The Winning Stroke
Read The Winning Stroke Online
Authors: Matt Christopher
Text copyright ©1994 by Matthew F. Christopher
Illustrations copyright © 1994 by Karin Lidbeck
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.
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09449-8
To Richard and Kathleen
Contents
“Come on, Billy, come on, big guy,” came a voice from behind.
As Jerry Grayson adjusted his grip on the bat, he could hear the catcher calling out encouragement to the mound.
But Billy Wolfson, the pitcher, was taking his time.
With a count of three and 0, he knows I can afford to swing at anything that looks halfway decent, thought Jerry. Too bad,
Billy, but even with a two-run lead, you'd better not take any chances. After all, I'm already two for three this game.
Jerry knew that his teammates were hoping he would get on base. It was the bottom of the ninth. They had two outs, and there
was no one on base. The next pitch could save the game and start a winning rally.
Billy stretched both arms behind him as he started to wind up for the pitch. He glared at Jerry, then let the ball fly.
The pitch looked as though it would be a little high and outside. But as the ball sizzled forward toward the plate, it began
to curve, inward.
That's just how I like 'em, Jerry thought. He drew back for an instant, then swung.
Crack!
It was a clean hit over the shortstop's head.
Jerry took off like a shot. He made it easily to first base before the left fielder had grabbed hold of the ball.
“Hold, Jerry! Hold!” shouted his teammates.
Why should I hold? Jerry thought. I'm one of the fastest runners on the team. I can stretch that hit to a double, no problem!
But Nick Dodson, the left fielder, was faster on the draw than Jerry realized. The ball was in the air and on its way to second
in a flash. Jerry had to slide — or else he'd be tagged out.
A cloud of dust rose from his sneakers as he skidded toward the base.
Standing like a mountain of humanity on second base was Harry “Hulk” Harrison. Hulk was never much of a threat at bat or on
the field, but his size could be intimidating. His huge body blocked the sun as he reached for the incoming ball. When it
made contact with his mitt, he wheeled to tag Jerry. But his foot caught on the base and, off balance, he fell.
At any second, Jerry had expected to feel contact between the base and the sole of his sneaker. He had stretched his right
leg as far as it would reach in the direction of the base.
Instead, he felt a sharp pain shooting up and down his leg as a wall of weight came crashing down on it. Hulk Harrison had
tagged him out by landing on him full force.
As the dust cleared, Hulk rolled off him into the dirt. The big second baseman got up and shook off his large form. Raising
his left arm, he brandished the ball still trapped in his mitt.
“Out!” Hulk shouted. “I gotcha! You're out, Jerry! We win!”
Oh, yeah? thought Jerry, all set to argue. “No way!” he shouted from down on the ground.
Suddenly, the pain in his right leg shot through his entire right side.
But he had to get up. He had to out-shout Hulk and prove he had gotten to second base safely. He leaned on one elbow and tried
to raise his body from the ground. He was okay as long as the weight was on his left knee. Then he tried to move his right
leg. The pain exploded, and a screaming white light filled his body before everything turned black.
Jerry woke with a start when an awful ammonia smell hit his nostrils. He opened his eyes and saw an emergency medical technician
leaning over him, a concerned look in his eye.
Terrible as the smell was, it cleared his head. He was wide awake when the stretcher was carefully placed underneath him and
he was carried into the wailing ambulance. Still, he could feel every jolt during the ride through downtown Bolton to the
hospital.
His mother was waiting outside the Emergency Room. Inside, it seemed as if a hundred different people looked at him, poked
around, and asked the
same stupid questions over and over. And all the while his leg throbbed with pain.
He was just about to shout out loud that he was in agony, when a nurse came in and gave him an injection in his arm.
It took a few minutes, but the pain in his leg faded away gradually. He was feeling better when they wheeled him into another
examination room.
Dr. Gold, who looked as though she might be the same age as his mom, was staring at some X-rays of his leg.
“Hmmm, pretty nice break you have there,” she said.
“Aw, come on, it can't be broken,” he said. “Is it really?”
“To be specific, you have a mid-shaft fracture of the tibia and the fibula,” said the doctor. She pointed to a spot between
his knee and ankle.
“Wow, sounds pretty bad,” he said.
“It's not good,” she went on. “What happened? You crash into a brick wall?”
“No,” said Jerry. “It came crashing down on me.” He told her about the accident.
“So it's a sports injury, my specialty,” she said, moving
over to the examination table. She lifted the light bandaging that covered most of his leg. Since he was flat on his back,
he couldn't see what it looked like.
“What do you think?” asked Jerry. “Can you fix it pretty fast?”
“We should be able to do something,” said Dr. Gold.
Jerry breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Let's see now,” she said, “how old are you?”
“Twelve,” he replied.
“Hmmm, and about five feet seven, one hundred and twenty pounds,” she went on. “Do you smoke?”
“Never!”
“Drink lots of milk?”
“Gallons!”
“Do your homework on time?”
Jerry hesitated. “Usually,” he said.
Dr. Gold laughed. “I think we'll be able to put you back together, then.”
“Great!” said Jerry. “We still have a few more games left, and the team really needs me.”
“The team?” said Dr. Gold.
“Our sandlot baseball team,” said Jerry. “I'm the number one hitter.”
“That's nice,” said Dr. Gold. “But I can't see you playing baseball for a while.”
“Why not?” asked Jerry.
“Because you're going to be in a cast and have to use crutches for about eight weeks.”
“What? No way!”
“Okay,” said the doctor. “Then just hop off that table and get out of here.”
Even with the soothing effect of the shot, Jerry knew that he couldn't move his bad leg. The slightest touch still sent shivers
of pain all along the right side of his body.
“Eight weeks,” he moaned. “I might as well jump off a cliff.”
“That's another option,” said the doctor. “Or, we can go ahead with the cast.”
Jerry sighed. “But after eight weeks I'll be okay?” he asked. “I'll be able to play baseball? It'll be a little early for
the school team. Maybe I'll play basketball. Still, if the ground isn't frozen —”
“Not so fast,” said the doctor. “When you get out of the long cast, we'll put you into a shorter one.”
“Another cast! Why don't I just crawl into bed and stay there forever!”
“Oh, the short cast is a lot easier. You'll be able to walk around on it without the crutches.”
“Sure, but I bet I'm not going to be shooting hoops in it — or shagging ground balls. How long will I have to wear the darn
thing?” Jerry asked.
“I'd say, about four weeks.”
“And then I'll be able to play sports again?”
“Maybe,” said Dr. Gold.
“Maybe!”
“Look, young man, we're not magicians,” said the doctor. “I don't have a crystal ball that's going to tell me exactly how
well you're going to heal. Once we take the second cast off, there'll still be a lot of work to do.”
“Okay, okay,” said Jerry. “Do anything you have to. Just let me know when I can play ball again.”
“I didn't say
we
were going to do the work,” the doctor said. “It's going to be up to you.”
“Me?”
She nodded her head.
“You.”
Three months and two weeks after the day he broke his leg, Jerry sat in a whirlpool in the local rehabilitation center. The
most recent X-rays showed that the bones had set, but after the short cast had come off, Doctor Gold had ordered a program
of physical therapy.
Jerry, anxious to be back on the baseball field practicing with his buddies, had told her he didn't need the therapy.
“You don't think so?” she'd asked. “Just take a good look at that leg.”
With the cast off, Jerry could see what had been covered up for twelve weeks. His leg looked terrible. Compared to the normal
color of his left leg, the skin on his right was all white and scruffy. Thin blue veins showed through. And Jerry could tell
without even
flexing that the muscles were weak from lack of exercise.
“Now, here's what you're going to do,” Doc Gold had said. “First of all, you're going to use this.” She handed him a cane.
“And second, you're going to report to Bob Fulton at this address, three times a week for two hours, for physical therapy.”
Jerry stared at the cane and the slip of paper she held out. He was ready to explode with frustration. Three days a week for
two hours? So much for batting practice!
