“Okay,” said his father, back on the mound. “Get on first. We’ll go through it once more, then head for the game.”
His attitude had changed. Bobby could tell by the sharp way he spoke, by the expression on his face. Had something the woman had said to him bothered him that much? Who was she, anyway?
But Bobby didn’t ask his father who she was. He didn’t think it was his business to pry.
Finished with the base-stealing practice, Bobby brushed himself off as thoroughly as he could and got in the car with his father.
“You’re probably wondering who that woman is,” Roger Canfield said.
Surprised that his father should mention it, Bobby shrugged. “I don’t care who she is,” he said.
“She’s a friend,” explained his father, nevertheless. “A widow. Met her at a bowling party.”
“That’s okay, Dad. You don’t have to tell me about her.”
He didn’t want to hear about her. The less he knew the better. He still had hopes of his mother and father’s reuniting again sometime when the dust from their marriage problems had settled. Maybe that was looking for a miracle, but he hated to see another woman enter his father’s life, making sure that the miracle would never happen.
They drove to Municipal Park and got there a few minutes before the Giants–Foxes game started. They stayed the full nine innings, even though it was one of the dullest games Bobby had ever seen in his life: 1-0, in favor of the Foxes. And that single run by virtue of an error. Super super dull.
“Fast game, but Dullsville,” said Bobby as they drove out of the parking lot.
“You should’ve said something,” said his father. “We would have left earlier.”
“I was just hoping for something to happen,” said Bobby. “But nothing did.”
His father laughed.
“Are you still going to church with your mother?” his father asked after a brief silence.
“Nine o’clock every Sunday,” answered Bobby.
She was almost fanatic about it. She never missed.
“Good. You never know when you’ll need someone to lean on, someone other than a mere human being. Know something? I just bought one of the bestsellers ever published.”
Bobby didn’t know much about bestsellers, except for something like Charlotte’s Web or Fog Magic, kids’ books that his father had probably never heard of. Or books on famous athletes. He gulped them down like cereal.
“I don’t know any bestsellers, Dad,” he admitted.
“You know of this one,” replied his father. “It’s the Bible.”
Bobby looked at him, a little embarrassed. “We’ve got one, but I’ve never read it. It’s pretty long.”
Roger Canfield shrugged. “I know, but I’ve been reading one chapter at a time, and I’m about a third done with the book already. Can you believe it? Me reading the Bible? I bet if your mother heard about it, she’d flip.”
His dad didn’t press about the Bible reading, but Bobby could tell it meant something special to him.
They stopped at a red light. “There’s a fair on in Meadville. Like to go there tomorrow?”
“I’d love it,” said Bobby.
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at the usual time, eleven o’clock.”
Bobby had the sudden fear that their day had ended, that his father was going to take him home. But two blocks farther on, Roger Canfield turned right and pulled up in front of a diner.
“I’m starved, aren’t you?” he said.
Bobby grinned. “Something like that,” he admitted.
He enjoyed these little surprises that his father often pulled on him. They made their stay together so much fun.
They went inside, found a vacant booth, and sat down. Roger Canfield took off his yellow cap, set it beside him on the seat, and surveyed his son. “It’s been a great day, Bobby,” he said happily.
“Sure has, Dad,” replied Bobby. “Wish we could do it every day.”
“Me too.”
Idle talk. Wishful thinking. Even before his mother and father had split up, he and his father hadn’t spent a heck of a lot of time together. But he was around, at least. And they often had indulged in their own private talk, which included sports, a topic his mother had placed at the bottom of her list of favorite subjects.
They ordered from a menu that a waitress brought them, and took their sweet old time putting the food away. When they were finished, Roger Canfield left a tip for the waitress, paid the check, and followed Bobby out of the door.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“I’m stuffed,” confessed Bobby.
His father drove up to the house at a minute of eleven on Sunday morning, picked up Bobby, and drove to Meadville, twelve miles away. The fair was already in full swing: the ferris wheel revolving slowly, every chair occupied; the stiff, plastic horses of the merry-go-round bobbing up and down in slow motion; rockets spinning in a wide circle; a fat man wearing a derby four sizes too small for him selling helium-filled balloons. On the midway, hucksters on makeshift stages were trying to inveigle the people into their tents to see “the famous chicken woman,” “the alligator man,” and “the two-headed goat.”
“Interested in something like that?” Roger Canfield asked his son.
Bobby shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know.” He wasn’t sure if he was or not.
“Come on,” urged his father. “Most of this stuff is a lot of baloney to separate people from their money. But if you’ve never seen one of these shows before, now’s the time.”
They bought tickets to the “famous chicken woman” show, and saw a small, thin woman whose chest protruded like a chicken’s and whose skin resembled a chicken’s.
“I expected to see feathers,” said Bobby.
“Maybe she’s been plucked,” his father chuckled.
The “alligator man’s” somewhat brown, scaly skin was undoubtedly what had earned him his title. Bobby left the tent disappointed, although he hadn’t known what to expect. An alligator man with a long snout and a snapping tail? That’s an alligator, man!
“Had enough?” asked his father.
“Had enough,” echoed Bobby.
They rode on the ferris wheel and the rocket, and tried winning prizes at the various concession stands. By evening, when they ended the day by eating a light dinner of hamburgers, salad, and ice cream, Bobby’s prizes were an accumulation of sorts — a rag doll, a plastic cat, a bamboo cane, and a glass coin bank. The items were practically worthless, but they were souvenirs just the same of a day that he would remember for the rest of his life. Today was the day he had gone to the Meadville Fair with his father.
Roger Canfield drove him home, and hugged him tightly before Bobby got out of the car.
“Thanks, Dad,” said Bobby, trying to keep a lump from rising to his throat. “I’ve had a real great time.”
“So have I, Bobby,” said his father. “See you next Saturday.”
“Right.”
When Bobby got to the door of the house, he found it locked. He located the key on the lamp near the door casing, unlocked the door, and went in.
On the kitchen table was a note: Dear, I won’t be home till late. If you’re hungry, there is tuna fish in the refrigerator. Make a sandwich. And there is cake in the cupboard. Love, Mother.
10
On Tuesday the sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, and a light breeze was teasing the trees when the Sunbirds met the Swifts on the Lyncook School Ball Park.
During infield practice, before play began, Bobby saw a left-hander warming up for the Swifts. He was Lefty Thorne, a kid with nothing but a straight ball and a slider. He didn’t need anything else from what Bobby had heard through the grapevine.
“Hey, Fox! How many bases you going to steal today?”
The voice came from the third-base bleachers. Bobby glanced there and saw the two long-haired kids. He wasn’t surprised. They were his best fans.
“Got to get on base first,” h
e said.
“Right!” the other agreed, grinning broadly.
In a few minutes the ump was shouting “Play ball!” and Bobby went up to the plate, his nerves jumping. He hated left-handed pitchers.
Lefty Thorne looked seven feet tall as he took his stretch, brought down his arms, then delivered. The ball seemed to come directly at Bobby, and he backed away from it.
“Strike!” said the ump.
Bobby looked at him, but the ump’s attention was drawn to his counter, which he was holding in the palm of his left hand. It was, Bobby thought, a devious way of ignoring him.
Lefty rifled in another pitch for “Strike two!” and Bobby stepped out of the box. He took a deep breath, hoping that it would settle him down, and stepped back in again.
This time Lefty’s pitch was outside, and so was the next. His fifth delivery came barreling in with something on it, because it started in toward Bobby, then headed out, like a snake that had seen something and wanted to get away from it.
Bobby swung. Bat met ball squarely and Bobby, dropping his bat, sped down the first-base line. The blow was a single over short, just six inches shy of being caught by Joe Morris, the Swifts’ shortstop.
“There you are, Fox!” one of the kids yelled at him. “You’re on!”
Bobby looked at third for a sign — any kind of sign — and got it. Play it safe, it said.
Eddie let the first pitch go by. It was a ball.
Bobby looked for the sign again. This time he got what he was hoping for — thumb to cap, to belt, to chest, and back to cap. The steal was on.
He waited for Lefty to get on the mound, and took a lead. Remembering the pointers his father had given him, he made sure that his lead wasn’t too big. Facing first base, a left-hander had a better advantage over the base runner than a right-hander did.
Lefty stretched, lowered his arms slowly, then quickly took his foot off the rubber and snapped the ball to first. Just as quickly Bobby shot back.
He was safe. But it was close.
The first baseman tossed the ball back to Lefty, and once again Bobby got ready. This time, as Lefty lowered his arms and started his pitch to the batter, Bobby was off like a shot.
He ran as hard as he could, but he felt as if his legs weren’t really obeying his impulses. They didn’t seem to be covering the ground as fast as he wanted them to.
He was within three feet of the bag when he saw the Swifts’ second baseman reach for the ball and put it on him. By then he had slid in, a fraction of a second before the player had tagged him.
“Safe!” said the ump.
Bobby rose to his feet, not too happy about his run.
“Thataway to go, Fox!” yelled the two kids, almost in unison.
“Nice run, Fox!” another fan yelled.
Bobby winced. What had those crazy guys done? Tagged him with a nickname that might spread like measles?
With a one-and-one call on him, Eddie tied onto the next pitch and lofted it to center field, where it was easily put away for the first out.
Hank Spencer stepped to the plate and laid into the first pitch for a long foul strike. Coach Tarbell had shifted the lineup slightly, moving Hank up from seventh batter to third to take advantage of his long-ball hitting.
Lefty missed the plate on the next two pitches, then blazed one in that barely cut the inside corner. Two balls, two strikes.
Hank didn’t appreciate the call. He stepped out of the box and looked out over the third-base bleachers for what might be a sign of sympathy from the fans. He got nothing but subtle chuckles and a sarcastic comment from a Swifts fan instead. “The plate’s behind you, big shot.”
Finding no sympathy, Hank returned to his position in the box and waited for Lefty’s next pitch. It was a slider, and Hank laid into it. Crack! The ball shot out to left center for a clean hit. Bobby scored. By the time the ball was in, Hank was sliding into third.
“Hey, Fox!” exclaimed Andy Sanders, batting next. “You going for a base-stealing record or something?”
Bobby shrugged. “Something,” he said, grinning. “Like runs.”
He didn’t mind the praise coming at him from the bench and the fans. It made him feel good, even though he wasn’t thoroughly satisfied with himself. Well, at least, he had beaten the ball to the bag. That was the idea for a steal.
Andy Sanders grounded out, bringing up Billy Trollop. Billy fouled a pitch to the backstop screen, then belted a line drive through second, scoring Hank. Snoop Myers couldn’t find the handle of Lefty Thorne’s pitches and went down swinging.
Sunbirds 2, Swifts 0.
B.J. Hendricks had it easy going with the Swifts’ first two batters — a groundout to short, and a pop-up to Bobby.
Dick Flanders, the Swifts’ left-handed left fielder, tied onto one for a sharp drive to center, only to get a single out of it. Then center fielder Tommy Elders poled an Empire Stater to Billy out in deep center, and that was it for the Swifts.
Jake Shakespeare, a utility outfielder, led off for the Sunbirds in the top of the second, and flied out to right. Neither Sherm nor B.J. was able to do any better, and the Swifts were back up to bat.
Butch Rollins, their burly catcher who sweated even when he wasn’t doing anything, tagged B.J.’s first pitch for a two-bagger. Another double and a single followed, tying up the score.
Nuts, thought Bobby. There goes our lead.
A gangling redhead smashed a hot grounder down to third, snapping Bobby out of his doldrums. He scooped it up and whipped it underhand to second. Eddie caught it and snapped it to first. A fast double play.
Bobby pounded a fist proudly into the pocket of his glove. A play like that gave you a lift every time.
Lefty Thorne, socking a high bouncer back to B.J., ran only partway down to first as the Sunbirds’ hurler caught the ball and tossed him out.
Bobby, leading off in the top of the third, waited out Lefty’s pitches and earned a base on balls. Right off, Marv Goldstein, coaching at third, gave him the steal sign.
Taking a good lead, Bobby got set. He waited for Lefty to pass that limbo position, that point in his act when Bobby was sure that Lefty was going to throw either to first, or to home.
Standing on the mound like a tall mannequin with his arms and head moving in slow motion, Lefty glanced over at Bobby. Then he looked back at the batter, quickly raised his leg, and started his delivery. Bobby took off.
About six feet from second base, as he saw the baseman nab the ball thrown to him by the catcher, Bobby slid. The baseman tagged him on the foot.
“You’re out!” yelled the ump.
Bobby stared up at him, his heart pounding. But the man in blue had his face and forefinger pointed in another direction.
“Too bad, Fox!” one of the long-haired kids remarked as Bobby ran off the field.
“Can’t win ’em all!” added the other.
More sympathetic remarks came from the guys on the bench. But sympathy wasn’t what he needed, nor looked for. There was something he was not doing right. Perhaps he could have taken a bigger lead. Another foot might have made a difference. You can’t be a Joe Morgan if you don’t get the jump on the pitcher.
Bobby felt worse when Eddie tagged a pitch through an infield hole for a single. If he had been safe at second, he could have scored.
Hank poled a long fly to center that looked as if it were going over the fence. Instead, Tommy Elders, the Swifts’ center fielder, got back in time, leaped and made a one-handed stabbing catch.
Then Andy started the ball rolling with a triple, followed by a walk by Billy, and a single by Snoop Myers. When the merry-go-round was over, the Sunbirds had garnered two runs and were back in the lead.
Sunbirds 4, Swifts 2.
In the bottom of the third, B.J. held the Swifts down to a single and no runs. In the fourth, Sherm’s single and B.J.’s walk looked as if another scoring inning were in the works. But Bobby flied out, Eddie grounded out, and Hank went down for his first strikeout
.
The score was still unchanged as Bobby stepped to the plate in the top of the sixth. There was one out, B.J.’s pop-up to first.
Lefty breezed in a straight ball that was too good to be true. Bobby laid into it, smashing it hard down to third. Dropping his bat, he bolted for first, while out on the hot corner Steve Malloy missed the handle of the fast hop and let the ball streak through his legs.
Steve let his feelings go public by taking off his glove and throwing it against the ground, puffing up a cloud of dust.
As for Bobby, he’d take first base regardless of how he got it. Glancing toward third, he saw the steal sign coming at him again. Thanks, Marv, he wanted to say. That’s what I’m looking for.
This time he took a slightly extra lead and, as Lefty began his delivery, he took off.
He was there with time to spare.
“Hey, Fox! You did it, man!” someone shouted. It was one of his long-haired fans.
Eddie, a strike on him, let another pitch go by. “Ball!” cried the ump.
Bobby glanced at Marv, and couldn’t believe his eyes. Marv was giving him the steal sign again! What? With one out? What was Coach Tarbell thinking of? Well, so what? Stealing bases was his cup of tea. His business.
He took a long lead, got back quickly when Lefty tried to pick him off.
He resumed his position when Lefty got back on the mound, then took off like an Olympics hopeful as Lefty delivered.
Eddie let the pitch go by. The catcher caught it, whipped it hard to third, and the third baseman put it on Bobby.
“Out!” yelled the ump, loud enough for every person in the stands to hear him.
Bobby was sick. Rising gloomily to his feet, he trotted back to the dugout.
“Chin up,” said the coach as Bobby plunked himself down on the bench near him. “I wanted to see if you could do it. I figured, too, that if you got on third, an infield hit — no matter if it went through or not — would score you.”
“Sorry it didn’t work,” said Bobby disappointedly.
The Fox Steals Home Page 5