Wild Pitch (2 page)

They found a place to stand next to the third-base bleachers. Eddie looked at the scoreboard and saw that it was the sixth
inning. The Surfs were playing Tanglewood and had first bats. They were leading, 8–5.

“Who’s batting?” Puffy wanted to know.

“The Surfs,” Tip observed.

“You see her?” Eddie asked.

“I don’t know what she looks like,” answered Puffy.

Eddie started to look over the players sitting in the dugout behind first base. They all had their uniforms and caps on, and
looked pretty much alike. Some had long hair, some short.

“Come on, Lee! Blast it!” yelled a fan.

The batter was a tall kid with hair down to his collar. He took a wild cut at the ball, and, from the umpire’s cry, they knew
he’d struck out. Head down in disgust, still holding his bat, he retreated to the bench.

“I know how you feel, kid,” said Puffy sympathetically.

The next batter walked up to the left side of the plate, tapped it twice, then got ready for the pitch.

“This Phyl Monahan,” said Eddie. “She bat left or right?”

Puffy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I told you I’ve never seen her.”

“Send it out of the lot, Mike!” cried a fan.

Tip smiled. “Well, we know
that’s
not her,” he said.

Eddie forgot his adverse feelings about a girl
playing on a boys’ baseball team, and he smiled, too. Mike, wobbling to the plate, was big and round, and the back of his
shirt was stained with sweat. “Catcher” was written all over him.

He laced out a fly to center, and was only halfway to first base when it was caught.

The Tanglewoods came in; the Surfs went out. Eddie watched to see which player would be heading toward first base.

“There she is,” Tip said.

Then Eddie saw her, too. She was holding her mitt in her hand, folded over. Two long, blond pigtails stuck out from underneath
her red baseball cap and bounced on the back of her neck as she trotted out to her position at first base.

“She could pass for a boy if it weren’t for those pigtails,” said Tip.

“Yeah,” said Eddie.

He hoped that a ball would be hit to her. He was anxious to see how she’d handle it. Playing first base was no picnic.

He watched her field the grounders that the infielders threw over to her and had to admit she looked good at it. She was right-handed.
She squatted down with both hands, scooped up the ball, straightened up, and threw to the next fielder with grace and ease.

Well, you couldn’t judge a player’s ability much by these warmup throws, Eddie told himself. It was how you performed in a
game that counted.

Tanglewood’s first batter drove a long fly to deep center field for a double. The next guy bashed one to the shortstop, who
faked the runner back to second, then pegged to first to get the hitter by two steps. Phyl Monahan stretched to make the catch,
then quickly got off the bag and got set to throw to third when the runner on second made a motion to run there. He stopped,
and she tossed the ball in to the pitcher.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Puffy.

“Think?” echoed Eddie, frowning. “She hasn’t done much. All she’s done is catch a ball.”

“Right,” agreed Tip. “My little sister can do just as well.”

She had another putout during the half inning, and then a chance at a high-bouncing one-hopper. She leaped, grabbed it, came
down on both feet, stepped quickly to the bag, and touched it for the third out.

“What grade is she in?” Eddie inquired, mildly impressed at her performance.

“I figure eighth or ninth,” said Tip thoughtfully.

“Then she’s about thirteen or fourteen.”

“I’d say so.”

The teams exchanged sides and Eddie watched to see if Monahan was going to bat. He was anxious to see how she did at the plate,
too.

The first Surf grounded out to shortstop. The second drove a hot liner through the third baseman’s legs and beat it on to
second base.

“Hey, look who’s stepping into the on-deck circle,” Tip said. It was Phyl Monahan.

The guy at the plate took a called strike, waited out two pitches, then lined out to second. Two outs.

A cheer went up from the fans as Monahan stepped to the plate. She leaned the bat against her thigh, rubbed her hands a couple
of times, then grabbed the bat and got set.

Tanglewood’s pitcher was a tall left-hander with a fast overhand delivery. His first pitch to Phyl came in high, and she let
it go. The next was even with her chest, and she swung at it. The crack of the bat was solid. The ball shot out to short center
field, and she took off for first.

She could run. Her pigtails bobbed on her neck, and her shirt ballooned on her back as she sped to the bag. Her fans cheered
her, letting her know they loved what she did.

Puffy looked at Eddie. “How’d you like to pitch to her?”

Eddie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You might have your chance.”

“Not right away, I hope,” he said.

There was just something about pitching to a girl that rankled.

“As soon as next Tuesday,” said Puffy.

Eddie frowned. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his dark, damp hair.

“I don’t know. I just don’t give a darn about pitching to a girl.” He spoke his mind with honest conviction.

“Why not? Afraid that she’d get a hit off of you?” Puffy laughed.

“I just don’t like the idea, that’s all,” said Eddie.

Deep inside, he felt that it might have something to do with what had caused his family to move to Florida. His father had
been in line for a promotion in the company he was working for, but the job was given to a woman. Although Mr. Rhodes hardly
ever complained about it, Eddie thought it wasn’t fair. Now a girl was playing on a boys’ team, taking a position away from
a boy. Why did they have to butt in where they weren’t welcome, anyway?

A kid walked, and Monahan went to second, taking long, swift steps, her arms swinging at her sides.

“Look at her,” said Eddie critically. “She acts like she’s it.”

“How do you expect her to act?” said Tip. “She’s doing well.”

“Yes, but she thinks she’s really something. I can tell.”

“Maybe she is,” Puffy cut in. “She’s got to be, to be able to play with a bunch of guys.”

Eddie kept his eye on her. She had reached the bag and was standing with one foot on it, the other on the ground.

“Maybe her father’s got something to do with it,” he said. “I’ve heard of families with only one daughter, and the father
pushes her into something he’d been planning on a son to do.”

“I don’t know whether she’s an only child or not,” said Puffy. “Whatever she is, she isn’t bad.”

“But I wouldn’t want her to play with us,” Tip said.

“Neither would I,” agreed Eddie. He looked at Puffy. “I suppose you would.”

Puffy turned to him. “Who said so? I’m just saying she’s not bad.”

She scored easily on a drive to right center field. “Let’s go,” suggested Tip.

“I’m ready,” said Eddie.

They left the park and went home.

Eddie lived on Baker Avenue, a block away from Tip and three blocks away from Puffy. It was a relatively new neighborhood.
Most of the homes
were less than five years old. Some of the lawns looked like pictures cut out of
House and Garden
magazine.

Eddie found his mother paring potatoes at the kitchen sink.

“Hi, Mom,” he greeted her. “What’re you making for supper?”

“Steak and potatoes,” she answered promptly. “Hamburg steak, that is.”

She was short, brown-haired, and had a weight problem. Once a week she attended a weight-control class, but Eddie couldn’t
see that it was doing much good.

She had taken to the new town right away. Besides working with her husband at the gift shop, she was secretary of the Junior
Women’s League, a member of the church’s women’s auxiliary, and she sang in the choir.

“How’d you boys do?”

He took off his cap and headed toward the bathroom. “We won.”

“Score?”

“Six—four.”

He walked on past the bathroom, took a look inside the living room, and saw his sister Margie sprawled out on a chair. She
was reading a teens’ magazine.

“Hi,” he said.

The magazine lowered below a pair of sharp, intelligent blue eyes. “Hi.” Above the eyes was a head of straight dark hair that
disappeared again as the magazine resumed its former position.

“Hey, pie face,” said Eddie, “you know a girl named Monahan? Phyllis Monahan?”

The magazine lowered again, this time enough to reveal a button nose and a small, perky mouth. Margie was twelve.

“Phyl Monahan? Sure. Why?”

“What do you know about her?”

The eyes brightened with interest. “Not much. Except that she’s popular. Why?”

“What do you mean, popular?”

“She’s a nice kid. She’s a brain. And she’s got a lot of friends. Why?”

“Where does she live?”

“On Brenda Ave. Hey, what’s going on? Why all this interest in Phyllis Monahan?”

“She plays first base for the Surfs.”

Margie’s eyes almost popped. “She what?”

Eddie smiled.

“See ya later,” he said, waving to her. “I’ve got to wash this stinking sweat off.”

Tip came over on his ten-speed bike after supper
. Eddie heard the sound of its bell from inside the house and went out to meet him in the driveway. He had one similar to
Tip’s, except that his was three years old, and rust had begun to show.

“Where you heading?” asked Eddie.

Tip stood astride his bike and took off his bright blue helmet.

“Thought we’d go for a spin and stop for some soft ice cream,” he replied. “You got enough dough? If not, I —”

“Yeah, I’ve got enough,” said Eddie.

“Good. Get your wheels.”

Eddie went into the house and found his mother cutting coupons out of a newspaper.

“Mom, Tip’s here. Okay if I get my bike and go with him for a spin?”

“Just get back before dark,” she told him.

He grinned. “Don’t I always?”

He hurried out to the garage, grabbed his helmet off a wall hook, and took out his bike. He was careful not to scrape it against
his father’s crimson-colored Thunderbird. One scratch on that baby and he might as well figure on being grounded for a week.
His father had planned on owning a Thunderbird as long as five years ago and had had this one for only three months.

Eddie pulled down the door, got on the bike, and took off down the street after Tip.

They rode side by side, Eddie between Tip and the curb. Riding to Big Mike’s Soft Ice Cream Shop was a regular ritual for
them. But this time Eddie thought about taking a different route to it.

“Let’s turn right on the next street,” he suggested.

Tip looked at him. “Why?”

“Trust me,” replied Eddie.

They reached the end of the block and turned right, both making the turn at precisely the same time. Eddie thought it would’ve
made a neat picture if a photographer had been standing close by then.

“We’re going out of our way, you know that?” Tip said.

“Not for long,” said Eddie.

They rode on for six more blocks. Tip looked at Eddie again and wanted to know what he had on his mind to want to ride out
of their way like this.

“Tell you later,” Eddie promised, getting a kick out of keeping Tip in suspense.

Trees lined both sides of the street, providing plenty of shade for the elite-looking, two- and three-story homes. Cars were
parked along the curb, most of them big and shiny, with spoke wheels, new tires, and vinyl tops.

They reached the intersection. Eddie looked to the left and right and saw a girl riding a three-speed bicycle. She was about
halfway down the block. She had long, blond hair and was wearing a cap. She looked as if she were carrying something on one
arm, and steering with the other.

“Tip!” shouted Eddie, recognizing her. “This way!”

He slowed down, made a sharp, right-hand turn, and headed up the street after the girl. He waited for Tip to catch up to him,
then pedalled faster.

“Hey! Where you going?” Tip called after him.

Eddie smiled. “That’s her,” he said.

Tip frowned. “That’s who?”

“Monahan.”

“Monahan? You crazy? Is that why you wanted to come this way?”

They drew up fast behind her, Eddie leading the way. She was riding her bike near the right side of
the street, but leaving enough space for Eddie to ride up between her and the curb.

He turned and motioned to Tip to ride up on the other side of her, trying to hide a mischievous smile that tugged at the corners
of his mouth.

She was a ballplayer, right? She was one of the guys. Okay, let’s see how she’d take to two guys riding shotgun with her.
Eddie almost burst out laughing at the thought.

He saw her turn and look at him, her eyes widening. Then she turned and looked at Tip. Whatever it was — surprise at their
sudden appearance, fear that they might run into her, or both — caused her to lose control of her bicycle.

She let out a scream as it started to weave. Both Eddie and Tip, seeing what was happening, pedalled harder. She lost her
balance and fell, spilling the contents of a bag she was carrying. Onions, tomatoes, a head of lettuce, a box of salt, and
a carton of eggs all hit the street, and everything that could roll, rolled. What couldn’t, thumped, thudded, and then spilled
over in a slimy yellow and white pattern on the street.

“Oh, no!” Phyl Monahan screamed. “You freaks! You dirty, awful freaks! Look what you made me do!”

Eddie wished he could turn time back. Of all the
dumb moves, this idea of taking a different route to Big Mike’s, meeting Monahan, then riding up on both sides of her was
the dumbest.

He stopped his bike next to her, kicked out the stand, and rushed over to her. Close by, Tip was doing the same thing, the
expression on his face full of accusation and disgust. The look on his face said, “I hope you’re satisfied, you jerk!”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie said to Phyllis Monahan. “Geez, I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” murmured Tip.