Shortstop from Tokyo (3 page)

Smash
! The ball sailed through the window, shattering it to pieces.

Stogie stood frozen on the spot.

T
HE BACK DOOR of the Bunninger swung open as if a strong wind had blown it. A tall man in shirt sleeves and baggy pants burst
out on the porch, his red face matching his glaring eyes.

“Scalawagging devils!” he shouted, the white strands of hair on his shiny scalp standing almost straight up. “Know what you’ve
done? You didn’t only break that window! You smashed a vase too! A vase over a hundred years old!”

“S-s-s-sorry, M-Mr. B-Bunninger!” stammered Stogie.

“Sorry?” Mr. Bunninger waggled like a duck down the steps, holding the baseball in his hand. “That doesn’t pay for a window!
That doesn’t pay for a vase Mrs. Bunninger’s grandmother left her! Darn scalawagging …! You know what oughta be done with
every baseball in these here United States? Put into a big cannon and shot at those Communists, that’s what! Whoever invented
the dang game oughta be tied to a stake and burned!”

“It’s too late,” said Beak softly. “He’s dead.”

Mr. Bunninger stopped at the fence and stared at him. “Who’s dead?”

“Abner Doubleday,” answered Beak. “He’s the guy who invented baseball.”

“Oh? You even know the guy who invented the game, do you?” Mr. Bunninger’s voice rasped as if his vocal chords were lined
with sandpaper. “Well, that don’t cut no ice! Somebody’s still carrying on his lousy tradition! Baseball! This is proof, ain’t
it? This is proof it’s a dangerous sport! Just like football, basketball, soccer and the whole shootin’ match of ’em! No wonder
this country’s goin’ to the dogs!”

Suddenly he looked directly at Sam Suzuki. The flames in his eyes died a little. “Who are you? Never seen you before.”

“Sam Suzuki.” Sam, who had looked pretty frightened throughout Mr. Bunninger’s long speech, cracked a weak smile.

“Sam Suzuki? Live in Westport?”

Sam’s head bobbed.

“Since when?”

“Since two weeks ago. My father is a professor at the college.”

“Oh. Where did you come from? China? Japan? Korea?”

Sam chuckled. “Tokyo, Japan.”

A smile smothered the flames altogether in Mr. Bunninger’s eyes. “Tokyo, huh? Always wanted to visit Tokyo. Beautiful city.
Big, loaded with temptations.”

The boys stared at him. Sam hauled out his Japanese-American pocket dictionary. “Tem what?” he asked.

Mr. Bunninger laughed. “Forget it.” Then his eyes went back to the baseball in his hand and he stopped laughing. His sandpapery
voice became serious again. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise you won’t spill it to my wife. Promise?”

Sam returned the dictionary to his pocket, obviously disappointed that Mr.
Bunninger had refused to repeat the word.

“Promise,” said Stogie.

“You’ll have to pay for the window,” said Mr. Bunninger sharply. “Might be five bucks. I don’t know. Maybe less, maybe more.
The vase — now, that’s different. This is the secret I want you to keep. Spill it to Mrs. Bunninger and I’ll keep after you
three till I track you down and tan your backsides till they’re blistered.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “
I’m glad the accident happened
, hear? That vase was the ugliest piece of furniture we had in the house. I’ve been trying to think of ways to get rid of
it ever since we’ve been married. Point is, she admitted it wasn’t the prettiest object of art in the world, herself, but
she wouldn’t get rid of it because it was a family heirloom.”

Stogie sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “But what’re you going to tell your wife when she sees the broken vase, Mr.
Bunninger?”

“Tell her the truth. What else? Sure, she’ll be mad. But I’ll tell her I bawled you out good and proper. And I did, didn’t
I?”

“You sure did!” said Sam elatedly.

Mr. Bunninger’s eyes hopped from one boy to the other like Ping-Pong balls. The fierceness had returned to them. Without saying
another word, he pivoted and started back towards his house.

“Mr. Bunninger,” Stogie called. “You still have our baseball.”

The old man paused, looked at the ball, then tossed it across the fence. “Can’t see what fun you kids get out of baseball.
Can’t see it at all. Don’t forget that window.
I’ll get it fixed and give you the bill.”

“Yes, sir,” promised Stogie.

After Mr. Bunninger disappeared into the house Stogie looked at Sam. “I’ll pay for it,” he said.

“No. Me. I will pay for the window. I threw the ball wide. It was my mistake.”

“But I hit it,” argued Stogie. “I should pay for it.”

“Tell you what,” intervened Beak. “The three of us will pay for it. We were all playing so we should all pay.”

Sam and Stogie looked at each other. Sam grinned and Stogie shrugged. “It’s settled,” announced Beak.

Jill appeared at the door, carrying a tray with three tall glasses on it. “Lemonade, anyone?”

“It’s funny,” said Beak. “I was just hoping
someone would come and say, ‘Lemonade, anyone?’”

They sat on the lawn and drank and talked about the Bunningers. Then Sam told about his life in Japan and about the Yomiuri
Giants, his favorite baseball team, and about Shigeo Nagashima, the Giants’ great home run hitter whose autograph Sam had
on his glove. He had learned judo, too, as his father had. And he could eat with chopsticks, but the family had been eating
with knives and forks for so long that they preferred to continue eating that way. Television? His favorite actor was John
Wayne.

The sound of two loud blasts and a short one ended their talk abruptly. A couple of seconds later the blasts were repeated.

Sam sprang to his feet. “What’s that?”

“A fire!”

Moments later they heard a fire truck roaring up a nearby street, its bell clanging.

“Let’s see where it is!” cried Beak.

Stogie practically dropped the tray with the empty glasses on the porch and ran out of the yard behind Beak and Sam. The fire
was two blocks away. Smoke and flames were leaping from the second story windows of a house and firemen were shooting water
through them from hoses. Police were keeping the crowd back and detouring cars down another street.

Half an hour later some of the firemen had entered the building and the fire was pretty much under control. But darkness had
fallen and suddenly Beak said, “Hey!
I’d better get home. My folks will wonder where I am.”

“My folks, too,” said Sam. “Come on!”

The three of them raced down to the corner, then cut sharply onto Huckleberry Street.

“Good night, Stogie!” cried Beak as Stogie headed toward the rear of his house.

“’Night! ’Night, Sam!”

“Good night, Stogie! See you tomorrow!”

Stogie started for the back porch when he saw a glove on the lawn. He recognized it immediately as Sam Suzuki’s. He looked
for Beak’s, then remembered that Beak had strapped his to his belt.

Stogie picked up the glove and saw Shigeo Nagashima’s autograph on it. I
ought to take it to Sam, he thought. He’ll wonder what happened to it.

Then he remembered Sam’s playing shortstop, remembered the coach’s praising him. “Look at that arm! The kid can really throw!”

Resentment burst within him and he chucked the glove back onto the lawn.
The heck with the darn glove
, he told himself.
Sam forgot it. Let him take care of it himself
.

He climbed the steps and went into the house.

S
AM CAME over for the glove in the morning. His face shone radiantly as the sun. “Forgot glove,” he said. “You take it into
the house?”

Stogie looked past Sam’s shoulder. “No. It’s on the lawn. I saw it there last night.”

“Not on the lawn,” said Sam. “I look.”

Stogie frowned. He focused his eyes on the spot where he clearly remembered having seen Sam’s glove. It wasn’t there. “Funny,”
he said and ran down the steps.

“You sure you did not take it into the
house?” asked Sam, his own forehead creased from puzzlement now.

“I told you I didn’t,” insisted Stogie, his voice rising sharply. Where was that lousy glove anyway? It was here last night.
No one would’ve come here after dark and taken it. No one except Sam and Stogie had known it was here. And probably Beak.
But why should Beak worry about Sam Suzuki’s glove? He had his own to think about, and he had taken it with him.

Suddenly a yell tore from Sam. “I see it!”

He dashed toward the far side of the lawn and Stogie breathed a sigh of relief. But how did the glove get over there?

Sam picked it up. Then he stood, staring at it in horror.

“What’s the matter, Sam?” yelled Stogie, running forward. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

And then he stopped and stared, too. The inside of the glove was torn to ribbons and most of the packing was sticking out.

Sam looked at Stogie, tears springing to his eyes.

“You did this!” he exclaimed, his lips trembling.

“Me? Are you crazy?”

“You do not want me to play shortstop!” cried Sam. “You were mad and destroyed my glove! Autograph of Shigeo Nagashima destroyed
too!” Sam’s voice cracked. He folded the glove and ran out of the yard as fast as he could.

Stogie ran after him. “Sam!” he yelled. “Sam! I didn’t destroy your glove! I didn’t!”

Sam fled around the corner of the house and out of sight. A lump filled Stogie’s
throat. He hadn’t destroyed Sam’s glove! But someone had.

“What was that all about?” a voice inquired. Stogie looked up and saw Jill and Mom staring at him from the top of the porch
steps.

“Some — someone’s ruined Sam Suzuki’s glove,” he murmured, “and he blames me. I didn’t do it, but he won’t believe me.”

“Did he have it with him?” Mom asked, frowning.

“No. He left it here last night.” Stogie felt a sense of guilt. “We’d gone to a fire — Sam, Beak and me — and Sam left his
glove. He went home afterwards instead of coming back here after it. I — I saw it lying on the lawn, but I — I just left it.
That’s all. I just left it. I — I never thought anything might happen to it.”

“Maybe a dog got after it,” Jill guessed.

“I don’t know,” said Stogie, climbing slowly up the steps. “But Sam believes I did it. He thinks I’m jealous of him, that
I’m afraid he’ll take over shortstop.”

“That’s silly,” exclaimed Jill. “Sam wouldn’t think that.”

“Oh, no? Try telling Sam that. See if he doesn’t.”

Beak came over later and Stogie told him about the glove.

“That’s right!” said Beak, his eyes flashing wide. “He didn’t take the glove with him when we went to the fire! I remember!
I could kick myself for not reminding him about it when we came back.”

“I could kick myself for leaving it on the lawn,” muttered Stogie. “I picked it up … to take to him. Then I left it there
on purpose.”

“Why?” Beak frowned at him.

A ball clogged in Stogie’s throat. “Because, that’s why! Quit asking me silly questions, will you?”

S
TOGIE CRANE was at the ball field at six o’clock. A few minutes later Sam arrived with Bernie Drake and Jim Albanese. Sam
had his glove.
It’s ruined inside but he still wants to use it
, Stogie thought.
Gosh, it would be like catching a ball with your bare hand!

He wanted to catch Sam’s eyes, to say “Hi” or something. But Sam was busy playing catch with Bernie and Jim. Now and then
Stogie saw him wince as he caught a fast throw in the pocket of the glove. Sam didn’t yell. And from his smiling
face you’d never know that deep inside he was hurt.

The Patriots had first raps. Stogie, playing short for the Mohawks, joined the chatter with the other infielders — “C’mon,
Tom! Get ’im out, Tom, boy!” — shouting Tom Rolf’s name and hoping to blot out the thought of Sam and his ruined glove.

A Patriot singled. The next slashed a grounder down to short. The ball came directly at Stogie. He crouched, waiting for the
hop. The ball struck the heel of his glove, bounced up against his chest and then to the ground. Panic-stricken, he retrieved
the ball, started to throw to second, but held up.