THE first batter for the Rangers smashed a line drive between right and center fields. Both Johnny and Mickey Bonzell raced after the ball. Mickey reached it first. He picked it up, threw it to second. Peter whipped it to third, but the runner arrived at the bag in plenty of time.
The second hitter laid down a bunt toward first. Butchie fielded it, threw the ball to first.
“Out!” shouted the ump.
The chatter grew louder in the Cardinals' infield. “Come on, Butchie, or boy! Get 'em out!”
“Strike 'em out, Butchie! Show 'em that curve! They're scared of 'em!”
Johnny Doane could hear Mickey and Buddy on both sides of him yelling, too. But he was silent. He didn't feel like yelling.
Suddenly a high fly was hit out to center. “Take it, Johnny! Take it!” Buddy yelled.
Johnny ran back. Then he ran forward. The ball was very high, even higher than the one he had missed. Then he was under it. He held out his glove. For a moment he didn't breathe.
Plop! The ball struck the pocket of his glove and stuck there! He heaved the ball in, but the runner on third had tagged up and was scoring.
“Thataboy, Johnny!” Buddy yelled. There were shouts from the infield, and Johnny could hear Marty's voice.
He looked toward the stands. Michael was rising to his feet. He was clapping hard. Beside him Sand was barking and wagging her tail.
All at once Johnny understood what was going on. All that yelling and cheering were done on purpose. The team was doing that for Michael's benefit. They wanted him to know that Johnny had made a great catch in the outfield.
Johnny tugged at his cap. He bent down, plucked up a handful of grass, and threw it disgustedly at the ground. He wished they wouldn't do that. They were making fun of Michael and he didn't like it. He would tell them — especially Marty — the first chance he had.
When the inning ended, though, Johnny didn't tell anybody anything. He was ashamed. The boys praised him for that nice catch, and he thanked them. But that was all he said, just, “Thanks. Thanks, fellas.”
The score was 4 to 0 in favor of the Rangers. It was the first half of the third inning, and Mickey Bonzell was first hitter.
“Strike!”
“Strike two!”
Mickey acted as if he were frozen at the plate. He didn't swing either time. Then, “Ball one!”
The fourth pitch came in and Mickey swung. The Cardinals gasped. They rose all together, their mouths wide open, and watched the ball Mickey had hit. It was traveling high toward left field. The fielder was running back … back. Suddenly the ball dropped behind him. It bounced and rolled toward the tall grass that grew near the fence way down at the far end of the field.
Mickey touched first, second, third, and then crossed home plate standing up. A home run!
Mickey's face was shining with sweat and happiness as he shook the hand of each boy that came up to him.
“What a hit that was!” Marty French said.
“Thataway, Mickey.” Johnny smiled. “You really hit that ball.”
Mickey panted. He took off his cap and wiped his face with it. “It was the first homer I ever hit in my life!” he said excitedly. “Wow! I can hardly believe it!”
Johnny sat down again. Why couldn't I do that? he thought. But he was glad for Mickey. That home run Mickey had hit made up for a lot of strike-outs.
The score was 4 to 1 now.
Peter came to bat and walked. Stevie poked a line drive over second for a single. Buddy popped one up to the catcher. Then Marty stepped to the plate and the outfielders backed up a dozen steps.
The Rangers' pitcher motioned to the catcher. They met halfway between the catcher's box and the pitcher's box and talked something over.
“They're afraid of you, Marty!” Mickey yelled.
Marty grinned as he faced the pitcher. The pitcher stretched, threw. Marty swung. Crack! The ball sailed over short.
Peter scored. The coach held Stevie up on third. It was a single for Marty. The Cardinals stood up and cheered him.
Davie came to bat and popped out to third. Two outs. Freddie hit a grounder to second. The second baseman fumbled the ball, then threw to first. But Freddie was safe. Stevie scored on the play.
Rangers — 4, Cardinals — 3.
Butchie walked to the plate, looked over the first pitch.
“Ball one!”
The chatter rose on the Cardinals' bench. “Come on, Butchie! Ducks on the pond! Win your own ball game!”
“Strike!”
Manager Davis leaned over and tapped Johnny Doane's knee. “Pick up a bat, Johnny. Get on deck. What's the matter? Something bothering you, Johnny?”
“No. I'm all right.” Johnny rose from the bench and picked up a bat.
He was scared, but how could he tell Mr. Davis that? If he batted with men on bases again — He turned his back to Mr. Davis so that the manager couldn't see his face.
“Ball two!”
Again the pitch. “Ball three!”
A lump filled Johnny's throat. If Butchie walked, the bags would be loaded. He thought he knew then what the Rangers had planned. They would walk Butchie so they could pitch to him. They probably knew, just as he did, that he couldn't hit with men on bases. Johnny swallowed.
The pitch. “Strike two!”
The Cardinals' bench went wild. Three and two was the count. The only unhappy person there was Johnny.
And then, crack! Butchie's bat met the ball solidly. The ball sailed high into the air toward deep center field. The fielder raced back. He lifted his glove. A second later the ball lay like a big white egg in it.
A sad groan rose from the Cardinals' bench.
The only happy person there now was Johnny. He didn't have to bat with men on. He didn't have to bat at all.