THE first batter for the Mudhens hit a ground ball to short. Shortstop Stevie Little caught the ball on a bounce, whipped it to first. The ball was high and wide. First baseman Freddie Turner stepped off the bag, nabbed the ball, then touched the runner before he reached first.
“Out!” yelled the base umpire.
The second batter bunted a ball down to third. Davie Randall ran hard after it. He tried to field it, but he slipped on the grass and just sat there. He pounded the ball disgustedly against the ground, then rose to his feet. The batter was standing on first base, grinning.
“Let's get a double, Davie!” Stevie Little yelled, pounding his fist into his glove.
Davie motioned Butchie to play in closer at third. Then he stepped into the box, made his stretch, and threw. The batter stuck out his bat for a bunt. He missed.
“Strike one!” said the umpire.
The runner on first had started for second.
“Marty! Throw it down!”
The whole infield was yelling for Marty French to throw the ball to second. Marty was short and fat. He could hardly move with his mask, belly guard, and knee guards strapped on him. But Marty had a good arm. He heaved the ball down to second. Stevie Little covered the bag. He caught the ball. The runner slid, kicking up a cloud of dust. But Stevie tagged his ankle with the ball before his foot touched the bag.
“Out!” shouted the umpire.
There were two outs now. The next batter walked. The fourth batter took a called strike, then hit a long fly out to center field.
Johnny saw that the ball was going over his head. He ran back, keeping his eye on it. The ball was dropping fast. It might go for a home run.
Johnny ran harder. He raised his gloved hand as high as he could. Plop! The ball landed right inside the pocket of the glove and stuck there!
Johnny stopped running. He could hear his teammates shouting his name.
“Thataboy, Johnny! Nice catch!”
“Thataway to go, Johnny, boy!”
Johnny pegged the ball in to the pitcher's box. The inning was over.
“Nice catch, Johnny!” Mr. Greenfield yelled from the stands. Johnny's eyes twinkled as he ran across the diamond toward the Cardinals' bench. “Thanks,” he said.
He looked at Michael. Michael was smiling happily and Sand was thumping her tail.
“Thataboy, Johnny,” Michael said.
Johnny blinked his eyes. “Thanks, Michael,” he answered. He went and sat on the bench.
“What inning is this?” he asked Manager Davis, who was keeping score. Manager Davis was tall, wore orange-rimmed glasses and a sweat shirt.
“Last of the third, Johnny,” he said.
“What's the score?”
“The Mudhens have three, we have one. You guys had better get some hits. Can't win without hits, you know.”
Mickey Bonzell, the right fielder for the Cardinals, was first batter. He swung at two wild pitches, then waited until the count was two and two. Then he swung at one that was so low it almost hit the plate.
“You're out!” said the umpire.
Mickey turned and walked sadly back to the bench.
Peter Jergens, the second baseman, was up next. He was the lead-off man in the line-up because he was the shortest man on the team. He was walked most of the time.
The Mudhens' pitcher tried his best to put over a strike. The first three pitches were either too high or too wide. Then, “Strike one!” said the umpire.
Everybody on the Cardinals' bench groaned.
The next pitch was high again. Peter walked.
Stevie Little hit a pop fly to second, then Buddy Greenfield pounded a line drive to left field. The fielder caught the ball on the first hop, threw it to third. Peter dashed to second.
Marty French took off his equipment and picked up a bat. His pumpkin-round face and his clothes were covered with sweat and dirt. He was grinning.
“Watch me,” he said. “I'll murder that ball. I'll plunk it out into that next cow pasture.”
He took the first pitch for a called strike. Then he swung at a pitch and hit it Solid. The ball climbed high into the air, sailed over the center fielder's head. The Cardinals jumped off the bench and yelled as Marty rounded first, then second, then third.
“Run! Run!” shouted the coach at third.
“Faster, Marty! Faster!”
Marty puffed like a tired engine going uphill as he raced for home.
“Where's my bicycle?” he shouted.
Everybody laughed. The Mudhens' third baseman caught the throw-in, turned, and whipped the ball to the catcher.
“Slide, Marty! Slide!” somebody yelled.
Marty slid. The catcher tagged him, but not in time.
“Safe!” shouted the umpire.
Marty climbed to his feet, walked out of the cloud of dust, and shook his head.
“That was lucky,” he said. “I told you I should have had my bicycle!”
Johnny Doane smiled. Marty made everybody feel like smiling. He was always cracking jokes. He couldn't run fast, because he had a lot of weight to carry. But he could hit. Johnny wished he could hit like Marty. Then he would not have to tell those little white lies to Michael.
Oh, he didn't want to tell Michael those white lies. Not really. But Michael was sure that Johnny was a good hitter. After each game Johnny kept telling him how well he had hit the ball, and Michael believed him. Now Michael thought that Johnny was the best hitter on the team.
How far from the truth that was!
Marty's home run had scored Peter and Buddy, which made the score 4–3 in favor of the Cardinals. There were two outs and nobody on base.
Pitcher Davie Randall came to bat and hit a line drive to short. The shortstop caught it, ending the inning.
The Mudhens knocked in two runs in their top of the fourth inning.
First baseman Freddie Turner led off for the Cardinals at their turn at bat and singled with a grounder between first and second. Butchie Long made first on an error by the Mudhens' shortstop. Freddie stopped on second.
With men on first and second and none out, Johnny Doane came to bat. His teammates started to cheer for him again and he could hear Mr. Greenfield telling him just to meet the ball, not kill it. Mr. Green field, of course, meant for him not to swing too hard.
But how could a guy hit a ball way out into the field if he didn't swing hard?
Johnny let the first pitch go by.
“Ball one!” said the ump.
The next pitch was going to cut the heart of the plate. Johnny swung hard. Swish!
“Strike!” said the ump.
Johnny wished that there weren't men on bases. Maybe he could hit if the bases were empty.
Johnny swung again. Tick! A foul tip to the catcher. Strike two.
The next pitch was wild. The ball sailed over the catcher's head, hit the backstop screen. Both runners advanced one base each.
The count now was two and two. Johnny waited. Maybe he would walk. The bases would then be loaded. But Mickey Bonzell was up next. And Mickey was a poor hitter, too.
The pitch came in. Johnny stepped into it, took his bat off his shoulder. The ball was high. He didn't swing.
“Ball three!” yelled the ump.
Three and two. Johnny was nervous. The next pitch was the one that counted. He hoped it would be a ball.
The ball zipped in. Johnny saw it coming nicely toward the plate. He gripped his bat hard, stepped into the pitch, and swung.
Crack! The ball bounded to the pitcher, struck the tip of his glove, and rolled toward first! The pitcher scampered after it.
Johnny raced for first. His foot hit the bag just a second before the baseman caught the throw from the pitcher.
“Safe!” cried the base umpire.
Johnny circled to the right, came back, and stood on the bag. Freddie Turner had scored, and Butchie Long was on third.
Well, maybe the pitcher had made an error, but a run had come in, anyway. The score was tied now, 5 and 5.
Johnny looked back and saw Michael smile and clap his hands.
I wonder if he really knows what kind of a hit that was, Johnny thought, and shook his head sadly.