The Submarine Pitch (4 page)

Buzz, up next, took a called strike, then
suddenly stumbled back and began rubbing his left eye.

“Time!” yelled the ump as he went to see what troubled Buzz. He got out a handkerchief, rubbed at the eye for a few seconds,
then put the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Play ball!” he cried.

Buzz stepped back into the box, swung at Dick’s next pitch, and
boom!
A blast over the center-field fence!

“I’m glad he got that thing out of his eye, whatever it was,” said the coach, grinning, as Buzz trotted around the bases.
It was 8-6 now, the Coronas still in front.

Neither Tom nor Rudy got on to Dick’s pitches, and the game went into the sixth inning. Bernie’s submarine pitch seemed to
work like a miracle this time as he struck out the three batters who faced him.

“Okay, men!” cried Coach Salerno, standing up in front of the dugout and clapping
his hands to psyche up the guys. “This is our last chance! We need three runs! All we have to do to get ’em is hit, right?
All right — let’s hit!”

Chuck, leading off, flied out to left field.

“I said
hit
, Chuck!” yelled the coach. “Okay, Fred. Bust one.”

Fred did, driving a sizzling grounder just inside the first base bag for a double.

Then Bernie stepped to the plate, wishing that somebody would pinch-hit for him. He stood and waited for Dick to pour in his
first pitch.

D
ick got on the rubber, looked over at Fred, then poured it in. Bernie, his heart almost still, kept his eyes on the ball as
it came in, straight as a string. It was heading down the pipe.

He swung.
Crack!
He felt a faint electric shock as the bat connected. He saw the ball streak over second for a hit. Dropping his bat, he bolted
for first. The crowd roared as Fred crossed the plate.

Bernie stood on the bag with both feet. He felt proud, happy.
It’s
my
lucky day
, he
thought.
It has to be. I’m usually a lousy hitter
.

The Ranger fans groaned as Dick grounded out. One more out and the game would go to the Coronas.

Then Arnie walked, advancing Bernie to second.

“Drive it, Deke!” yelled Arnie.

Deke drove it, a piping-hot double over third base. Bernie ran to third and then home as if his shirttail were on fire. Arnie
came in behind him, sliding safely over the plate a fraction of a second ahead of the shortstop’s throw.

It was over. The Rangers had copped their first league game, 9–8.

Dave and Frankie came down from the stands and slapped Bernie on the back as if he were the hero.

“Nice game, Bernie,” Dave exclaimed, beaming with pride. “You played a heck of a game. You know that?”

“I was just lucky,” replied Bernie.

Vincent Steele and Mick Devlan came forward, both wearing devil-may-care smiles.

“Well, I guess you
can
be hit, Bernie,” said Vincent.

“Who said I couldn’t be?”

“Your buddy here. Dave. And your little brother, Frankie.”

Bernie looked at them.
Can’t you guys keep your mouths shut?
his look said.

“Those hits weren’t solid,” said Dave defensively. “Another fraction of an inch one way or another and they would’ve been
strikeouts.”

Vince pretended to ignore him. He said to Bernie, “We’re playing you guys next Tuesday. Mick and I made a bet that one
of us will knock your submarine pitch back into the sea.” They started away, grinning. “Adios, amigos!”

“Punks,” grumbled Frankie.

Bernie looked at his brother and Dave. “Okay. Which of you guys told them?”

“Told them what?” asked Dave curiously.

“That it’s called a submarine pitch.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Frankie confessed. “I did. Nothing wrong about that, is there? Its name is no secret,
anyway, is it?”

“Nothing is secret about it now,” said Dave. “Now that they’ve seen you pitch. Don’t be sore at him, Bernie.”

“I’m not,” replied Bernie, trying to hide his chagrin. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

When Bernie arrived home his mother said that she had good news for him. But first, who won the game? He told her,
Frankie adding the frills, telling her about Bernie’s great pitching, about his getting a hit, then tying up the score.

“Hey!” she cried, her face lighting up like a sunflower. “You going to be another Carl Stramski?”

“Yastrzemski, Mom,” corrected AnnMarie. “We’ve told you that a dozen times before. Anyhow, he wasn’t a pitcher. He was a fielder.”

“What’s the good news you’ve got for me?” asked Bernie.

“You’ve got a job,” she said. “Mrs. Benson would like you to paint her fence.”

His eyes lit up. “When?”

“As soon as you can. I told her you could do it tomorrow. Okay?”

Excitement bubbled inside him as he thought about it for a minute. “Right! I’ll do it in the morning. Oh, boy! Ten bucks an
hour okay, Mom?”

“Ten bucks? Who do you think you are, anyway? A big-time contractor? Make it five. That’s enough. When you become an expert
and gain a good reputation,
then
you can charge ten bucks.”

He shrugged resignedly. “Do I have to buy the paint, too?”

“No. She’s got the paint. How much money have you earned toward your bike so far?”

“One hundred forty-four dollars,” he said. “I need almost three times that much.”

“Maybe you’ll have to advertise for jobs,” she said, smiling.

The next day, bright and early, he went over to Mrs. Benson’s, got the paint, and started on the fence. It was a brand-new
one, about five feet high, and enclosed her entire yard. Mrs. Benson was a widow and lived alone, except for two canaries,
a parrot, and three cats who kept her company.

It was close to eleven o’clock, and Bernie had two-thirds of the fence painted, when someone came up the sidewalk behind him
and yelled, “Hi!”

He whirled, startled out of his wits. As he did he felt his foot bang against the paint can and heard the instant, heart-sickening
sound of spilling paint. Quickly he grabbed the can and righted it, but what was left was barely enough to fill a cup. The
rest of it, about half a gallon, had turned a small patch of lawn from bright green to creamy white.

“Wow!” cried Vincent Steele. “I’m sorry, Bernie! I didn’t mean to scare you like that!”

Bernie turned and glared at him. Vince was on his bike. With him was Mick on his.

“Maybe you didn’t, but you did,” said Bernie angrily. “Now I’ll have to buy what I need out of the money I’m earning.”

The paint had cost Mrs. Benson $19.98. He had seen the price on the lid.

“Let’s shove off, Vince,” said Mick. “Anyway, it’s not all your fault. He kicked it over.”

“I’m really sorry, Bernie,” said Vince, as he started to pedal away.

“Sure,” mumbled Bernie.

His heart aching, he finished painting with what was left of the paint, then stood a long minute thinking before he went to
the door of the house and knocked. The ache changed to fear. What was Mrs. Benson going to say when he told her what happened?
Would she get mad and fire him right off the bat?

He heard her footsteps. Then the door opened and there she stood, tall and gray-haired, a rather plain-looking woman who didn’t
look as if she smiled a lot.

“Hello, Bernie,” she greeted him. “Are you done already?”

“No, Mrs. Benson. I — I’m out of paint.” His tongue felt dry as paper. “I spilled about half a can of it.”

“You did?” She stared at him as if it weren’t possible, then let a smile warm her face. “Well, accidents will happen,” she
said. “Come in a minute and I’ll figure out what we’ll do.”

He went in and sat down at the kitchen table, noticing an aroma that could come from only one delicious delicacy — doughnuts.
His mouth watered.

“How much more have you got to do?” she asked, grabbing a napkin from a pack on the counter. She went to the stove on which
stood a large aluminum pot, picked out a powdered-sugar doughnut, and brought it to him.

“Not much,” he answered. “Maybe twenty feet.”

“Good. Suppose you leave the rest for tomorrow. I’ll go into town in the morning and buy two quarts of paint. That should
do it, don’t you think?”

She talked to him about it as though he were an expert on paints.

“I think so,” he answered, accepting the big, soft, fragrant doughnut. He suddenly realized that he wasn’t frightened anymore.
She wasn’t mad at him; she wasn’t going to fire him. “Thanks, Mrs. Benson,” he said.

He looked at the crimson spot on the doughnut where she had inserted the jelly.

“What’s the matter, Bernie?” Mrs. Benson asked curiously. “What are you thinking?”

It’s $19.98 a gallon
, he was thinking.
Two quarts would come to at least ten or eleven dollars
.

“You can take the money out of my pay, Mrs. Benson,” he told her.

M
rs. Benson phoned him the next morning. She had bought the paint, she said, and he could come over and finish the job anytime
that it was convenient for him.

Bernie remembered that the Rangers were playing the Sharks at four o’clock. If he got started right away — it wasn’t quite
eleven — he should have the job completed before one, giving him time enough to rest before the game.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come right over.”

He finished the job, using all of one can and a small portion of the other. Mentally he
figured that he had worked four hours altogether. At five dollars an hour that added up to twenty dollars. Subtract ten dollars
from that, plus tax, for the extra paint Mrs. Benson had to buy, and that would leave him about ten dollars. Ten lousy dollars,
just because that crumb, Vince, had caused him to spill half a can of paint.

Mrs. Benson came out and looked at his job. She didn’t like the sight of the spilled paint and asked Bernie to dig it up with
a shovel. Other than that she said his paint job was fine. She didn’t say “excellent,” she just said “fine.” Which wasn’t
as good, and which could mean that she probably wished she didn’t have to give him the ten lousy dollars.

He got the shovel and dug up the paint, smoothing up the dirt afterward till it was impossible to tell that paint had been
spilled there. Then he went to the house to tell Mrs. Benson he was finished.

She smiled at him and handed him an envelope. “Thanks, Bernie,” she said. “Whenever I have any other work around the house
I can’t do myself, I’ll call on you.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Benson,” he answered. “I’m sorry about spilling the paint.”

“Oh, forget it,” she said. “It could happen to anybody.”

He started away, somehow feeling that no matter how much work Mrs. Benson might have in the future, she would never call on
him again.

He had almost reached the sidewalk when he heard the door open and Mrs. Benson’s voice. “Bernie! Just a minute! I almost forgot
something!”

She was holding a napkin with a doughnut in it. “Here,” she said, smiling brightly. “I made some to take to our women’s club
last night, but I made sure to save another one for you. You do like them, don’t you?”

Bernie’s face brightened up like a lamp. “I sure do, Mrs. Benson!” he exclaimed as he accepted it from her. “Thanks!”

He ate it on his way home; it tasted just as good as the one he had yesterday Mrs. Benson was a peach, he decided.

He got home, took the envelope to his room, and went to the bathroom to wash up.

“Well,” said AnnMarie, finishing a sandwich at the kitchen table, “did you earn so much you’re going to keep it a secret?”

“After all the deductions,” said Frankie, leaning against the doorjamb, “he figures he’ll get about ten bucks.”

“Well, there’s no sense crying over spilled paint,” said Mrs. Shantz. “And don’t tease your brother. It wasn’t all his fault
the paint spilled.”

When Bernie was finished, he went and sat at the kitchen table while his mother warmed up some soup and fixed him a sandwich.
He
was tired. It was a good thing that the game was at four; he had plenty of time to rest.

“Well, why the big secret?” AnnMarie asked again. “Aren’t you going to tell us how much you earned?”

“I know how much I
earned”
he said. “I just don’t care to see how much I
got”

Nevertheless he went to his room, picked up the envelope, and tore it open. There were two bills in it; he could barely see
the figure 5 in a corner where one bill was curled slightly.
Two fives
, he figured.

Then he took out the other bill — and his eyes widened. A twenty! Mrs. Benson had given him twenty-five dollars!

He rushed into the other room, waving it over his head like a flag. “Look what she paid me!” he cried. “Twenty-five dollars!
Can you believe it? Twenty-five dollars! Oh, I love you, Mrs. Benson!

His mom, AnnMarie, and Frankie smiled happily at him.

Dave called at two o’clock. He said that his mother was going to drive him to the game shortly after three and would Bernie
and Frankie like to ride with him?

“Sure,” said Bernie.

After Bernie hung up he realized that it was strange that Dave’s mother should be driving him to the game. Dave had always
walked before.
Never
ridden.

“Something must really be wrong with Dave Grant, Ma,” he said. “His mother’s driving him to the game, stopping here for Frankie
and me first. Mrs. Grant ever tell you about him?”

“No. And maybe you’re drawing some wrong conclusions,” said Mrs. Shantz. “Maybe Mrs. Grant has to make a trip
that way and is killing two birds with one stone.”

“Could be,” said Bernie. “Just the same, Dave has been acting funny lately, Ma. He seems to want to do a lot of things, then
gets pooped in no time at all. I don’t think he’s well.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Mrs. Shantz. “I’m sure that his parents know if he’s troubled by some illness. Why don’t
you
get a good rest before they show up? You need it after working so hard this morning.”

He lay down in his room and slept for almost an hour. At ten after three Mrs. Grant drove up with Dave, picked up Bernie and
Frankie, drove them to the ball park, and left.