Barry’s smile faded and his heart leaped as he glanced toward the sideline. There sat his sister, Susan, and their little brother, Tommy. Barry had seen them there earlier but had practically forgotten about them.
He gave Susan a dirty look that said Keep your mouth shut. Then he turned away and continued on toward the dugout.
But some of the Belk’s Junk Shop fans must have seen him drop the ball, too. “He dropped it, ump! What are you, blind?” a couple of them yelled.
Luckily, the umpire’s decision held. Jerry Moon was out.
So much for your big mouth, Susan, he thought. But at the same time, deep down he felt guilty. What he’d done wasn’t right. Well, he’d have to forget it, that’s all. If he could.
Sparrow, batting last in the lineup, led off with a single. Then Barry stepped to the plate. He felt comfortable here. He’d rather bat than field any day. Maybe, he thought, he could get a long hit and make up for his cover-up.
He glanced at Coach Parker, who was coaching third base, and got the bunt signal.
Barry couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, no!” he moaned. “I can’t bunt!”
He decided he wouldn’t bunt, no matter what the coach had signaled him to do. Even though he was leadoff hitter for the Mudders, he was known by a lot of the players and fans as a hit-away batter, and he liked that. It made him feel good. Important.
Anyway, so far today he had gotten a single and a walk. He deserved to keep swinging. Maybe this time he could sock the old apple out of the lot for a two-run homer. He was due for a round-tripper.
Barry stepped into the box, waited for the first pitch, and shifted into a bunting position. He missed the pitch deliberately. He missed the second one, too, even though both pitches were almost directly over the heart of the plate.
Then he looked at the coach again and saw him give the hit-away sign. Barry hid a grin. I fooled him, he thought.
He didn’t hit a round-tripper, but he managed to lace a line drive between third base and shortstop for a single.
“That-away, hit-away!” a fan yelled.
“Tell me something, Barry,” Monk, the Belk’s first baseman, said. “Did you really catch that fly ball?”
Barry stared at him. “Of course I did!” he snapped. He let his eyes bore into Monk’s dark ones for a moment, then he leaned over to tuck his blue socks under his white pant-legs. He hated to lie. But it was too late to tell the truth now. Like his father used to say when such situations came up, Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.
Turtleneck Jones — who got his nickname from the turtleneck sweaters he usually wore — batted next and drove a double between left and center fields. Sparrow scored, and Barry circled the bases to third.
Coach Parker approached Barry from the coaching box. His eyes were shadowed by the baseball cap pushed low over his forehead. “Barry, who do you think you’re kidding?” the coach said sharply. “You missed bunting those balls on purpose. You were lucky to get a hit, but the next time I give you a bunt sign, you bunt. Understand?”
Barry blushed. So he hadn’t fooled him.
“Okay. Play it safe,” Coach Parker cautioned. “Make sure the ball goes through the infield before you run for home.”
The coach returned to the coaching box, and Barry turned his attention back to the batter, his best friend, José Mendez. José took a called strike, then popped out to short for the first out, bringing up T.V. Adams. T.V. was short, stocky, and smart, and he could hit the ball a mile — if he connected. Barry remembered that T.V. had doubled in the second inning and flied out in the third. As a cleanup hitter, he’s due for another long hit, Barry thought.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the scoreboard. Junk Shop 6, Mudders 5.
A hit could score two runs, putting the Mudders ahead, Barry reflected. But suppose T.V. didn’t get a hit? Suppose he popped up, or hit a grounder …?
“Keep on your toes,” Coach Parker’s soft voice reached him. “If he hits it, make sure it goes through.”
“Strike two!” cried the umpire, as Finky O’Dell, the Junk Shop’s left-handed pitcher, steamed his second pitch past T.V.
Oh, no! Barry thought. What’s T.V. going to do? Strike out?
Then … crack! A sharp grounder down toward first base! T.V. dropped his bat and scooted for first. And Barry, seeing that the ball seemed to be heading past Monk’s right side, bolted for home.
“Barry! Wait up!” Barry heard the coach yell.
But he was several running steps away from third base by now, too late to turn around and go back. Monk was diving after the ball, which was between him and the bag, and Barry thought, I should be able to make it. And we need this run to tie the score.