Baseball Flyhawk (2 page)

Chico washed, changed into other clothes, then sat at the table in the dining room. On the wall behind him was a large white
cloth on which were embroidered the Spanish words D
IOS BENDIGA NUESTRO HOGAR
. And underneath it, in English, G
OD BLESS OUR HOME
.

Chico’s father came in from the living room. His hair was black and wavy. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, were brown
and smiling.

“You look sad, Chico,” Mr. Romez said. “You lost the ball game?”

“Yes,” said Chico. “A home run over my head in the last inning beat us.”

“That’s too bad,” said his father. “Well — better luck next time.”

While he ate the meat and beans and the
tossed salad, Chico worried about his glove. Had somebody else picked it up? Was it the person who owned the glove he had
picked up?

Chico couldn’t swallow his food for a minute. Why was he always doing something wrong?

Then he thought about his teammates. Especially String. Chico was sure String didn’t like him at all.

But he remembered something, and with pride he thought:
At least I can do one thing well. Diving! And I have two trophies to prove it!

There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Romez went to answer it.

“Chico,” she called, “someone to see you!”

Chico stared. The trembling returned.

T
he boy at the door was Buddy Temple.

“Hi, Chico. How about coming over later? We can play catch, and I’ll show you my electric train set.”

Chico’s face lit up. He turned around to his mother and father. “May I?”

His mother smiled. She looked at her husband. He smiled, too, and nodded.

“Good!” said Buddy. “I’ll see you later, then.” He started to leave.

“Buddy,” said Chico, “wait!”

Chico went to the kitchen and returned with the glove he had picked up by mistake.

“I brought this glove home,” said Chico. “But it’s not mine. Do you know whose it is?”

“Well, I know it’s not mine,” replied Buddy. He took it and examined it thoroughly. “No name on it. No, I don’t know whose
it is, Chico. Keep it until the next game. Somebody should claim it then.”

“Okay,” said Chico. “But somebody has mine, too. Did you see one of the guys with a different glove? Did anybody say anything?”

Buddy shook his head. “No — but don’t worry. You’ll get your glove back. And you’ll find the owner of that one, too. See you
later, Chico!”

Chico watched Buddy hop off the porch and head for home. A smile touched his lips. All at once he wasn’t lonely anymore. He
liked Buddy Temple. And he knew Buddy liked him.

He went to Buddy’s house later. They played pitch-and-catch. Then Buddy took Chico into the basement and showed him his electric
train set. It was on a large platform, the size of a Ping-Pong table, which stood about two feet off the floor. The trains
were all kinds: passenger, freight, cattle cars. Buddy turned on a switch on one of the two transformers, and the passenger
train began to move along the track. He turned on a switch on the second transformer, and the freight train began to move.
The trains crossed bridges, went through tunnels, and passed by tiny buildings.

Whoo-o! Whoo-o!
their whistles shrilled.

Chico watched with fascination as the freight train stopped and a cargo of cattle moved off a loading platform onto a car.

“Maybe someday my father will buy me a set like this,” said Chico hopefully.

Buddy smiled. “My dad started this for me a long time ago,” he said. “Every Christmas he gets me something new. It’s lots
of fun. Especially in the winter.”

“I’ve got to go home,” said Chico. “Can I come again? I never saw a train set like this before.”

“You’d better come again, Chico.” Buddy’s eyes were warm and friendly. “Any time.”

The next day, Chico thought about his glove and the one that didn’t belong to him.
I hope it’s not String’s. And I hope he doesn’t have mine.

Then he realized that it couldn’t be String’s glove, because String’s was a first-base mitt.

Chico went to the swimming pool at the park in the afternoon. His mother went with him. There were two diving boards: one
low,
the other high. Chico climbed up the high one. He stood on the tip of the board, the sun warm against his body.

He stretched his hands straight out in front of him, looked down at the water, and saw his reflection in it. A smile cracked
his lips, then he gave himself a spring and dived off the board.

He struck the water like a whisper, went to the bottom, and came up, blowing air out of his lungs.

“Nice going, kid!” the lifeguard said, smiling. Chico smiled back.

He stayed there a long time, diving and swimming. He forgot about String and about his glove. Being in the water took his
mind off all his worries.

But a few days later, his anxiety returned. It was the day of the second game.

When Chico arrived at the field, he saw
most of the Royals players at the first-base side, warming up. The Colts were behind third. Chico looked around anxiously.
Everybody had a glove and was playing catch.

“Let’s hit!” Coach Day yelled. “Fielders, get out there! Buddy, lay one down and hit two! Kenny, throw ’em in!”

The fielders scrambled to the field. Kenny Morton walked to the mound and began pitching them in.

Chico stood there a moment, holding the glove that didn’t belong to him. Then he started trotting out to the outfield.

“Hey, Chico!” a voice suddenly yelled behind him. “Come here!”

Chico stopped in his tracks and whirled around. Dutch Pierce was walking toward him. He had just come onto the field. He was
looking with dark, piercing eyes at the glove on Chico’s hand.

“That looks like my glove,” Dutch
snapped. He whipped it off Chico’s hand. “It is!” His eyes blazed as he looked at Chico. “Where did you get it? How long have
you had it?”

Chico stepped back. Dutch was four inches taller than he.

“I — I picked it up by mistake after our first game,” he stammered.

“By mistake?” Dutch’s lips tightened. Without another word, he ran out to the field.

For a moment Chico stood there trembling.

Where is my glove?
he thought, and began to worry more than ever.

C
hico.”

Chico turned, and squinted against the sun at Coach Day.

“There’s a glove in the equipment bag,” said the coach. “It’s probably yours.”

Chico ran to the bag, opened it, and pulled out a glove. It was his!

“Thanks, Coach,” he murmured. “I — I was afraid I wouldn’t find it.”

Coach Day grinned. “I found it lying on the ground by the bench. If I’d known it was yours, I would have taken it to you.
Okay, get your hits now, then shag a few.”

After the Royals had their hitting practice, the Colts took the field. A little while later, the game started.

The sky was clear blue and the sun a bright, blazing ball of orange. A perfect day for baseball.

The Royals had first raps. On the mound for the Colts was Teddy Nash, a tall, freckle-faced southpaw. His warmup pitches breezed
in like white bullets.

Lead-off man Ray Ward strode to the plate. Teddy Nash made short work of him. Joe and Dutch didn’t get to first base, either.
It looked as if Teddy was going to have a good day.

Out in the field, Chico realized that he and the other fielders might have some trouble. They had to face the bright sun.

Don Drake, a right-hander, pitched for the Royals. He walked the first man and then the second. The third man hit into a
double play. Then a single scored a run. Catcher Dale Hunt caught a foul pop fly, and the first inning was over.

String Becker was first man up for the Royals. He swung two bats from one shoulder to the other as he walked toward the plate.
He tossed one back and stepped into the box. He tapped the plate with the big end of his bat, then waited for Teddy Nash to
pitch.

Teddy blazed two over the plate. String swung at both and missed. Then Teddy wasted a couple, making the count two and two.

“Come on, String! Make it be in there!” said the coach.

The next pitch
was
in there. String belted it, a hot grounder down to first. The first baseman reached for it. The ball touched his mitt, but
then it buzzed past. String dashed to first.

“Okay, men, there’s our starter,” said the coach. “Let’s keep it up.”

Billy Hubble tried. So did Buddy and Chico. But Teddy’s arm was working for him. None of the three hit, and String died on
first.

The game continued swiftly. Both pitchers were hot. Teddy had no curve to speak of. But he had a side-arm delivery that made
it seem as if the ball were coming from near first base. Most of the Royals players were shy of the ball, thinking it would
hit them. But Teddy’s control was fine, and the pitches were strikes most of the time.

Don’s delivery was overhand. He had learned to throw two curves. One was a screwball, a pitch that curved in toward a right-hand
batter. The other curved away. That one was better, because it had a drop to it, too.

In the fourth inning, things began to pop.
Teddy got a three-two count on Dutch, then threw an inside pitch: a free ticket to first.

String came up. So far only he had got a hit off Teddy Nash. Teddy blazed in two pitches, both balls. Then String took a called
strike. The next pitch was in there, too, and String powdered it. The ball sizzled just inside the first-base line for a clean
single. Dutch went around to third; String held up at first.

“Okay, boys,” said Coach Day. “Two ducks on, and none away. Let’s bring them in.”

Billy Hubble tagged the first pitch. It was a pop fly in the infield, an automatic out.

The boys in the dugout groaned.

Buddy waited till a strike was called on him, then socked a chest-high pitch down to short. A perfect throw to first put him
out.

“Come on, somebody!” yelled String disgustedly. “Can’t anybody hit that ball?”

It was Chico’s turn to bat. He started for the plate.

“Chico! Wait!”

Chico turned. His jaw sagged. He looked pleadingly at the coach.
Don’t let somebody pinch-hit for me,
he thought.
I am sure I can hit that ball now.

Chico started back toward the dugout.

“No, never mind,” said the coach, waving Chico back to the plate. “Get up there, Chico. Show ’em you can do it.”

A sudden happy gleam came to Chico’s eyes. He turned, went to the plate, and dug his toes into the dirt.

“Strike one!”

Chico thought that the pitch had been a little inside, but he adjusted his stance and concentrated on the next pitch.

Then — there it was — coming in belt-high, crossing the plate almost down the middle. Chico swung.
Crack!
A long, high blast going over the left fielder’s head!

Chico dropped his bat and ran. One run
came in! Another! Chico crossed first, second, and went to third. The third-base coach waved him on to home. Chico kept going,
his black hair flying wildly. Somewhere on the base paths he had lost his helmet and cap.

“Stay up, Chico! Stay up!” cried the guys crowding around home plate, waiting to shake his hand.

A home run!

“What a smack, Chico!” String said. “Nice —”

Suddenly there was silence. One of the Colts infielders was signaling to the crowd around the plate.

“What’s he saying?” Coach Day asked.

“He’s out!” cried the umpire at first.

“Who’s out?” said Coach Day. No one else spoke. Even the bleachers were silent as the fans watched, wondering what had happened.

“That kid who just hit that home run,” said the umpire, running in and pointing at Chico Romez. “The first baseman saw it,
and I saw it. He never touched first base!”

Chico stared. His heart sank to his shoes.

“What a crazy, stupid thing!” yelled Dutch. “A home run — and he didn’t touch first base!”

T
he score was still one to nothing in the Colts’ favor.

Chico’s heart was crushed. He wished that Coach Day would remove him from the game. He was so ashamed of the foolish mistake
he had made, he didn’t care if the coach benched him for the next two or three games.

But the coach left him in.

“Watch it the next time, Chico,” advised Coach Day. “Touch every base.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Chico. But it was
like locking the barn after the horse had already run away.

The Colts got a man on. Their long-ball hitter was up, and Chico stepped back deeper into left.
Crack!
The white pill shot toward left center field as if from a cannon. Chico and center fielder Joe Ellis raced after it.

Somebody from the infield yelled, “Let Chico take it! Let Chico take it!”

Chico reached out his glove, caught the ball, and just missed colliding with Joe. He pegged the ball in.

“Beautiful catch, Chico!” The fans applauded him.

Then a ground ball went for a single, and the Colts scored a run. Two to nothing, Colts’ favor.

In the top of the fifth, Dale singled. That gave the Royals a starter. They went ahead
and scored. String made the last out of their turn at bat.

Don’s hooks baffled the Colts’ hitters. Not a man reached first. The close game kept the fans on edge.

This was the Royals’ last chance.

Kenny Morton pinch-hit for Billy Hubble and whacked a double. Coach Day put in another pinch-hitter, Louie Carlo. Louie took
a strike, then popped up to the pitcher. One away.

Chico strode to the plate.

“Come on, Chico! Another blast! Another homer! This time touch the bases!”

The pitch. “Ball!” said the umpire.

Another pitch. Chico powdered it — a ground ball through short. Kenny touched third and went in toward home. Chico dashed
for first, the fans’ cheers ringing in his ears.

Chico made sure he touched first. He headed for second, his helmet flying off his head.