The Team That Stopped Moving
Read The Team That Stopped Moving Online
Authors: Matt Christopher
Sports Stories
THE LUCKY BASEBALL BAT
BASEBALL PALS
BASKETBALL SPARKPLUG
TWO STRIKES ON JOHNNY
LITTLE LEFTY
TOUCHDOWN FOR TOMMY
LONG STRETCH AT FIRST BASE
BREAK FOR THE BASKET
TALL MAN IN THE PIVOT
CHALLENGE AT SECOND BASE
CRACKERJACK HALFBACK
BASEBALL FLYHAWK
SINK IT, RUSTY
CATCHER WITH A GLASS ARM
WINGMAN ON ICE
TOO HOT TO HANDLE
THE COUNTERFEIT TACKLE
THE RELUCTANT PITCHER
LONG SHOT FOR PAUL
MIRACLE AT THE PLATE
THE TEAM THAT COULDN’T LOSE
THE YEAR MOM WON THE PENNANT
THE BASKET COUNTS
HARD DRIVE TO SHORT
CATCH THAT PASS!
SHORTSTOP FROM TOKYO
LUCKY SEVEN
JOHNNY LONG LEGS
LOOK WHO’S PLAYING FIRST BASE
TOUGH TO TACKLE
THE KID WHO ONLY HIT HOMERS
FACE-OFF
MYSTERY COACH
ICE MAGIC
NO ARM IN LEFT FIELD
JINX GLOVE
FRONT COURT HEX
THE TEAM THAT STOPPED MOVING
GLUE FINGERS
Animal Stories
DESPERATE SEARCH
STRANDED
COPYRIGHT
© 1975
BY MATTHEW F. CHRISTOPHER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR
MECHANICAL MEANS INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER, EXCEPT
BY A REVIEWER WHO MAY QUOTE BRIEF PASSAGES IN A REVIEW.
Back Bay Books / Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-09448-1
To Sharon, Steve,
Eric, and Jason
Contents
H
IS FINGERS
played a nervous tattoo on the receiver as Dick Farrar asked himself for the umpteenth time
Should I or shouldn’t I? Why can’t I make up my mind?
Quickly he snapped up the receiver as if this time speedy action would solve his problem. But again he struggled with his
thoughts and had to put it back down.
“Man! That’s the second time you picked up that telephone and changed your mind,” a voice said, startling him. “What’s eating
you?”
Dick turned and met the elfish grin of his younger sister, Cindy. “I need two more players to make up a baseball team, and
the league starts in two weeks, that’s what,” he said, somewhat bitterly. “The only guys I know of who aren’t on a team yet are
Art Walker and Stan Parker. Stan is good, but I heard he and his coach had a fight last year so he’s sitting out this year.
Maybe he’ll play for us, but you know how Stan and I get along.”
“Yeah. Like cats and dogs,” said Cindy. “Why don’t you call up Art and someone else besides Stan?” she suggested.
“Oh, sure. Haven’t you seen those two? They’re like Siamese twins. One doesn’t go anywhere without the other.”
Cindy shrugged. “In that case you’ll either have to put up with ‘em or forget about having a team.”
Dick’s lips pressed into a straight, firm line. “Not me,” he snapped. “I’m not going to give up
that
easy. I’m going to start up a new team and build it up into the winningest one in the league. That’s my resolution
and I’m not going to back down — even if it means having that bigmouth Stan Parker on my team.”
His sister laughed. “How come you’re so sure he’ll want to play with you?”
“I’ll bet on it,” he said. He picked up the receiver for the third time, and this time went through with it. He dialed, got
Art, and explained what he wanted to do.
“Have you asked Stan?” Art asked when he was finished.
Dick shot his sister a didn’t-I-tell-you-so? look. “No, I haven’t,” he answered.
“Well, ask him first, then call me back. Okay?”
Dick glared at the receiver, felt like plunging it down hard to burst Art’s eardrum, but controlled himself.
“Okay. I’ll give Stan a ring,” he said, anger mounting like a volcano inside him. He called Stan, and it ended up just as
he thought it would. Stan said that he’d play if
Art did. He also wanted to choose his own position — shortstop — which, to keep the peace, Dick also agreed to.
“Well, you’re all set,” said Cindy, after he told her the outcome of his phone calls. “Now all you need is a coach and a sponsor.”
“I’ve already got them,” said Dick. “Steve Banks, a former semipro ballplayer, is our coach. I told him that I wanted to form
a new team to enter in the league and would he coach it if I did. He said sure. The Cool Acres Restaurant will sponsor us.
They’ll get us our uniforms, caps and balls.”
“Well!” said Cindy, brushing back a strand of loose hair that had fallen over her face. “Guess you’ve been busy! What are
you calling the team? I suppose you’ve already thought of that, too?”
“Of course. I’m calling it the Tigers.”
“Tigers? Why so original?”
Dick glared at her. “Because with so many other teams already in the league, we
had little to choose from. That’s why, smarty!”
At the Tigers’ first practice, Coach Banks let the boys choose their own positions, although most of them didn’t care where
they played. They were pleased enough just to be playing.
For two hours every day before the league started, the Tigers were at one of the two baseball fields in town, practicing diligently
under Coach Banks’ direction in order to be a strong contender in the baseball league. Dick fretted after the first few days,
however. Beyond a doubt Stan Parker was the best athlete on the team. His catches at shortstop and his throws to first base
were those of a guy who had played a lot of baseball. And Stan had. He had four brothers, all of whom had played baseball
with him since he was eight years old. None of the other boys were within miles of his ability.
The question was : Would Stan stay on the team if he realized that he was a far better player than the other guys?
When Coach Banks said that he had scheduled a practice game with the Panthers, who had finished second in the league last
year, Dick shuddered to think of what might happen.
“We’ll lose twenty to nothing,” he said.
He was almost right.
On the day of the game the Tigers’ roster was as follows:
Mark Patten —
second base
Ben Cushing —
third base
Stan Parker —
shortstop
Andy Michaels —
left field
Dick Farrar —
first base
Eddie Zimmer —
catcher
Jim Tanner —
center field
Tony Berio —
right field
Art Walker —
pitcher
The subs were Mike Withey, outfield; Clyde McPherson, infield; and Pat Hammer, pitcher.
The Tigers had first raps. Tiny Phil Sandsted pitched for the Panthers. All he did was throw balloonlike pitches over the
plate, or somewhere near it. And all the Tigers did was hit them directly at an infielder or an outfielder, as if that was
Phil’s intention (which it was). They were out in rapid order — one, two, three.
Art’s pitches were so well controlled that it seemed he was throwing the ball through a tube. Just the same, the Panthers
enjoyed a hard-hitting first inning, scoring four runs, and repeated the assault in the second inning, scoring six runs. In
the third they scored two, and in the fourth, three. It was a regular merry-go-round.
“I guess they’re getting tired of running around the bases,” Dick said after catching
a pop fly behind first base for the third out that ended the fourth inning.
“I think we should give up,” Stan remarked as he plunked himself down on the bench beside Dick. “All we’re doing is making
clowns of ourselves.”
“Oh, come on. Give up without a fight?” Dick tried hard not to raise his voice. “Is that what you want, Stan?”
“It’s not what I want,” Stan blurted. “But I don’t like making a fool clown out of myself, either.”
“Then you shouldn’t have joined …” Dick stopped short, realizing how stupid a remark
that
was. “I’m sorry, Stan. I didn’t mean that.”
“I
hope
you didn’t,” Stan said, his eyes snapping. “Because if you did …”
“Hey, cut it out,” Ben Cushing broke in. “We’ll never have a team if we start fighting among ourselves.”
“Right,” said Eddie Zimmer in that soft, almost inaudible voice of his.
“Well! Look who woke up!” Stan leaned halfway off the bench and pinned his eyes on the small but strong-armed catcher. “I
thought you did nothing but catch and throw the ball, Eddie!”
Eddie’s face turned crimson.
Dick bristled. Darn Stan. He knew as well as anybody what a shy, sensitive kid Eddie was. Why did he have to embarrass him
in front of all the guys with that remark?
“Lay off him, Stan,” said Dick. “He’s doing just as well as anybody else on the team.”
A chuckle rippled from Stan as he slid back on the seat. “Never before have I heard of a catcher who didn’t open up his trap
once in a while,” he said, loud enough for the entire bench to hear.
“That’s enough, Stan,” piped up Coach Banks. “Eddie’s doing just fine. Grab a bat, Dick. You’re second man up.”
Dick gave the little catcher a friendly tap on the knee, then got off the bench and selected his favorite bat, one with a
taped handle. He heard the crowd yell as Andy Michaels, at the plate, knocked a pitch out to deep left. The yell died almost
instantly as the fielder made a one-handed catch.
“Come on! Let’s get up on the scoreboard!” Art shouted.
Dick stepped to the plate and waited for Phil’s first pitch.
The score was Panthers 15, Tigers 0.
T
HE PITCH
floated in like a lazy balloon.
“Ball one!” shouted the ump.
The next sliced the inside corner of the plate, but Dick let it go by. The third pitch was the real teaser. He swung at it
and drilled it over the pitcher’s head. The ball sailed out to center field in a hard, shallow drive, and Dick sped to second
base for a clean double.
Eddie, up next, lashed a streaking grounder to second. The second baseman fumbled the ball, and Eddie was safe at first and
Dick at third.
“Nice going, Eddie!” Dick yelled across the diamond at him.
Eddie, smiling, waved a “thank you” to him.
Jim Tanner fouled the first pitch, then missed the next two for a strikeout. The Tigers groaned as they saw their chances
for getting up on the scoreboard going down the drain.
Right fielder Tony Berio came to the rescue, drilling a sharp grounder through short that scored Dick. Eddie raced around
to third, but perished there as Art flied out to left. Nevertheless, a small roar and a thunder of feet in the stands went
up as the Tigers broke the barrier. The score was now 15-1.
