IIN THEIR half of the fourth inning the first batter for the Rangers grounded out to short. The second man walked. Butchie struck out the next man, which made it four strike-outs for him. Then a Ranger poled one out to center. Johnny ran under it and caught it.
What he expected to happen happened again. Marty French started it. “That-away, Johnny! Nice catch, boy!”
Then Butchie said something, and then Stevie, and one or two of the others. He was trying to ignore it as he ran in with his head down. He could hear Michael clap his hands. He could hear Sand bark. Johnny had to tell them not to do that again. He just had to.
He was panting as he reached the bench. He looked at the manager, at Stevie, and then at Marty. But the words would not come. They were frozen in his throat.
Marty slapped him on the back. He still had on his belly guard and knee guards. He grinned through the sweat and dirt that smeared his face. “Hi, Johnny! Nice catch! You looked like a big leaguer!”
Johnny looked directly at him. Suddenly the lump melted in his throat and the words spilled from his lips.
“Stop saying those things, Marty! You must! You and the rest of the team. I know what you're doing it for. You think you're making my brother Michael feel good by yelling like that.”
“Sure! I know we are!” said Marty. “Did you see him get up and cheer with us?”
“But it isn't fair!” cried Johnny, shaking his head. “I don't deserve any of that stuff. Anybody could have caught that last fly. And you guys made it sound like I'd made a great catch.”
“Oh, Johnny,” said Butchie, “forget it. We're doing it for Michael. You want him to be happy, don't you?”
“Yes. But not that way.”
“Then how?”
Johnny looked at the ground. “I don't know,” he said sadly.
“Break it up, boys,” Mr. Davis said. “Come on, Johnny. You're first hitter. Let him get a strike on you before you take any cuts.”
Johnny picked up a bat and stepped to the plate. The bases were empty now. Maybe he'd get a hit.
The first pitch was a ball. The next was over the inside corner. Johnny swung at the third pitch. Missed! He heard the team talking to him from the bench. He heard Michael, too. Michael knew Johnny was batting.
Then, crack! Johnny dropped the bat, started running for first. The ball was a hot grounder to short. Johnny ran hard. The shortstop caught the ball on a hop, threw it to first. Johnny was out.
It made no difference, men on bases or not. He could not hit, anyway.
Mickey walked, starting a rally. By the time the inning ended, they had pushed across three runs.
Score: Cardinals — 6, Rangers — 4.
The Rangers came to bat in the last half of the fifth and scored one run. The game was over. The Cardinals won, 6 to 5.
Johnny walked home with Michael and Sand and some of the other players. The other players talked about the game. Johnny hardly said a word. He was thinking a lot about Michael.
Finally they reached the walk that led across the lawn to their house. The other fellows said good-by and went on their way. Johnny, Michael, and Sand started up the walk.
Suddenly Johnny tugged on Michael's hand. He stepped in front of Michael and looked directly into his eyes.
“Michael, I — I must tell you something,” he cried. He clamped his lips together and held his breath for a second.
“What?” asked Michael.
“I've been lying to you! I've been lying to you all along!”
Michael's jaws dropped. His face paled. “What do you mean, Johnny?”
“Those stories I've been telling you about me. I never made those home runs and triples and doubles like I said. I made it up. I made it all up!”
“You — you mean you don't hit? But that can't be true! I heard the team yelling your name. Every time you batted they cheered you. And when you caught a fly ball —”
“They just did that on purpose.” Johnny choked. “Oh, Michael, don't you understand? They knew I told you stories to make you believe I was good. So they did that for you.”
Michael blinked. “Then all that — all those stories you told me — they weren't true?”
“That's right, Michael. None of them were true. I — I'm sorry. Honest I am.”
A tear dropped on Michael's cheek.
Johnny took Michael's arm. “I told you I'm sorry, Michael. You believe me, don't you? Don't you, Michael?”
“I guess so,” Michael said softly. He turned away. “Come on, Sand. Let's — let's go up to the house.”