The Team That Stopped Moving (3 page)

Then, with runners on first and second, a Bear clouted a long drive to right center field
that drove in both runners. It was a stand-up triple. The Bears were on the move.

“Let’s
do
something!” Stan yelled, making a fist of his right hand.

It’s going to be a long ball game,
Dick thought despairingly.

Art pitched. The ball arced like a rainbow. The batter swung as if to drive it out of the state.
Crack!
A slow, dribbling grounder toward first base! Both Dick and Art charged after it.

Suddenly something happened. Something that Dick had never experienced in all of his thirteen years.

The ball stopped. Art stopped
—
posed in a running position, looking as if he had frozen solid. Even all sound stopped.

Dick looked around, then thought that he, himself, would freeze, too. Everybody on the field and in the stands was like a
statue! Nothing moved!

H
I
,
THERE
!” said a voice.

Dick whirled.

Less than five feet away from him stood a man, a man Dick had never seen before. He was in his twenties — or was it thirties?
It was hard to tell because of his handlebar moustache and pointed goatee, both the color of a flaming fire. He was wearing
a white jersey, baseball pants, and baseball shoes. On his baseball cap, set jauntily on his head, was the word “Champ.”

“I’m Jack Wanda,” he said, flashing a broad smile.

Dick’s mouth had popped open, but nothing could come out of it.

Jack Wanda laughed and stroked his moustache. “I know just how you feel, kid,” he said. “Every boy I meet for the first time
reacts the same way. And it’s natural!” He paused and crossed his hairy red arms over his chest. “Let me tell you about myself.
I’m kind of a male witch,” he went on, a glint of devilish pride flashing in his ice blue eyes. “My specialty is helping teams
get started that need help — baseball, football, hockey — you name it. And, believe me, you guys need help. Now — are you
ready?”

Dick gulped. “For what?” he managed to blurt out.

“For a lesson in baseball, kid!” Jack snapped as if Dick should have known.

“What about these guys? These people?” Dick swung an arm around at his teammates and the fans, all of whom had not moved from
their frozen positions. “Will they always stay like that? Like statues?”

Jack Wanda laughed loudly. “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t explain that!” he said. “Actually, kid, when you and I are finished with this lesson, everything will go on
as if nothing had happened. I’ve stopped time, you see.”

Dick stared, wide-eyed. “You mean all — all over the world?”

“Oh, no. Just yours. At this moment you are my subject, therefore
this
time applies only to you. And me, of course. Now, let’s get back to the ball game. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” said Dick, still unable to believe that this crazy phenomenon was actually happening.

“Good. You know what would happen if both you and Art go after that grounder, don’t you? No one will cover first, and the
hitter will get on base safely.”

“But — what about Mark?”

“Mark? Well, look at him. He’s playing too far back to get to first base before the
hitter does. What you should do, Dick, is run back, cover first, and let Art handle the grounder. Get it?”

“Got it,” said Dick.

Jack Wanda flashed a smile that seemed to make his moustache and beard more radiant than ever. “Good! See you later, kid.
And good luck.”

In the next instant he was gone — just like that — and Dick found himself chasing the grounder that the batter had hit toward
first. From his right side, Art was chasing after the grounder, too. It was quite likely that a collision would occur unless
one of them stopped.

Dick stopped. It wasn’t the thought of a possible collision, though, that made him decide. It was the instruction from someone
who had appeared to him for a split second — some strange, moustached, bearded character wearing baseball clothes and a cap
with “Champ” on it.

Sliding to a halt, Dick spun and dashed back to first base. “Get it, Art!” he yelled.

Art fielded the grounder and snapped it to first. The throw beat the runner by a step.

“Out!” yelled the ump.

The runner on third started for home, then changed his mind as Dick made a motion to throw there.

One out, a runner on third, and the next Bear came to bat. Art fed him a neat pitch over the heart of the plate.
Crack!
A sharp blow to deep center field! The ball hit the tip of Jim Tanner’s glove and bounced out to the wide-open field for
a home run, much to the enthusiasm of the Bears’ fans and the dismay of the Tigers’.

The next Bear popped out to Art, and a ground ball to second base ended the half-inning.

“That’s four to nothing,” Stan grumbled as he dropped onto the bench. “Looks like it’s going to be another circus.”

Eddie socked Dick lightly on the knee. “Nice play at first base, Dick. You, too, Art.”

“Right. That was a good play,” Coach Banks said. “Darn good thing you changed your mind at the last second, Dick, or no one
would have been covering first. You probably avoided a collision, too.”

Dick smiled. The strange experience he had just had seemed like a dream. It had to be a dream. Time just didn’t stop and everybody
didn’t freeze like statues. But, a dream like that when you’re in the act of playing baseball? It was crazy! — what
was
that man’s name? Jack Wonder? No, it was
Wanda.
Dick smiled again.

No one got even close to getting a hit that half-inning. And only Stan managed to get on base, thanks to an error by the second
baseman. Sadly, nobody drove him in.

The Tigers held the Bears, and vice versa, for the next two innings. In the fourth, Dick
and Art were involved in a play that was almost a repetition of the one that had happened in the first inning. Dick charged
after the ball for a moment, then, remembering what had happened in his “dream,” raced back to first, getting the hitter out
by two steps. That was one play he knew he would always remember to do right.

The Bears picked up two runs in the fifth to go into a 6-0 lead, and it looked as though the Tigers were falling to their
third defeat, counting the practice game.

Something happened in the bottom of the fifth, though, that gave Dick hopes that the picture would change. Stan led off with
a single, advanced to second on Andy’s scratch hit to short, and Dick stepped to the plate.

Ray Coombs, the Bears’ dark-haired, left-handed pitcher, looked nervously at the runners on base, tugged at his cap, and
pitched. The ball missed the plate by six inches. He threw two more wide pitches, then two directly over the plate.

The next pitch was also in there, and Dick swung. The blast was loud and clear as bat met ball, driving it like a cannon shot
to deep right center field. The bases cleared and Dick ran in for his first homer of the season.

The whole Tiger team stood behind the plate waiting for him as he crossed it. They pumped his hands, hugged him, and yelled
as if he had won the ball game. Even Stan joined in as if nothing had ever happened between them.

It wasn’t till later on that Dick was to think of this happy moment, and wonder if only great plays or home runs would insure
friendship between members of a baseball team.

It wasn’t right,
he thought.
Friendship should exist in spite of anything. If there are arguments, let’s hash them out and talk
things over. But don’t let our baseball team turn into a curse. Don’t let our own individual performances decide for us whether
we are going to make friends or make enemies.

The Bears held the Tigers to the three runs, came to bat anxious for revenge, and picked up one run. 7-3.

“Okay, this is our last chance,” said Coach Banks as the Tigers came to bat in the bottom of the sixth. “Go get ‘em.”

Art put on his helmet, picked up a bat, and stepped to the plate.

P
ITCHERS
were often placed at the bottom of the batting order because usually they were poor hitters. Coach Banks had a different
theory about this. He liked to have a
good
hitter at the bottom of the batting order. If he was a pitcher, the odds were that much better. If he got a hit, the leadoff
batter was up next, followed by the power hitters in the lineup.

Art was such a pitcher. He could hit.

He proved it by socking the first pitch over short. Mark struck out. Then Art raced to second on Ben’s fly ball to center
field, only to turn around and beat it back to first as the center fielder caught the fly.

Stan got up and peppered a line drive over second base, advancing Art to second. Andy doubled to right center, scoring both
Art and Stan. Bears 7, Tigers 5.

“Let’s get three more!” Stan shouted from the bench. “Come on, Dick! Drive it!”

Dick straightened his helmet, then rubbed the fat end of the bat as he strode to the plate. A lot of weight was on his shoulders
now. If he got a hit, depending on how far the ball traveled, Andy might advance to third, or even score. But, if he didn’t
get a hit, the weight would then shift to Eddie’s shoulders. And Eddie had not gotten a hit yet.

Crack!
A sharp bullet blow to deep short! Dick dropped his bat and bolted for first. “Safe!” boomed the ump as Dick touched the
bag just a fraction of a second before the ball slammed into the pocket of the first baseman’s mitt. Andy remained glued to
second base.

“Well, I can see the headlines already,” Stan said as Eddie stepped to the plate.

“ ‘Tigers drop third in a row. Can anybody help the poor Tigers?’ ”

Crack!
Eddie lambasted the first pitch out — far out — to deep left center field for an indisputable home run!

Screams and cheers such as never had been heard before for the Tigers rang out from the win-thirsty Tiger fans and players
as Eddie circled the bases.

The Tigers had copped their first game of the season, 8-7.

“He did it!” Stan yelled, jumping up and down in front of the dugout. “The little stinker did it!”

Dick and Eddie slapped hands. “You came through, ol’ buddy!” Dick cried, as happy as if he had clouted the homer himself.
“You really came through! How does it feel?”

Eddie, looking as if he wasn’t sure what
had happened, replied, “Like I’ve just hit the first home run in my life!”

“Was it, really?”

“Sure! The Tigers is the first team I ever played on.”

Dick poked the little guy on the shoulder. “You’re all right, Eddie.”

Dick could hardly wait to tell Eddie about the “dream” he had. He couldn’t think of what else to call it. It did seem like
a dream, yet it had been as real as life. It wasn’t until they had arrived home and their parents had gone into the house
that Dick found himself alone with Eddie.

“Eddie, you won’t believe this, but I had the most fantastic dream!” he said, looking around to make sure no one overheard.

“Dream?” Eddie frowned curiously.

“Well — I’m not so sure it was a dream,” Dick confessed. “It happened during the game when a Bears batter hit the ball down
to first base and both Art and I went after it.
Suddenly, every person on the field and in the stands stopped moving, and this man showed up — a man with a red moustache
and goatee and wearing a cap with ‘Champ’ on it. He said he was Jack Wanda, a male witch, then went on to tell me not to go
after the ball, too, but to run back and cover first base. Eddie, it was the most fantastic thing that has ever happened to
me in my whole life! I-I’m getting goose bumps just thinking about it!”

Eddie’s eyes were like huge marbles. “It sounds kind of weird, Dick. But it must have been a dream. What else
could
it have been?”

“I don’t know. But it — it seemed so
real.”

“I think it was your subconscious mind that took over for a while,” Eddie surmised, as if he were a minor expert about such
things. “That must be the only explanation. Hey, coming over tonight to listen to some
of my records?” he asked, changing the subject.

Dick stared at him. Eddie’s sudden lack of interest about the dream made him feel as if all the air had been let out of him.
“Country music?” he asked numbly.

“Of course.” As if “what else is there?”

Dick shrugged. “I don’t know. I might for a while.”

“I really wish you’d come over. Dad bought me a new record Saturday. Please, Dick? I’d like the company.”

Dick thought about it a minute. Eddie had two brothers, but both were older than he, and sometimes hardly gave him the time
of day.

“Okay, I’ll come over,” he promised. “About seven-thirty okay?”

“Okay! Thanks, Dick!” Eddie’s face lit up like a beacon as he scrambled up the steps and into the house.

Dick considered mentioning his dream to Cindy or to his mother and father. But, at the last minute, he decided not to. Maybe
Eddie was right. Maybe it was really his subconscious mind that had taken over for a minute. Wasn’t
that
like a dream, though?