“HEY, JOHNNY! Johnny Doane! You're up!”
The words were like an alarm clock waking Johnny. He was looking at the baseball that Butchie Long had just hit between left and center fields. Butchie was running hard to first base. The man who was on first rounded second and was running for third.
The Mudhens' left fielder picked up the ball, pegged it in. The shortstop caught it on a bounce, spun on his heel, and threw the ball to third. The third baseman touched the runner with the ball, but Davie Randall, the runner, was already on the bag. He was standing on it with both feet, his arms crossed, and a big smile on his dark, round face.
“Safe!” said the ump.
“Thataway, Butchie!” the gang on the bench yelled. “Thataway to hit that apple!”
“Ducks on the pond, Johnny!” shouted a man sitting on the stand behind the backstop screen. “Knock 'em in!”
Johnny knew that ducks on the pond meant men on bases. The man who had yelled was Mr. Greenfield, Buddy's father. Buddy was the left fielder for his team, the Cardinals. Johnny picked up his bat and looked toward the stand. Mr. Greenfield smiled at him and clapped his hands.
Then Johnny looked across the empty spaces of the small grandstand at his younger brother Michael. Michael was sitting on the bottom seat directly behind home plate. He had thick blond hair and light blue eyes. A batch of freckles looked like pepper sprinkled around his little round nose. He was smiling and waving his right hand.
Johnny waved and smiled back, even though Michael could not see him. Sand, the big shepherd dog lying on the grass at Michael's feet, lifted her long snout from her front paws and flopped her white tail.
Johnny turned and walked to the batter's box. His stomach tightened into a knot. He did not have to stand in the box to find out what he was going to do. He knew already.
Johnny stood on the left-hand side of the plate. He heard Butchie on second base and Buddy on third. They were leaning off the bags, yelling for him to hit the ball.
The pitch came in. Johnny didn't know whether to swing or not. The ball was coming in low. Suddenly he swung, but he swung too late.
“Strike!” yelled the masked umpire standing behind the catcher.
“A nice single, Johnny! Just meet it!” It was Mr. Greenfield again.
The catcher returned the ball to the pitcher. The pitcher stepped into the box, stretched, and threw. The pitch was fast. Johnny watched it with wide eyes. It was high. He was sure it was. And then suddenly he wasn't sure. The pitch looked shoulder-high and ready to cut the heart of the plate.
But Johnny could not move his bat. He just stood there, the bat stuck on his shoulder.
“Strike two!” yelled the ump.
“Aw, come on, Johnny!” Buddy yelled from third. “Hit that pun'kin.”
Even if it was a “pun'kin,” I couldn't hit it, thought Johnny. He felt choked up inside. He wished Michael had not come. He would not have felt so bad then. But Michael always wanted to come. He wanted to sit with Sand behind the backstop screen. He wanted to hear the teams shout, the crack of the bat as it hit the ball, the pounding of feet as the men raced around the bases. But most of all he wanted to hear Johnny hit the ball. Nothing counted half as much as what Johnny did.
I have to swing this time, thought Johnny. If that ball is anywhere near the plate, I have to swing at it, and I must hit it. I must! Or Michael —
Johnny brushed the thought of Michael out of his mind. He dug his feet into the dirt and gripped the handle of the bat with both hands.
The pitch came in. It was wide. Johnny let it go by.
“Ball one!” cried the umpire.
Johnny tugged on the brim of his baseball cap, pulled up on the belt of his pants. He watched the pitch come in. If he could only smack the ball between the outfielders, it might go for a home run. Then he would really have something, to tell Michael.
The ball came in chest-high. Johnny stepped into it, swung. Crack!
The ball sailed almost straight up into the air, curved, and came down near second base. The second baseman for the Mudhens stood waiting under it. He caught it easily.
Johnny ran all the way to first base. He saw the Mudhens drop their gloves and run in, and realized that he had made the third out.
He bit down hard on his teeth and ran out to center field. He picked up his glove, turned, and looked across the long way to the stand. Michael had a big grin on his face and he was clapping his hands like crazy.
He must have thought Johnny had gotten a hit.