The Submarine Pitch (2 page)

Reluctantly, Bernie got his glove and ball and went out to the backyard with Dave. If it were anyone else but Dave who tried
to coax him, he would definitely refuse. But
he’d do it for Dave — mainly to satisfy Dave, not himself.

He threw his first pitch, not concentrating on whether it was overhand or underhand.

“Underhand,” reminded Dave. “Throw it underhand. Like this.”

Thinking that
no one
he knew threw underhand, Dave threw the ball back to him, bringing it up from the side of his body, near his knees. The ball
streaked up to Bernie and then, just as it got near him, curved inward, toward Bernie’s right side.

“Hey, did you see that?” Bernie exclaimed. “It hooked!”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do,” said Dave, proudly. “It comes naturally if you throw it right.”

“Maybe
you
should pitch for the Rangers,” suggested Bernie.

“I wish I could,” replied Dave.

Bernie felt slightly embarrassed because he remembered that Dave had said recently that he might never be able to play baseball
again. He used to, but last spring he had gotten sick and hadn’t played since. His participation now was limited to easy games
of pitch and catch.

Bernie started to throw the ball underhand, bringing it up from his knees as Dave had done. At first the pitch was slightly
wild, forcing Dave to leap out after it. But each successive throw got better, and before long, Bernie had the pitch fairly
well under control.

“Hey, man!” Dave cried. “You’re doing fine!”

Bernie grinned. “You make a lousy liar, you know that?”

Frankie sprawled on his stomach, watching them play. “Look who’s here,” he said a few minutes later.

Bernie paused and looked toward the street. Two guys who played with the Sharks were coming up to the fence separating the
sidewalk from the yard. The taller of them, the light-haired one wearing a white T-shirt, was Vincent Steele, the Sharks’
cleanup hitter. The other was Mick Devlan, the Sharks’ catcher.

“Hold it,” said Dave, and looked at his wristwatch. “It’s almost five. I’ve got to run.”

He went up to Bernie, catching a soft throw and squeezing the mitt around it. “Don’t breathe a word about the submarine pitch
to those guys or to anybody else,” he said under his breath. “Let’s keep it between us. Okay?”

He was breathing unusually hard, as if they’d been playing for hours.

“Okay. Are you all right, Dave?”

“Yes, I’m okay. Just a little tired. See you.”

Dave left, waving to the two newcomers as he walked out of the yard and across the street. Bernie watched him.
Maybe someday he’ll tell me what is really bugging him
, he thought.

“Heard that you’re not going to pitch for the Rangers this year, Bernie,” said Vincent. “What’s the story?”

“I’m holding out for more money,” said Bernie.

Both Vincent and Mick laughed. “What did your coach do? Promise to pay you for not playing?” said Vincent.

“Just wait’ll the season opens,” Frankie piped up. “We’ll see who’ll be laughing then.”

“Is that so?” said Mick. “’Well, well, well! How about that, Vince? Did you hear the kid?”

“I heard some noise,” replied Vince, looking around and then back at Bernie, a pretended look of puzzlement on his face.

Bernie stared coldly at Frankie. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. Frankie had learned a long time ago what the
looks that his older brother gave him under varying circumstances meant.

“If you guys don’t mind, we’ve got to go in,” said Bernie. “See you around.”

“Sure,” said Vincent, and he and Mick took off down the sidewalk.

Frankie rose to his feet and came trotting up beside Bernie. “I’m sorry, Bernie,” he said, his eyes wide and apologetic. “I
shouldn’t have said what I did, should I?”

“No, you shouldn’t,” said Bernie, still smoldering. “For a little kid you’ve got a big mouth, you know that?”

Frankie’s jaw slacked. He turned away, his eyes blinking.

“I’m sorry,” said Bernie, reaching out toward his brother. “You were sticking up for me and didn’t think what you were
saying, but Dave did ask us not to talk about the pitch.”

He put his arm around Frankie’s shoulders and squeezed him gently as they walked to the house. As long as he could remember,
Frankie had always looked up to him as an older, wiser brother. Quite often Frankie had gone to him for advice about something
— such as fixing his bike chain when a link had broken — instead of going to Dad. He liked the feeling. Frankie was more than
a brother. He was a pal.

And now his brother and his best friend wanted him to learn this new “wonder” pitch. He felt a creepy sensation shooting through
him as he remembered Dave’s pitches to him. Each one had hooked as it came over the plate.

His didn’t. They were always straight as a string. But
maybe
in time the submarine pitch would work for him.

O
ne thirty-nine… one forty… one forty-one…

Bernie heard a light knock on the door, then the door opening and finally closing.

He kept on counting. “… one forty-two… one forty-three… one forty-four.”

That was it. One hundred forty-four dollars. He folded up the bills and pushed them into the canvas bag Dad had picked up
for him at the bank.

“Wow! That’s quite a pile of dough, Bernie,” said Frankie. “Haven’t you saved up enough yet for that bike?”

Bernie opened a drawer and dropped the bag of money into it. Then he turned around and faced Frankie, who had plunked himself
down on his bed. The brothers shared the room. Each had his own desk and his own preferred team pennants and sports prints
on the wall nearest his bed.

“No,” Bernie answered, stretching out his bare legs and wiggling his toes. “I’ve got a lot more to earn yet.”

Frankie whistled. “Man! I didn’t think mountain bikes cost that much!”

“Well, they do,” said Bernie. “That means a lot of lawn mowing and small jobs I’ve got to scratch up. Maybe I won’t have time
to go out for baseball after all.”

Frankie’s head jerked up off the bed as if he’d been stung. He looked at Bernie with disbelieving eyes. “Won’t have time for
baseball?”
he echoed. “Don’t say that, Bernie! With that submarine pitch you might turn out to be the best pitcher in the league!”

“That’s crazy, Frankie,” said Bernie. “You saw how many pitches I threw to Dave yesterday. Not one curved as much as a hair.
I might as well keep throwing overhand and watch the pitches being knocked all over the lot.”

“It will, though,” Frankie insisted. “You just keep throwing it. You’ll see.”

Bernie shook his head. This kid was impossible.
Maybe what I need is some of his grit
, he thought.

Then he thought about Dave and about Dave’s attitude when Vince and Mike had stopped by to watch them play catch.

“Frankie, did you notice how Dave acted when Vince and Mick showed up?” he said. “Right away he wanted to quit. He didn’t
want them to watch me throw that pitch. I think he
really
wants us to keep it a secret.”

“Sure, he does,” replied Frankie seriously. A smile curved his lips. “You know what? Sometimes he acts as if he’s your brother,
too.”

Bernie nodded. “I know. That’s why I — I hate to disappoint him.”

For a week Bernie worked on the submarine pitch, practicing it either at his own home or at Dave’s, and he had made solid
improvement. There was a hook on the end of the pitch now. He had discovered how to accomplish it by twisting his wrist just
slightly when releasing the ball.

He never worked out long at a time, though. About fifteen minutes was the limit, because Dave wanted to stop to rest then.
But after half an hour’s rest Dave would insist
that they continue. This they did two or three times a day.

The only other time they paused for a rest was when a kid who played on an opposing team stopped by for a visit. This, too,
was Dave’s idea. He was really serious about not wanting anybody else to know about the submarine pitch.

“Why, Dave?” asked Bernie, when it happened for the third time. “Why don’t you want anybody else to know about the pitch?”

Dave looked at him seriously, as if he couldn’t understand why Bernie should ask him such a question.

“Because I want this to surprise them,” he explained. “If you’re going to start pitching when the league opens in a couple
of weeks, you’d want the pitch developed enough to make it effective, wouldn’t you?”

Bernie frowned at him. Dave sure was
serious about the pitch, all right. He was talking as if he were Bernie’s pitching coach. Well, in a way he was. He had introduced
Bernie to the pitch, showed him how to throw it, and was having him practice it as often as he could. He was doing everything
a pitching coach would do.

But Dave was taking a lot for granted, too.

“Dave, I haven’t really said that I was going to pitch,” said Bernie.

The statement seemed to hit Dave like a bombshell. “What do you mean you haven’t said? I thought that’s why we’ve been working
on the submarine pitch all this time.”

“I know. But it’s real new for me, Dave. I might walk every guy that steps up to the plate.”

“But you won’t! Your control is good. Real good.” Dave wiped a sleeve across his sweating forehead. “You can’t say that you’re
not going to pitch, Bernie. You just
can’t.”

Bernie stared at him. “I don’t get it, Dave,” he said. “Why should you be so anxious that I pitch? I could see why my brother
Frankie is. But why you?”

Dave gazed at him a long minute. “Because I can’t do it myself,” he answered. “Don’t ask me why, but I can’t. I would like
to see you do it… for me.”

“Suppose I fail?”

“That’s all right. I’m not worried about that.”

Again Bernie frowned, puzzled by Dave’s answer.

“Okay, Dave,” he said finally. “If you have faith in me, I should have, too. I’ll give Coach Salerno a call tonight and ask
him if he’ll still have me for the Rangers.”

Dave’s face brightened. “You won’t have to,” he said.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“I’ve already talked with him,” replied
Dave. “He’s got your name. And he wants you to be at the ball park Saturday morning for a practice game against the Atoms.”

“Why, you jerk!” cried Bernie, poking him in the stomach.

“I knew you’d like that,” said Dave, grinning.

The Atoms looked as if they had changed into their new uniforms in a sporting goods store; their white jerseys and blue pants
were spanking clean. The Rangers’ uniforms, green jerseys and white pants, were clean, too, but had that telltale look of
having been through the mill. The fuzz was nearly all worn off all the pants at the knees, giving them a burlapish look.

Both teams had their names on the fronts of the jerseys and large numbers on the backs. Bernie’s number was 3.

The catchers of both teams flipped a coin to see who’d bat first. Fritz Boon, the Atoms’ catcher — a roly-poly kid who seemed
to have been squeezed into his uniform — won the toss and chose to bat last.

“Okay, here’s the roster,” said Coach Salerno. He wasn’t quite as stout as Fritz, nor as short, and his red, long-brimmed
cap made him stand out like a cardinal among a flock of sparrows. He thumbtacked the list to the side of the dugout. “Read
it to find out who you follow in the batting order and let’s get started. Bernie, you’re chucking.”

Although Bernie expected it, hearing the coach tell him was like a slight electric shock. He nodded, and then felt suddenly
numb as questions popped into his head.
Suppose I can’t throw the ball within a mile of the plate? Suppose that even if I do get it over, the Atoms blast it all over
the lot?

He shook the thoughts loose from his mind and went over to read the roster.

Bill Conley — shortstop

Ed Masters — right field

Deke Smith — first base

Buzz Ames — left field

Tom McDermott — second base

Rudy Sims — center field

Chuck Haley — third base

Fred Button — catcher

Bernie Shantz — pitcher

Chris Morgan, the Atoms’ pitcher, had an overhand delivery that reminded Bernie very much of the way he used to throw. But
Chris’s pitches could thread a needle. Nearly all of them were teasers, thrown near or below the batters’ knees. In the top
of the first both Bill and Ed struck out and Deke grounded out to short.

The teams exchanged sides, and after a few warm-up pitches Bernie toed the rubber and winged in his first submarine pitch
that anybody had ever seen besides Frankie and Dave.

A soft, surprised cry broke from the Atom bench.

“Hey! What kind of a pitch was that?” one of the guys exclaimed.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him throw like that before,” observed another.

Bernie got two balls and two strikes on the leadoff batter, Ralph Benz — who stood in a deep crouch at the plate — then struck
him out. As the infielders whipped the ball around the horn, Bernie felt his heart pound. One down, two to go.

Jim Hayes, the Atoms’ second batter, waited out the pitches till the count built up to three and two. Then he too swung at
a high sweeping pitch and whiffed.

Hank Dooley, the Atoms’ left fielder, got a piece of the ball and beat out a scratch hit to third. Then Mark Pine, the Atoms’
big gun, let two strikes go by him and swung at the third, missing it by a foot.

Bernie heard the hum rise among the Atom players as he walked off the mound. His heart was still pounding, though not as hard
as before.

His own teammates showered him with words of praise. The coach shook his hand, grinning. “I don’t know what you’re throwing,
kid,” he said, “but whatever it is, don’t lose it.”

But the voice that he heard when he was near the dugout was the one that really mattered.

“What did I tell you, Bernie?” Dave called. “Huh? What did I tell you?”

B
uzz Ames singled to center, scooted to second on Tom’s sacrifice bunt, and scored on Rudy’s smashing drive through short.
The Ranger bench yelled as if the 1–0 lead were the straw that would break the Atoms’ back.