mick. All he could think about was telling Mom, Dad and
Connie that the coach liked his playing and wanted him at the practice game tomorrow.
Then he remembered something else,
and he turned to his friend. “Thanks, Mick,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be playing baseball.”
Mick’s eyes glimmered. “Aw, forget it, Terry,” he said. “Somebody would’ve asked you to play.”
A hot June sun blazed down on the baseball field the next afternoon. The teams tossed a coin to see who would bat last, and
the Boilers won. Pitching for them was a red-headed left-hander, Lefty Wallace.
The first three batters for the Forest Lakers were Jeff Roberts, Tony Caster-line and Terry Delaney. Terry couldn’t believe
it. Third batter!
Lefty’s speed worked like magic. Both Jeff and Tony popped up to the infield. After fouling two pitches Terry struck out on
a high, outside throw.
“That was over your head, man!” Tony cried.
Terry ignored him as he dropped the bat, got his glove, and ran out to his position.
The first pitch Mick Jordan delivered to the Boilers’ lead-off man was hit through the hole between first and second base.
The man held up at first as right fielder Caesar Valquez fielded the ball and pegged it to second.
The second batter failed on two bunt attempts, then drilled a long fly to deep left. Terry backpedaled for it, caught it,
then whipped it to third base. The ball barely reached the halfway point between him and the infield. The runner on first
— after tagging up — ran to second, then bolted to third.
