Field of Screams (7 page)

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I was supposed to change history. That had to be it.

Okay. It was up to me to see we never played that championship game. One game to go, and all I had to do was make sure we lost it.

I hated the idea of throwing a game. Whenever I played baseball, I played to win. But really, what was more important—playing your best, or saving about twenty lives?

The answer was obvious. I knew what I had to do. Tomorrow the Shadyside team would be playing a crucial game.

And their big star, Buddy Gibson, would be doing his very best—to lose!

T
he next day was cloudy and muggy. I broke a sweat just getting out of bed. Why didn't someone turn on the air-conditioning?

Oh, yeah, 1948. No air-conditioning.

Still, the rotten weather had its good points. I lifted the blinds on the bedroom window and cheered on the clouds.

“Come on, guys. Rain us out,” I whispered.

If we didn't play the game tonight, it would have to be played tomorrow. When we were supposed to be at the championships. History would change!

Then I remembered. In the past this game wasn't called because of rain. Shadyside played as scheduled. The weather was going to clear up—whether I liked it or not.

I sighed and went down to the kitchen. I began looking through the cabinets for some cereal or a Pop-Tart.

Mrs. Johnson pushed through the swinging doors from the dining room. “Buddy!” she cried. “How are you feeling?” She held me by the shoulders, studying my face. Her blue eyes were full of concern.

She was a nice lady. I felt bad for worrying her.

“I'm fine. Really,” I answered. “Sorry I scared you yesterday. I—uh—I guess I was a little confused.”

“Don't give it another thought, dear,” Mrs. Johnson told me. “Go on into the dining room. Your breakfast is waiting.”

I slid into a seat in the dining room. The table was covered with platters of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and potatoes. Boog sat there with a full plate, chowing down.

“Wow,” I muttered under my breath. It was amazing to me these people could even move, they ate so much!

I loaded my plate with some pancakes and bacon. “Where's Coach?” I asked Boog.

He scowled at me. “At work, stupid.”

While Boog and I ate, Mrs. Johnson fluttered around, dusting things. She wore a pink dress with a flowered apron tied over it.

I can't imagine
my
mom doing housework in a dress. She cleans in a grubby sweatshirt and a pair of old jeans.

I pushed my plate away and glanced at Boog. “What time is the game?” I asked.

“About three. Dad is leaving work early to make it there on time.” He shoved one last giant forkful of eggs into his mouth and stood up. “Come on,” he said. “Let's hit some flies and rollers.”

“Okay,” I agreed after a second.

I was surprised that Boog wanted to play ball with me. I hoped he wasn't just trying to get me alone so he could finish beating me up.

But I figured I might as well take the chance. It wasn't like I had anything else to do before the game.

The sun was already beaming through the clouds when we went outside. We crossed to Ernie's house and went through his backyard. Boog shoved aside the same fence boards I crawled through all those years in the future. We squirmed through the fence, into the same field where Eve and I practiced.

I mean, where we were
going
to practice, in fifty years.

Whatever. My brain was starting to hurt.

Boog's version of flies and rollers went like this: You catch five flies or ten ground balls to earn a turn at bat. Boog batted first, and man, did he make me work! He swatted balls all over the field. By the time I earned my chance at bat, I must have trotted two miles.

“Made you run,” he snickered when he handed me the bat.

“Yeah, well, we'll see how you do, big guy,” I puffed. I was so hot, I thought I might explode.

Boog hustled across the field, and I started hitting to him.

Anything I hit above his head, he could catch. No problem. But grounders and drives below the waist were hard for him.

After watching him for a minute, I waved him over. We ran and met about halfway.

“I think I know what you're doing wrong,” I said.

Boog flushed. “Oh, yeah? I do all right, smart guy.”

“Hey, chill out. I'm just trying to help.”

“Chill out?”
he sneered. “Where did you learn that dumb expression?”

“Uh, I—I heard it somewhere, I guess,” I stammered. I had to watch what I said.
Chill out
was from way after Boog's time. “Anyway, I think I can help you with those low ones.”

Boog folded his arms. “Is that so?”

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, I thought. Boog was starting to look as if he wanted to pound me again. And anyway, the worse he played, the more chance we would have of losing the game today—and missing the championship.

“All right, genius, I'm waiting,” Boog growled.

Me and my big mouth.

“See, it's natural to catch a high one,” I began. “You put the glove between your eyes and the ball.
But for low ones, you put the glove between the ball and the ground, or the ball and your body. So you have to hold your head differently for those.”

He looked slightly puzzled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Watch.” I bent over and showed him what I meant, following the path of an imaginary ball.

He turned his glove, mimicking my moves.

Then, to my surprise, he grinned. “Hit me some.”

He turned and chugged across the field. I trotted back to the fence and hit him a short fly ball, making him run up. He turned his glove at the last minute. The ball bounced off.

“Hold it like a basket for those,” I yelled. “Open.”

I hit him another. He got it that time. Then the next one, and the next, and the next.

By the time we finished, Boog was snagging everything I could hit. He ran up, grinning. “It works. Did you see that?” He pounded his fist in his glove. “Wait till Dad sees me now!”

I couldn't help grinning back at him. And it wasn't just because now he wouldn't try to beat me up anymore. It's corny, but I actually felt glad I helped Boog.

Boog pulled off his glove and shouldered the bat. “Come on, let's go see if Mom's got some lemonade.”

We walked back to the fence. Boog crawled through. I glanced up and saw Ernie staring at us from an upstairs window.

The day suddenly seemed less bright. For a minute there, I had forgotten where I was. Playing ball, joking with Boog, made me relax.

But seeing Ernie reminded me of everything that happened the night before. The ghost, or whatever it was, that nearly smothered me in my bed.

I had to find a way to lose the game today. I had to get out of there
now.
If I didn't, it was going to take a lot more than lemonade to make me feel better.

Because that thing was coming back for me!

T
he game was played in Shadyside this time. No bus. We were the home team, so we took the field first. I stood at third and banged my fist into my glove. I was trying to beam mental messages to the batter.

Want to score some runs? I thought at him. Just hit it my way, and I'll see what I can do for you.

The first two batters struck out, but the third hit one my way I let it bounce off my glove. Then I chased after the ball as if I were in a hurry. I made sure I kicked it just as I reached to pick it up.

By the time I got the ball, the runner was on second. I decided to settle for that. If I made too many errors on one play, it would look suspicious.

“What is with you, Gibson?” Johnny Beans yelled. “You got holes in your glove or something?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry,” I called back. I tried to sound as if I meant it.

The next batter walked. That meant the other team had runners on first and second, with two out.

The next batter kept fouling out to the left. I thought he might hit one down the third baseline, so I edged toward second.

Sure enough, he hit a bouncer right toward third base.

I made a big deal about diving for the ball. I knew I was short. It would go on by.

But then something weird happened.

The ball looked as if it struck an invisible wall in midair. It hung in the air for a split second.

Then it curved around and wobbled into my glove—without me doing a thing!

Huh?

I tried to miss it—but I caught it anyway!

“Nice play, Gibson!” Coach Johnson roared.

I climbed to my feet, staring at the ball in my glove.

The runner from second charged right into me for the third out.

The crowd in the bleachers cheered wildly as our team ran off the field. My teammates slapped me on the back and congratulated me. Even Boog called out, “Good one!”

“What a play!” Johnny Beans exclaimed as we tossed down our gloves. “How did you do that? I thought that ball was by you for sure!”

I shrugged. “Just a lucky break,” I mumbled.

But it didn't
feel
like a lucky break. I was almost positive that ball changed course in midair.

Then a voice whispered behind me, “I know what you're doing, you rat. You're trying to lose! But I won't let you.”

I whirled around.

No one behind me.

“Did—did you say something?” I asked Johnny.

“Nope,” he replied.

But I knew that already.

Because I recognized that thin, cold voice. The voice from last night. From the ghost, or whatever it was, that attacked me.

It followed me! It was here!

And somehow it was interfering with the game!

Why? What did a ghost care about a baseball game? Why did a ghost want Shadyside to win?

In the dugout, I checked the lineup sheet. I was batting cleanup.

Good. I would make sure I struck out. There was nothing a ghost could do to prevent
that!

The bases were loaded when I got to the plate. I stepped up with a hollow feeling in my stomach. I was never at bat before when I didn't try to do my best. But I made myself swing at the first two pitches like a goof.

My teammates yelled from the dugout.

“Use your eyes, Buddy.”

“Don't swing at junk!”

“Come on, Gibson!”

I swung at the third pitch, a ball way outside. There was no way I could hit it.

Then the ball changed course.

Not like a curveball. It was as if the ball whacked into something and bounced off. It hit me on the elbow.

The umpire jumped up and hollered, “Hit by the pitch! Automatic walk. Take your base!”

I groaned and slung my bat toward the dugout. I trudged to first as the kid on third ambled home.

“Hah,” the cold voice whispered in my ear. “You can't stop me. I'm growing stronger. I'm going to get you!”

I shuddered.

I was starting to realize the horrible truth.

I couldn't lose.

No matter what I did, the ghost wasn't going to let me throw the game. I didn't know why.

All I knew was, my chance to change history was going down the tubes.

And so was my chance to survive!