No Arm in Left Field (2 page)

Third baseman Ed Caliel rushed out
to receive the throw in, but the runner was safely on base by the time he got it and turned to throw.

“Hold it!” Mick yelled.

A second voice sliced through the air, and Terry’s ears filled with its terrible ring.

“Hey! See that? Terry hasn’t got an arm! He can’t throw worth beans!”

T
ERRY TWINGED
. He couldn’t rid himself of his poor throwing arm. It was his big weakness.

Once, a couple of years ago, he had played second base, where he didn’t have to throw very hard. But his coach had discovered
that Terry was better at catching flies than grounders, and so had transferred him to the outfield. Terry liked that better
and had played there ever since, even if he did have trouble when a long fly was hit while men were on base.

He saw the angry look on Tony’s face,
and heard a chuckle come from center fielder Rich Muldoon.

“Why don’t you trade in that arm, Terry?” the tall, skinny kid hollered at him. “You sure can’t get a worse one!”

Terry grinned. “I’ll make up for it in other ways, Rich!” he yelled back.

With one out, Mick pitched to the next batter. The Boiler smashed a hot, sizzling liner directly at Ed Caliel at third. The
runner on third started toward home, then stopped. He slipped as he tried to get back to third, and Ed doubled him up. Three
outs.

“Nice play, Ed,” Terry said as he trotted up beside the stocky third baseman.

Ed glanced at him, nodded, and looked away.

“Muldoon, Philips, Caliel,” Coach Harper announced. “Get on, Rich.”

Rich put on his protective helmet, stepped to the plate, took his swings and struck out. Bud Philips hit a high bouncer to
the pitcher for the second out and Ed grounded out to short.

Mick held the Boilers hitless. Then, in the top of the third, Stu Henderson drilled Lefty Wallace’s second pitch through the
pitcher’s mound, forcing Lefty to dance a momentary jig. It was the Forest Lakers’ first hit of the game and the guys got
excited.

Caesar Valquez stepped to the plate, dug his sneakers into the soft dirt as if he were going to wallop one of Lefty’s pitches
into no man’s land, and then stuck the bat out for a bunt.

Foul.

Caesar stepped out of the box, glanced
at the coach and stepped back in again. Another bunt, and again a foul.

“Hit away, Ceez!” Coach Harper yelled.

Caesar blasted the next pitch to center for an easy out. Mick, last man in the batting order, removed the metal doughnut from
the fat part of his bat, plodded to the plate, dug his sneakers firmly into the dirt, and watched the first pitch breeze by
him.

“Strike!” yelled the ump.

“Clout it, Mick!” Terry cried.

The pitch, and Mick swung. A hot grounder to second base! The Boiler second baseman caught the hop, snapped it to second for
the first out, the shortstop whipped it to first. A double play.

The Boiler fans roared as the teams exchanged sides.

Bottom of the third.
Hope nobody
knocks one too deep in left,
Terry thought as he ran out to his position.
I don’t want Tony Casterline to be able to embarrass me again.

A high pop fly to Stu accounted for the first out and Terry breathed a sigh of relief. Then Mick drilled a pitch over the
heart of the plate and the Boiler batter drilled it back at him like a rifle shot. It knocked Mick’s glove off and bounced
out to center for a hit.

Man on first and one out.

Mick toed the rubber and threw.
Crack!
A hefty clout to deep left. Terry turned and bolted back toward the fence, then looked over his shoulder, lifted his glove
and snared the ball — a spectacular, one-handed catch. He stopped in his tracks and pegged the ball in to Tony Casterline,
throwing it as hard as he
could. The ball dropped short, as he expected, and he saw the Boiler runner bee-line to second.

“Old no arm!” Tony yelled as he ran out to get the throw in. The runner held up at second.

Terry’s heart pounded. Not only from running, but because of Tony’s sarcastic remark. Old no arm! That darn guy didn’t even
give him credit for the catch!

A shot over short scored the Boilers’ first run. Terry ran up, caught the ball on a bounce and pegged it successfully to Jeff
Roberts at second. The hitter held up on first. Coming in closer to Tony, Terry was able to see a scowl on the shortstop’s
face.

The Forest Lakers settled down. Stu, crouched behind home plate in his catcher’s gear, tried to liven up the team with
his peppery chatter. Although this was just a practice game, the guys were serious about every play. Terry wondered how much
more serious they could be when league play actually started.

Mick worked the next Boiler batter to two balls and two strikes, then fanned him with a curve.

Jeff, leading off for the Lakers in the top of the fourth, struck out. Tony then laced a pitch through short for a single.
Terry came up, hoping to redeem himself for his first strikeout. Lefty threw two inside pitches, then fired one high and outside,
which Terry liked.

He swung — and missed. Another high, outside pitch. Again he swung — and missed.

“Two… two!” the ump bellowed.

Terry stepped out of the box, rubbed
the bat firmly around its skinny handle, then stepped in again and lambasted Lefty’s next pitch to left center field. Tony
raced around to third and Terry held up on second for a clean double. Standing on the bag Terry noticed Tony looking at him
appraisingly.

The handful of Forest Laker fans cheered Terry, and he felt pleased. He had put himself and Tony in scoring position. Now
it was up to the next batters.

Rich Muldoon didn’t help. His pop-up to third made it two outs. It was up to Bud Philips. Bud, a lanky, light-haired, left-handed
batter, strode to the plate in that lazy fashion of his and watched the first pitch sail by him as if he were watching a parade.
He didn’t look as if he were going to swing at the next pitch either
until after the ball had left Lefty’s hand and was halfway to the plate.

Crack!
A bullet drive to right center, and both Tony and Terry scored! Ed grounded out to end the rally. Forest Lakers 2, Boilers
1.

The change in the lead seemed to have affected the Boilers. They weren’t able to get a man on first base in their half of
the inning. In the fifth Stu, Caesar and Mick went down one, two, three. So did the Boilers.

Jeff, leading off for the Lakers in the top of the sixth, singled on the first pitch and scampered to second base on Tony’s
scratch single. Terry, hoping to knock in at least one run, swung hard at a high, outside one — and missed. He let a low pitch
slide by for strike two, then swung
hard again at another one he liked — high and outside.

“Strike three!” cried the ump.

“Oh, come on!” Tony yelled angrily. “Somebody knock us in!”

Nobody did.

“This is it!” Coach Harper said as the Lakers ran out to the field. “Let’s play heads-up out there!”

Mick worked hard on the Boiler lead-off man and struck him out on the 3-2 pitch. The infielders snapped the ball around the
horn, then returned it to Mick.

Mick took his time, then threw one low and inside. Bat met ball and Terry sprinted forward as he saw it heading for short
left field. He reached low for the shallow drive and caught the ball near his sneaker laces. He was within ten
feet of Tony when he slowed up and tossed the ball to the shortstop.

“Nice catch.” Tony said, and smiled crookedly. “Too bad nobody was on second. You might’ve thrown him out — seeing you didn’t
have far to throw.”

“Guess I was lucky,” Terry said as he turned and trotted back to his position. He tried not to get sore. Maybe one of these
days — soon, he hoped — Tony would realize that Terry could catch, run and hit well enough to make up for his poor arm, and
stop his sarcastic remarks.

Mick walked the next Boiler, the next batter popped out to Ed, and that was it. The Forest Lakers won, 2 to 1.

“Nice game, Terry,” Mick said as they stood by the water fountain, waiting for their chance to get a drink.

“Thanks, Mick,” Terry said, wiping his sweating brow. “You, too.”

A couple of strange guys came up and looked at Terry. They were about his age and wore baseball caps.

“Nice hit you got, Delaney,” one of them wearing glasses said. “Bet you won’t get to first base on us.”

A chuckle rippled from him as he nudged his partner and walked away.

“Who are they?” Terry asked curiously.

“Jim Burling and Dave Wilson,” said Tony, who was standing nearby. “They’re the battery for the Yellow Jackets, the team we
play our first league game with. They’ve got your number, Terry. You’re a sucker for high, outside pitches.”

F
ELLAS
,” Coach Harper said. “Before you leave I’ve got some nice news for you. There’s a movie on the Oakland-Cincinnati World Series
tomorrow night at the Forest Lake Hotel, sponsored by the Forest Lake Lions Club, and all of us are invited to attend. How
about that?”

A chorus of satisfied shouts resounded from the boys. Terry was especially pleased for the opportunity. He hadn’t seen any
of the World Series games on television.

Suddenly he remembered that tomorrow
night his father had planned to take the family out to dinner. The conflict bothered him. He liked to go out for dinner, but
he wanted to see the World Series movie, too.

“Fine,” the coach said. “The movie will be shown at seven-thirty. I’ll have someone telephone each of you and arrange to pick
you up.”

“Are you going, Terry?” Mick asked.

“I’d like to,” Terry replied. “But we’ve planned to go out for dinner.”

“Skip the dinner,” Mick suggested, smiling. “You can’t always see a World Series movie.”

Terry shrugged. “Okay. I’m sure my dad will take us out for dinner again sometime!”

Terry saw a scornful look come over Tony’s face.
Can you beat that?
he
thought.
He even resents my going to see a World Series movie with the team!

Their eyes locked. Then Tony looked away, tapped a couple of his friends on their shoulders, and walked off with them.

“Ready to go?” Terry asked Mick, hoping nobody could hear his pounding heart.

Mick glanced at the three boys leaving. “Let’s wait a minute,” he said.

“Why? For Tony and those guys to get way ahead of us?” Terry grinned. “If I don’t mind them, why should you?”

Mick’s eyebrows pulled together above the bridge of his nose. “You mean it doesn’t bother you, the way he looked at you and
all that”

“I’ve met guys like Tony before, Mick,” Terry said. “I’ll always keep meeting guys
like him. My father says that’ll be something I’ll have to live with the rest of my life, and as far as I can see I’m not
the one with a problem. Tony is.”

“But doesn’t it
hurt?”

“Sure it hurts. But not as much as it used to.” He chuckled. “At least, he hasn’t called me any dirty names yet — and if he
knows what’s good for him, he better not.”

Mick laughed and socked Terry lightly on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said, and they started off the field. “You know, Terry,
I can’t see why any guy — black or white — can’t like you. You know what I’d probably do if I were in your place?”

“What?” Terry asked.

“I’d, well, I’d…”

Mick looked at Terry, a vacant expression in his eyes.

“You’d what, Mick?”

Mick inhaled deeply, then breathed out a sigh. “Darn it, Terry, I don’t know what I’d do,” he admitted.

They walked the rest of the way home in silence, and when Terry told his parents that he wanted to go to the World Series
movie instead of to dinner with them, his father didn’t blame him.

“We can all have dinner together anytime,” he said. “But a World Series movie isn’t shown very often.”

The next evening the Delaneys left at 6:30, with Terry waiting in the living room for the telephone call. Twice he almost
dozed off. The clock on the mantle said 7:00, then 7:15, then 7:30. Still the phone didn’t ring.

Had he been forgotten? He tried phoning Mick, but no one answered.

7:45… 8:00…

Suddenly the phone rang. Terry leaped out of the chair and grabbed the receiver. “Yes?” he said excitedly.

“Hello. This is Mrs. Williams of the Great Books Club,” said a warm, soothing voice. “Is Mrs. Delaney there?”

Terry’s heart sank. “No, she isn’t,” he answered politely. “Can I take a message?”

“No,” the woman said. “I’ll call again tomorrow. Thank you.”

The phone clicked. Terry hung up and went back to the chair, dejected. He should have gone to the dinner, he thought, instead
of sitting here like a bump on a log.

He picked up a magazine and was reading it when his parents and Connie
returned from dinner. They stared sur-prisedly at him.

“What happened?” his father asked. “Was the movie canceled?”

“Nobody called.” Terry said cheerlessly.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Delaney said. “I guess you should have come with us after all.”

He went back to his reading, and was only half concentrating on the story when the phone rang again. Quickly he dropped the
magazine and went to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Terry, this is Mick.”

“Yes, Mick?”

“Too bad you missed the World Series movie. It was great!”

Terry’s hand froze on the receiver. He
stared at the clock on the wall. Ten after nine!