Wild Pitch (4 page)

“She’s got a mean stretch,” Puffy observed. “Watch her, Rod. Maybe you can learn something.”

“Bull,” scoffed Rod.

Monahan reached for a high throw, and pulled it down.

“See that?” said Lynn. “Half the time her foot’s off the bag.”

She pegged it back across the diamond.

“Throws like a girl,” said Paul.

“She is a girl, dummy,” said Tip. “Or don’t you know the difference?”

Coach Inger stepped up in front of them in time to hear the exchange of remarks.

“Okay, cut the sarcasm,” he snapped, and looked at Eddie. “How’s the arm, pal?”

“Okay.”’

“Good.” He looked over his shoulder. “They’re coming off. Okay, get out there, and let’s take them.”

Eddie grooved the first pitch and watched it go for a
sharp single over Paul’s head.

“Not too good, Eddie, boy!” Rod said.

“Breeze it by ’im, Eddie!” said Larry, stepping up on the grass near the third-base sack.

Eddie caught the relay from Puf
^f
y, who was covering second base, and stepped back on the mound. He waited for the next Surf batter to get into the box, studied
him a moment, and nodded his agreement to Tip’s sign.

He streaked one toward the inside of the plate. The batter started to put his bat out to bunt, then quickly jumped back to
avoid being hit.

“Ball!” shouted the ump.

“Make it be in there, Eddie!” cried Paul. “Make it be in there!”

He made it be in there, and this time the batter successfully stuck out his bat for a neat bunt inside the third-base line.
Larry came in, pounced on it, and pulled his arm back to throw.

“Second base!” Eddie yelled.

On the verge of throwing to first, Larry threw to second instead. Paul, covering the bag, stretched to catch the throw, but
the runner beat it by a step.

“No!” cried the base umpire, giving the safe sign.

Tip glared at Eddie. “Dummy, why’d you tell him to throw to second? He was too far away from it!”

Eddie shook his head, aware now he should have kept his mouth shut. “I thought he had time,” he said lamely.

“Sure you did,” grumbled Tip.

Eddie read the sarcasm in Tip’s voice and tried to ignore it. Sometimes it wasn’t hard to irk the burly catcher, especially
when he felt he was right on an important play.

Eddie caught the soft throw from Paul, took a look at the men on first and second, and stepped on the mound.

Tip signaled for a curve and gave him a target on the inside of the plate. Eddie threw it. The ball headed toward the inside
corner and dipped in. The batter swung. Missed.

“Strike one!” snapped the ump.

Tip gave him the two-finger sign again. Eddie nodded, stretched, and pitched. The ball headed for the middle of the plate.
Just as it dipped toward the outside corner, the batter swung. The fat part of the
bat connected with the ball and sent it flying toward short right field.

Eddie watched it drop on the grass, a sick feeling coming to his stomach. The hit was going to knock in one run at least,
he thought.

Right fielder Tony Netro bolted after it, grabbed it on the second hop, and pegged it home. The runner on second made the
turn at third and was a quarter of the way home when Tip caught the ball.

He probably decided he couldn’t make it, because he hightailed it back, diving under Tip’s throw to third. He was safe.

Larry carried the ball halfway over to Eddie then tossed it the other half.

“Watch for a squeeze, Larry,” Eddie cautioned.

Eddie watched a tall, well-built cleanup hitter come to the plate, and glanced at the batter stepping into the on-deck circle.
It was Monahan.

For a second their eyes met, and he looked away, staring at the grass as he headed back toward the mound. He was sure she
recognized him and Tip as the guys who had caused her to lose her balance on her bicycle that day last week.

Tip called time and trotted in toward him. They met in front of the mound.

“What do you want to do?” Tip asked.

Eddie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I think he’ll try to squeeze in a run.”

“Shall I keep them high?”

“Yeah. But not too high. I don’t want to be jumping for them.”

Eddie smiled. “You won’t.”

Tip returned to his position. The ump called time in. Eddie walked onto the mound and set his left foot on the rubber. His
first pitch was even with the batter’s face. The batter tried a bunt and ticked it.

“Strike!” said the ump.

Eddie placed the next pitch high and inside. The batter swerved to avoid being hit.

“Ball!” said the ump.

“In there, Eddie,” Tip encouraged him. “In there, boy.”

Eddie grooved the next pitch. He hadn’t intended to; it just happened that way.

The batter bunted. The ball dropped in front of the plate and rolled toward the pitcher’s mound. Eddie sped after it, aware
that the runner on third was blazing for home. He reached the ball, scooped it up, and tossed it underhand to Tip.

“Ouuuut!” yelled the ump as Tip tagged the sliding runner.

Cheers exploded from the Lancer fans.

“Nice play, Eddie!”

“Way to go, Eddie, boy!”

Tip came toward him, smiling, and tapped the ball into his glove. “Look who’s up.”

“I know.”

“Think she’ll bunt?”

“With one out?” Eddie shrugged.

He turned and headed back toward the mound.

“Send it out of the lot, Phyl!” yelled a Surf player from the dugout.

“Clear the bases, Phyl!” yelled another.

Eddie took time to size up the situation. There was one out, the bases were loaded, and Phyllis Monahan was up. In a million
years he wouldn’t have dreamed he’d be in a position like this. Facing a girl batter upset him enough. To be facing her with
the bases loaded multiplied his anxiety tenfold.

Suppose — just
suppose —
that she got a lucky hit off him? One, or two, or even three runs could score. What would a freak thing like that do to him?
Talk about humiliation!

“Get ’er out of there, Eddie, boy!” Rod said in a steady chatter from first base. “Get ’er out of there, boy!”

He stepped on the mound, absently ran his arm across his forehead, and took a quick glance at the sweat he had wiped off.
He couldn’t believe it. She was making him sweat.

I’m going to strike you out, Monahan, he promised
silently. I’m going to show you that girls don’t belong on a boys’ team.

“Put it here, baby!” Tip yelled, tapping the pocket of his mitt with his fist. “Right here, baby!”

Eddie stretched, and delivered. The ball streaked for the outside corner, missed it by an inch. Monahan let it go.

“Ball!” said the ump.

“Make it be in there, Eddie!” said Paul.

Eddie let go another. This one started to cut the inside corner, and Monahan swung. The sound of bat meeting ball was solid.
The ball shot out to left field, a high, arcing drive that looked as if it might go over the fence. The yell that started
from the Surfs’ fans began to grow and grow.

Eddie watched the ball, his breath caught in his throat. The white dot kept curving, kept curving toward the left, and finally
struck the fence about five feet left of the foul line.

“Foul!” yelled the home-plate umpire.

The fans’ yell changed from one of hope to a groan of disappointment.

Cries deluged him. “Hey, man! Are you lucky!”

“She’s got your number, Eddie!”

“What do you think of
that
power for a girl, Eddie?”

He tried to ignore them. It was a lucky hit, he told
himself. The pitch was just right for her. Waist high. Inside corner. She’d be a lousy hitter if she
hadn’t
hit it, foul or not.

The ump handed Tip a new ball. Tip tossed it to Eddie. Eddie rubbed it around in his hands. He always liked the feel of a
new ball. It felt as if it were his own, that he could control its destiny.

The ump stretched out his arms and held out a finger from each hand to show the crowd the count.

Tip signaled for a curve. Eddie’s nod was almost imperceptible. He stretched and threw.

The ball shot toward the inside of the plate, and high. Monahan started to lean into it, pulling her bat back in readiness
to swing.

Suddenly her eyes widened in fear. She started to turn her head, to duck away from the incoming pitch. Eddie froze as he saw
the direction the ball was taking.
It wasn’t going where he intended it to! It was streaking for her head!

“Duck!” he shouted. “Duck!”

She tried, but the throw was too fast for her, too close. The ball struck her in the back of her head. It glanced off her
helmet and bounced high into the air, landing near the backstop screen.

She collapsed in the batter’s box, and didn’t move.

Eddie stared, mouth open, frozen. He saw Tip
standing by the plate, staring at the fallen batter as if he were stricken, too.

The plate umpire was the first one to reach her. He knelt beside her, clutched her hand, talked to her. He was nervous, worried.
The two base umpires were running forward, too.

Players poured out from both dugouts.

“Hold it!” Coach Inger commanded his men. “You guys stay here!”

The Surfs’ coach was running toward his girl star, oblivious to his team’s running close at his heels. Fear and anxiety filled
their faces and eyes.

Eddie heard the word “ambulance,” and saw one of the base umpires heading toward the narrow opening between the backstop screen
and the Lancers’ dugout.

He stood awhile, immobilized, feeling as if he were watching a scene on television.

He saw Surf players glare accusingly at him.

“You did it on purpose, Rhodes,” a red-haired kid snapped at him.

“Yeah,” snarled another, lips drawn up at the corners.

A kid came running from the third-base bleachers, a tall, big-boned kid with dark hair and wild eyes, fists clenched.

“You louse!” he shouted at Eddie, ready to swing at him. “You were jealous of her and you hit her! You hit her on purpose!”

He swung, catching Eddie by surprise, and hit him on the side of the jaw. Eddie saw an explosion of stars and reeled.

“You crumb!” the kid raved on. “I’ll—”

“Hey, cut it out!” another voice broke in.

Eddie saw Larry and Puffy grab the big kid from behind. Rod came to help and tried to pin the kid’s arms to his back. The
kid was strong, and anger seemed to boost his strength as he pulled himself free from the three boys and started back after
Eddie.

Eddie stood there, his fists clenched and held up now to protect himself.

“I didn’t!” he cried. “I didn’t do it on purpose! I would never throw at a batter intentionally!”

The kid swung at him again, and Eddie caught the blow on his arm.

“You did then, you rat!” the kid yelled. “You did
that
intentionally!”

“No! You’ve got to believe me!”

A cop came bolting toward them. He reached the big kid, grabbed his right arm, and twisted it behind his back.

“All right, now,” he said in a calm voice. “Settle down.”

He held the kid till his anger had subsided. Then he slowly took his arms from around him.

“Take off,” the cop ordered, shoving him away. “Get back in the bleachers. I don’t care what you do, but keep away from him.”

The kid gave him a mean look and turned again to Eddie.

“She’s my cousin,” he rasped. “I’m going to see that you don’t get away with it, head buster.”

The cop grabbed his shoulders. “I said take off, buddy. I don’t want to keep repeating myself. Okay?”

The kid said nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and started toward the bleachers. Then he changed his mind and headed toward
the small group that had assembled near the prostrate girl.

Her bare head was lying on the dirt.

“She ought to have something under her head,” Eddie said to the cop.

The cop looked at the girl. “No one’s supposed to touch her,” he said. “The ambulance will be here in a minute. The medics
will handle it. They know what to do.”

A siren whirred in the distance. In seconds a blue-and-white ambulance swept into the park, lights flashing. The siren quieted
down to a dead silence. The lights kept blinking. Two men in white uniforms broke out of the vehicle and rushed to the girl.
One took her hand, felt her pulse, pulled back an eyelid and looked at her eye. The other took a look at her, then raced back
to the ambulance, and brought out a stretcher. They lifted the girl onto it and put her inside the ambulance. A woman got
in with her. Her mother, Eddie figured.

The ambulance sped off.

Coach Inger looked around, saw Eddie standing by the mound, and came over to him. He squinted against the sun and put a hand
on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry. She’ll be all right.”

Eddie felt a lump in his throat. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said.

“Who said you did?”

He looked at the Surf players. “They do. And her cousin.”

The coach frowned. “The kid who went after you? I saw him. If the cop hadn’t come just then, I would
have.” He looked at Eddie’s jaw. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

The base umpire came toward them. “Sam, you ready to go?”

The coach nodded. “Anytime.” He turned back to Eddie. “Don’t feel too bad about hitting her. The ball must’ve struck her head
on a vulnerable spot. That’s why you wear helmets, to avoid accidents just like that one. It may never happen again in a hundred
years.”

“But it did happen to her,” said Eddie thinly.

“One of those things,” said the coach. “Take a load off your feet. I’ll have Harry pitch.”

Eddie walked off the field, still half-dazed. He entered the dugout and sat down. He folded his glove, crossed his arms over
his chest, and wondered whether to stay and watch the rest of the game, or go home.

He wanted desperately to go home, to put the ball game and the tragic accident far behind him. He might as well, he thought.
He couldn’t get back into the game, even if the Surfs pounded Harry all over the lot. All he’d do was think about that wild
pitch that had bounced off Phyllis Monahan’s head.