The Team That Stopped Moving (4 page)

It was too deep for him. He might as well forget about it.

He went over to Eddie’s house at seven-thirty and listened to his new country record, plus other country music from his record
library. The next morning the boys went swimming at the school pool. About a dozen kids were there — both boys and girls —
including Stan and Art.

Dick, Eddie and Art were sitting on the edge of the pool, watching Stan dive off the high diving board, when Eddie remarked,
right out of the blue, “Art, did Dick tell you about the dream he had during our game yesterday?”

“Eddie!” Dick exclaimed. “For crying out loud!”

Eddie’s eyes went suddenly big and round. “Oops! I’m sorry, Dick! I —” He covered his eyes with his hand, and shook his head
pathetically.

It was too late. The cat was out of the bag, and Art’s interest was piqued. “What dream?” he asked, curiously.

“It was nothing,” Dick said, and began kicking the water, splashing it over his legs.

“What
dream, Dick?” Art persisted. “Tell me about it.”

“You heard him, Art,” Eddie said. “It was nothing.”

“It must have been something, Eddie, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Art said.

Dick pursed his lips. “Okay. But it’s still nothing. Remember when that ball was hit to you in the first inning? Well, it
seemed that time stopped and this guy showed up and told me to go back to my base and let
you handle the grounder. So I did, and we got the hitter out. It was just my subconscious, that’s all it was,” Dick added
quickly. “Now, what’s so interesting about that?”

Then he pushed himself into the water, swam to the other side of the pool and back, climbed out, and grabbed up his towel.

“If you ask me, that sounds kind of weird,” Art said, his forehead wrinkled.

“Of course it does,” admitted Dick. “I told you it was just my subconscious.”

“You’ve heard of a person’s mind playing funny tricks, haven’t you?” Eddie said, as if trying to redeem himself by backing
up Dick.

But Art kept staring at Dick. “I sure have,” he answered thoughtfully.

“I — I’ve had enough swimming,” Dick said, anxious to make himself scarce. “Coming, Eddie?”

“Yes. I’ve had enough, too,” Eddie said, following Dick to the locker room.

“I’m sorry, Dick,” he said again inside the locker room. “I really am. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Forget it,” said Dick. “Just pretend it never happened. Okay?”

“Okay.” But Dick could see that Eddie wouldn’t be able to shake off that boo-boo for quite some time. He, himself, was mad
clear through, though he tried hard not to show it.
You can bet your boots,
he thought,
that Art will tell Stan about the dream, and Stan will spread it around like measles.

They dressed in silence.

“Want to play catch later on, Dick?” Eddie asked as they started to leave.

Dick shrugged. “Okay. After lunch.”

No matter what, he couldn’t hold a grudge against Eddie.

M
ONDAY
, June 25, turned out to be as gray as Monday’s wash. All day long it looked as if it might rain. Then, an hour before game
time, the sun began to shoot golden sparks from behind the clouds. By the time the umpire shouted “Batter up!” the sun was
shining like the bright, happy face of an eager baseball fan.

The Tigers’ opponents, the Panthers, had first raps. Dick had not been at the pool since last Friday and he wondered if Art
had told Stan about his dream. Neither boy had mentioned it to him as yet, and he hoped they never would.

Art, on the mound for the Tigers, tossed
a pitch to the first batter that went for a clean single over short. The next batter walked, and Dick shuddered to think that
this might be another runaway for the Panthers, who had shellacked the Tigers in the practice game.

Then Stan caught a line drive and doubled the runner off at second before he could get back to tag up. Just like that there
were two outs. The next Panther lambasted a long drive to deep center to score a run. A pop fly to Dick ended the top of the
first inning.

Mark led off with a walk, but perished on first as the next three batters got out, one on a bouncing ball to first, two on
flies to the outfield.

Again the Panthers’ bats connected with safe, solid hits. Before the top of the second inning was over, four runners crossed
the plate.

“They’re hitting ‘em where we ain’t,” Andy said as he came running in.

“We’ll have to tell those naughty guys not to do that,” Stan remarked, planting himself down on the bench next to Art.

“Better yet, let’s hit ‘em where
they
ain’t,” Coach Banks put in.

But only Eddie and Jim were able to garner safe hits, which weren’t enough. Little Phil Sandsted, the Panthers’ pitcher, was
having another easy day of it on the mound.

In the top of the third, the Panthers’ leadoff hitter socked the first pitch to right center for a clean two-bagger that put
him in scoring position. Dick had visions of another long inning and looked at the sky, hoping that the clouds would gather
up again and this time drench the field.

There was no such luck. The sun was shining as brilliantly as ever.

Crack!
A smashing drive to first! Dick backed up a few steps as he tried to judge the hop. The ball bounced up into his glove and
he bolted to first in a desperate race with the batter. He lost by a step.

“Dick!” Stan yelled. “You should,ve run forward, not backward!”

Dick ignored him as he looked for the runner on second and saw that the boy had advanced to third. Now there were runners
on first and third.

The next hit was a Texas leaguer over first base, scoring a run. There were still two runners on — one on third, the other
on second.

Again a Panther batter drove a sizzling hit to Dick, a sod-digging one-bouncer. He caught it, touched first. One out and the
runners had held. Then Stan snared a pop fly for out two.

“All right, get the third one!” Coach Banks yelled.

The Tigers did, but not before the Panthers drove in the two runs. Panthers 8, Tigers 0. The bottom of the third went by with
still another goose egg decorating the scoreboard for the Tigers.

“Eight to nothing,” Stan grumbled as they trotted out to the field. “The way things are going we’ll be trailing sixteen to
nothing by the end of the game.”

“Well, that’s better than twenty to nothing,” Art said.

“Oh, come on, guys,” Dick said resentfully. “It’ll be thirty to nothing if we don’t stop squabbling.”

The Panther leadoff hitter belted Art’s first delivery a half a mile into the sky, almost directly over home plate. “I’ve
got it!” Eddie yelled, holding his mitt over his head as he waited for the ball. It came down, struck the edge of the mitt,
and bounced off, almost clonking him on the head.

“Ohhhhh!” the Tigers’ fans groaned.

The Panther then clouted a base hit. Even from first base Dick could see the embarrassed look on Eddie’s face.

“Shake it off, Eddie!” he yelled. “You’ll get the next one!”

Another foul ball was hit directly over home plate. This time Eddie didn’t call for it, although he circled around underneath
it as he had done before when the first foul ball was hit above him. Again he held his mitt as he had the first time, and
Dick held his breath.
He’ll miss it again!
the frightening thought screamed through his mind.

Then, suddenly, Eddie shifted the position of his glove from above his head to down in front of him, pocket facing up. Plop!
The ball dropped into it and stuck!

Quickly he grabbed the ball and whipped it to first. The runner, standing about five feet off the base as if expecting Eddie
to drop this pop fly, too, now sprang back in an effort to beat Eddie’s lightning throw. He didn’t.

“Out!” yelled the base umpire.

A roar exploded from the Tigers’ fans. “Beautiful play, Eddie! Just beautiful!” they cried, enthusiastically.

A hopping grounder to third, which Ben scooped up and shot to first, ended the top of the fourth inning.

Dick ran in and hugged Eddie, noticing a sparkle of pride in the boy’s eyes, a bubbling of real inner happiness on his face.
“It was a beautiful catch, Eddie,” Dick exclaimed. “It really was.”

“Dick, I —” Eddie paused. His eyes were suddenly as wide as bottle caps.

“What, Eddie?” Dick asked, frowning.

Eddie glanced around, then shrugged. “I’ll tell you later,” he said.

Andy was first man up in the bottom of the fourth. He doubled on the two-two pitch. Then Dick smashed a grass-cutting
single through second, scoring Andy, and the Tigers had their feet off the ground, at least.

Eddie won a free pass to first on four straight balls. Then Jim’s shotgun single over third scored Dick and advanced Eddie
to second. Tony hit four fouls to the backstop screen, then popped out to the pitcher. Up came Art and blasted Phil’s first
pitch for a long triple, scoring both Eddie and Jim.

The Tigers’ fans went wild, and there wasn’t a boy sitting down on the Tigers’ bench. They were all standing in front of it,
cheering their throats dry.

Clyde McPherson, pinch-hitting for Mark, drove Art in with a single, then got out trying to stretch it into a two-bagger.
Then Ben flied out to end the fat, five-run inning.

The Panthers came back, though, tougher than ever. The leadoff hitter smashed a line drive down to Stan that made a crazy
hop and bounced over his shoulder to the outfield.
Jim fielded the ball and pegged it to Clyde at second. The next hit was a fly to Jim, which he missed, letting the runner
on first advance to second.

The Panthers’ heavy hitter came to bat then, and poled a thunderous drive over Andy’s head for a home run. That was it for
the Panthers that inning, but it was plenty. They were leading 11-5 going into the bottom of the fifth inning.

As Dick trotted off the infield Eddie met him, grabbed his arm, and led him to the side of the dugout. “Dick,” he whispered
excitedly, “I’ve just got to tell you this!”

“Tell me what?” Dick asked, frowning.

“I — I had a dream, too! Remember that second foul ball? The one I caught?”

Dick stared at him. “Yes.”

“Well, while it was coming down, it suddenly stopped!
Everything
stopped, and this … this guy appeared! Jack somebody.”

“Jack Wanda?” Dick’s eyes grew wide as he stared at Eddie.

“Yes! Jack Wanda! He told me to change the position of my glove. He said that I held it up wrong the first time, and to hold
it down in front of me. He even took my glove and showed me how to do it! That was how come I caught the ball! Otherwise I
might have missed that one, too!”

Suddenly a shadow crossed in front of them.

“What are you two guys whispering about?” Stan asked, chuckling. “Did one of you have another wild dream?”

S
TAN LED OFF
in the bottom of the fifth inning.

“Come on, Stan! Knock it out of the lot!” Art shouted.

Crack!
A streaking shot over second base! Stan dropped his bat and raced to first. He started for second, but dashed back as the
center fielder whipped in the ball.

Andy came up and cracked out a hit between left and center fields that went for two bases, scoring Stan.

Dick, still thinking about Eddie’s dream, stepped nervously to the plate.

“Strike!” cried the ump as Dick took a vicious swing at Phil’s first pitch, and missed.

Again Phil pitched, and again Dick swung — and missed. “Strike two!” boomed the ump.

Dick stepped out of the box, scooped up a handful of dust, and rubbed it over his perspiring hands. He wiped off the excess,
took a deep breath, and looked out over the field. Andy was on second. The Panthers were all crouched over, hands on knees,
waiting, daring him to drive the ball through them.

I’ve got to knock Andy in,
Dick told himself.
We’ve got to win this game to give the team the confidence it needs to stay together.

He stepped back into the box, raised his bat, and watched Phil make his next delivery. It was outside.