Hard Drive to Short (5 page)

He stayed in the backyard with Elizabeth and Jo Ann, hoping the guys would drop in after the game and tell him how it had
turned out.

Pop was already home when Sandy saw Nibbs, Jules, Punk and Ike walking by. He stared at them from the yard. They could see
him easily if they looked. But they were
across
the street, and always before they had walked on this side of it.

And not one of them looked toward him. Not one.

S
ANDY VARGA read the results of the Spacemen-Minutemen game in Friday’s Sharil
Journal.
What a surprise. When he had left the game the Spacemen had been leading 4 to 2. It had ended 6 to 5, the Minutemen winning!

The box score:

a-Walked for Bockman in 4th.

b-Flied out for Anderson in 4th.

c-S truck out for Varga in 5th.

d-On base by error for Decker in 5th.

Spacemen   103 001-5

Minutemen 020 220-6

Frankie Mintz, who had replaced Sandy at short, had not gotten a hit. Neither had Kerry Dean, Marty Loomis or Nibbs Spry,
of all whom had played the entire game. Mark Davis, the Minutemen’s skinny, left-handed pitcher, wasn’t
that
good. But, then, maybe he was.

Well, at least the score was close. And it was the first game the Spacemen had lost.

After lunch Mom asked Sandy and Peter to carry the vacuum cleaner into the basement and clean it up.

“The spider webs, too,” she said. “They are making the cellar look like an old
deserted house. We are here, aren’t we? Let us make the spiders know that.”

Sandy chuckled. He didn’t mind spiders. He found them interesting creatures after reading how they wove their webs and how
cunning they were in capturing flies and moths. He’d had a collection of them once — all large — and had to throw them away
when Pop found out about it. Pop had no stomach for spiders.

Peter left at a quarter of one to be at the supermarket by one o’clock. Sandy grumbled about doing the rest of the work by
himself, but remembered that Peter
had
to work to help pay for his way through college. He was hoping he could make the freshman basketball team in college.

Sandy finished the job, put the vacuum cleaner back into the closet and went outdoors. Just as the screen door slammed shut
behind him, he heard Elizabeth shout, “Jo Ann! Come back here! I
told
you!”

Sandy saw his little sister next door, crouched beside Rex, petting him, while the big shepherd lay there, resting his long
jaws on his forepaws. Sandy shook his head and wondered how long she had been there.

Well, there was no need to fear Rex. But Sandy went over and got Jo Ann anyway, and told her that her place was here, not
there.

As he walked back with her, Sandy glanced between the two houses toward the Temples’ and saw Rod in the driveway,
checking the gas in the motorbike. Rod was wearing his Redwings baseball uniform.

“Hi, Rod!” Sandy yelled over.

Rod turned and waved. “Hi! Hey, Sandy, want to come along?”

“To the ball game?”

“Yeah!”

Sandy beamed. “Wait a second! I’ll see!”

He rushed into the house and asked Mom if he could go. He was all excited. It was the first time Rod had asked him to go with
him to a Redwings ball game.

She gave him permission, and also the five dollars he asked for, promising he’d work it off the next two weeks.

“Just make sure you are home by half past six,” reminded Mom.

“Oh, sure, Mom!”

He ran over to Rod’s as Rod started the motorbike, and he hopped on the rear seat. Seconds later they were buzzing down the
street, the motor cracking and spitting before it settled down to a loud, even roar.

The roar softened as the bike made a left turn at the next block, hopped over a little hump in the street and picked up speed
again. This was the life, thought Sandy. Here was a brand-new world of fun and excitement.

Presently, ahead of them, Sandy saw Nibbs Spry, Jules Anderson and Punk Peters walking on the sidewalk. Sandy turned his head.
They would just think that he hadn’t seen them.

T
HE bike breezed along the black ribbon of highway that ran alongside Deerhead Lake, a glossy, flat mirror of water that stretched
out for miles ahead of them. Five miles farther on they crossed a steel bridge. The water underneath flowed from a hundred-foot-high
falls that was hidden beyond the curve of the gorge cut out by glaciers millions of years ago and emptied into the lake.

A quarter of a mile past the bridge, a road turned off from the main highway
and up a steep hill. Rod swung onto it, and the motorbike slowed down almost instantly. Higher and higher they climbed, and
farther and farther away from the lake. Soon dense trees separated them from it, and the lower road could no longer be seen.

Many times Mom and Pop had driven the children along that lower road, absorbing the beautiful scenery. They said that the
view reminded them of parts of Hungary.

Sandy hadn’t realized that this road was also a shortcut to the next town, where the Redwings were playing today. They reached
the baseball park five minutes before the game started. The Rock Salts, the team the Redwings were playing, were already having
their final infield practice.

“Where’re you been?” the manager snapped at Rod as he trotted to the dugout. “We’re almost ready to go.”

Sandy didn’t hear Rod’s answer. He walked behind the backstop screen, looking for a seat in the crowded stands. He found one
halfway up and sat down.

The Redwings were up first, and Rod was third man up. The leadoff man struck out, and the second batter walked. Then Rod stepped
to the plate.

“Come on, Rod! Drill it out of the lot!”

You could tell that Rod had a lot of fans by the way they shouted for him. Sandy felt lucky to be Rod’s pal.

Rod leaned into a pitch. Bat met ball solidly. Like a white bead shot from a gun, the ball sailed in a high arc to deep center
field. A yell burst from the crowd at the same time. Then it faded with disappointment as the ball came down inside the park and was caught.

Rod caught streaking grounders at second base. As the game went on he pulled off sparkling plays. One was an over-the-shoulder
catch of a pop fly to short right field. He doubled, knocking in two runs, and then had bad luck when he hit into a double
play.

Rod argued with the base umpire about the call at first, taking off his cap and whipping it hard against his thigh. He was
angry — real angry — about the call.

“There he goes,” a fan behind Sandy remarked. “There goes his hot head again.”

Sandy felt a shiver pierce through him, then thought: Rod won’t argue long. He’ll stop any second now and walk to the bench. But Rod didn’t. He kept on arguing.

Suddenly the manager leaped out of the dugout and ran down the baseline toward first. “Rod!” he yelled. “Stop that and come
here and sit down!”

“But I was safe!” Rod yelled back.

“Safe or not, get back here!” cried the manager. “You can’t change his mind!”

“Good ballplayer, if it wasn’t for his being a hothead,” the fan said as Rod walked off the field.

“He’s lucky,” another said. “If the manager hadn’t run out there, Temple would’ve been thrown out of the game.”

The Redwings won 4 to 3. Rod had gotten two hits out of four times at bat. “I was robbed at first,” he said to Sandy as they
headed for home on the motorbike. “That ump’s as blind as a bat.”

Sandy didn’t say anything. But it looked to him as though the umpire had made a good call.

They reached a junction where a road turned left, heading toward Deerhead Lake. Rod maneuvered the bike onto it. The road
dipped sharply and Rod sent the scooter blazing down it like a red bullet on wheels.

“Hang on!” yelled Rod. The wind whipped against their faces and flapped their pant legs. It was the fastest ride that Sandy
had ever had on the bike. He hung on the handgrips as hard as he could.

Far ahead of them was a truck. It was going downhill in the same direction they were, but very slowly. Rod approached it and
started to pass. They were almost abreast of it when Sandy saw, a short distance beyond them, a car coming around a curve!

Sandy sucked in his breath. What was Rod going to do? Try to pass the truck, or slow down and get behind it again?

Rod didn’t do either. As the car came closer Rod swung to the
left
— off the road. Sandy closed his eyes tightly, knowing that he would never have done what Rod had done.

The bike struck a rock on the side of the road, skidded into a two-cabled railing, and fell on its side, sending Rod and Sandy
spilling over the ground.

S
ANDY rose to his feet. His right shoulder ached. It had taken most of the shock of his fall. He pulled up the sleeve of his
sweater and saw the scrape on his elbow. It was bleeding a little. He pulled the sleeve down and looked at Rod Temple.

Rod was rising to his feet a couple of yards away. “You hurt?” he asked.

“Just an ache in my shoulder and a scratch on my elbow,” said Sandy. “How about you?”

“That’s about what I’ve got.”

Rod brushed dirt off his uniform, picked up his cap, slapped it against his leg and put it on. Two men came running down the
hill. Their car, the one Rod had driven off the road to avoid, was parked a short distance away.

“You boys hurt?” one of the men yelled.

“No, we’re okay,” said Rod.

“You sure?” asked the second man. “That looked like quite a spill.”

“I’m sure.”

“How about you?” the man asked Sandy. “You all right?”

Sandy nodded. “I’m okay.”

The men shook their heads, as if the boys’ not getting hurt was a miracle. They picked up the bike and looked at it. It
was badly scratched, and the front wheel was twisted.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to ride this,” observed the first man. “Look at that wheel.”

“I’ll leave it here and have someone pick it up later,” said Rod. He took the bike, looked over the damage, then set it against
the cables. “It won’t be much of a job to fix,” he said. “Come on, Sandy. Let’s start walking.”