Never Blame the Umpire

by Gene Fehler

  Never Blame the Umpire

  Never Blame the Umpire

  Gene Fehler

  ZONDERKIDZ

  Never Blame the Umpire

  Copyright © 2010 by Gene Fehler

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition FEBRUARY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-310-41019-5

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zonderkidz, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fehler, Gene, 1940

  Never blame the umpire / by Gene Fehler.

  Max Meyers.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Eleven-year-old Kate is having a wonderful summer, playing baseball and taking a poetry class, until her mother is diagnosed with terminal cancer, causing Kate to struggle to keep her faith and trust in God.

  ISBN 978-0-310-71941-0 (hardcover)

  [1. Death – Fiction. 2. Cancer – Fiction. 3. Christian life – Fiction. 4. Family life – Fiction. 5. Poetry – Fiction. 6. Baseball – Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F3318Nev 2010

  [fic] – dc22

  2009021155

  * * *

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from The Living Bible, copyright © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, IL 60188. All rights reserved.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  Zonderkidz is a trademark of Zondervan.

  This book is dedicated

  To all who have lost a loved one—

  To my family, as always, with love—

  And to my editor, Kathleen Kerr, with gratitude.

  G.F.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Half Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  a chance to be a hero

  Two

  post-game

  Three

  ginny

  Four

  breakfast with mama

  Five

  Mr. Gallagher’s class

  Six

  a change of plans

  Seven

  the picnic

  Eight

  the talk

  Nine

  the place for love

  Ten

  the death poem

  Eleven

  fog

  Twelve

  church pew

  Thirteen

  letting ginny know

  Fourteen

  fun in class

  Fifteen

  ginny’s news

  Sixteen

  poem prayers

  Seventeen

  valley lakes program

  Eighteen

  tennis match

  Nineteen

  dad knew

  Twenty

  friday night tradition

  Twenty-one

  standing in the bleachers

  Twenty-two

  never blame the umpire

  Twenty-three

  adventure land

  Twenty-four

  the umpire’s call

  Twenty-five

  the play

  Twenty-six

  opening the bible

  Twenty-seven

  ginny’s song

  Twenty-eight

  the letter

  Twenty questions I’m often asked

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  One

  a chance to be a hero

  I’m in the on-deck circle, praying for Cal to get a hit. My hands are all sweaty, so I drop my bat on the ground and scoop up a handful of dirt. I rub my hands on my shirt. I don’t mind getting dirty. Mama and Dad don’t care how dirty I get, either. They just say, “It’s part of the game, Kate. If you’re really playing hard, you’re bound to get dirty. But you already know that.”

  I do. I’ve played enough sports with Mama and Dad and my little brother Ken to know it. This is my first summer of playing baseball on a real team. We’ve been practicing for a couple of weeks, but this is our first game. This is my first time playing baseball under pressure.

  I pick up my bat and study the pitcher. Coach always tells us to watch the pitcher closely, especially when we’re on deck, so we can get an idea how hard he’s throwing.

  If Cal doesn’t end the game right now with a hit, I might have a chance to win the game and be a hero. The trouble is, I’m not a great hitter. I have an even better chance of making the final out. I sure don’t want to do that.

  I take my eyes off the pitcher long enough to glance back toward the bleachers. Mama and Dad still aren’t here. The last thing they’d said before they left home this morning was, “We wouldn’t miss your game for anything.”

  Why aren’t they here?

  They were supposed to be home before 5:30, which is when Ken and I had to be at the field. We were all going to go together. They didn’t come home, and they didn’t even call. So Ken and I had to go without them. Luckily, our ballfield is only four blocks from our house. Ken and I ran all the way here and got here just in time.

  Now it’s the bottom of the sixth. We’re one run behind. Ken led off the inning with a single. He’s only ten, a whole year younger than me, but he’s a better hitter. After Ken singled, Jack popped out and Andy doubled. Their left fielder made a nice play to keep Ken from scoring the tying run. Now, with just one out, a fly ball or maybe even a ground ball could tie the game. The bad thing is, Cal doesn’t hit any better than I do.

  Even though I’m not one of the best players, I really wanted for Mama and Dad to see me play my first game. Even though Ken has played ever since t-ball, I was never that into it. Ivy Snow talked me into playing. Next to Ginny, she’s my best friend. She played last year, and she was the only girl on the team. This year we have three girls on the team: Ivy, Heather, and me. We tried to get Ginny to play, but we couldn’t talk her into it.

  The pitch comes in, a foot over Cal’s head. He swings. He couldn’t have reached it unless he were standing on a ladder.

  “Come on, Cal!” I shout. “Make the pitch be in there!”

  What I’m thinking is, “Please, please get that run in!”

  I really, really don’t want to make the last out with the tying run on third.

  The next pitch is in the strike zone, and Cal hits a dinky infield pop-up. The second baseman doesn’t even have to move. He catches it with two hands and flips the ball back to the pitcher.

  Now it’s up to me. The only good thing about Mama and Dad not being here is that they won’t have to see me make the last out. It’s not like them to not keep their word. Maybe they had a flat tire or something. I can’t think of a good reason why they’re not here. Some of my friends complain that their parents always break promises. But I’ve never had that problem. Mama and Dad have a lot of pet sayings, and one of them is, “Never make a promise unless you plan to keep it.”

  I try to focus on the
pitcher. All that matters right now is, can I hit the ball? I hold my bat in one hand and jerk at the bill of my green cap with my other hand. In my first at-bat my cap wasn’t on tight enough. It flew off my head when I swung hard and missed, striking out. I heard some people laugh. I wasn’t sure if they laughed because my cap flew off and I looked silly or because I missed the ball. My second time up I at least hit the ball, but it was just a weak grounder back to the pitcher.

  I hope nobody can see how bad I’m shaking. I didn’t expect to be this nervous. I’ve played a lot of tennis with my mom and dad and brother. Mama played tennis on her college team, and she taught Ken and me. We’re pretty good. We’ve had plenty of tight matches where I’ve had to return serve at match point, but I’ve never been as scared as I am now. I guess that’s because I’m better at hitting a tennis ball than I am at hitting a baseball.

  Maybe I’ll get lucky and the pitcher will walk me. I hope. Making the last out would be a perfectly awful way to start the season.

  I tap home plate with the fat end of the red aluminum bat. The pitcher looks in at me, or maybe at his catcher. Toby shouts to me from the on-deck circle. I suddenly realize I don’t really want to walk. I know I have a better chance to get a hit than Toby does. He’s struck out both times, not once coming close to making contact with the ball. Even in batting practice, he hardly ever hits the ball. If our team, the Colby Panthers, is going to win our opening game of the season, I’m afraid it’s up to me.

  “Bring me home, Kate!” Ken shouts from third base. “You can do it!”

  I hear Coach call out, “Okay, Kate. Wait for your pitch.”

  I don’t hear the voices I want to hear the most: Mama’s and Dad’s.

  I grip the bat as tight as I can to try to stop my hands from shaking. I stare at the ball in the pitcher’s hand. His hand starts to move and now the ball is coming toward me. I want to swing, but my arms don’t move.

  “Ball!” the ump calls out.

  “Way to look!” Ken yells. “Make him throw strikes!”

  He doesn’t know that the only reason I didn’t swing was because I’m too scared.

  “No hitter no hitter no hitter,” their catcher chatters. Unfortunately, he’s right.

  The second pitch comes in waist high, right over the heart of the plate. The pitcher couldn’t have thrown me an easier pitch to hit if he’d tried all day. My mind shouts, “Swing! Swing!” but my arms stay frozen again. The ump yells, “Strike one!”

  I pound my bat hard on home plate, just to prove that my arms really do move. Small clouds of dust puff up.

  I’ve gone out twice, but at least I hit the ball once. Why won’t my arms work now?

  And they do, finally. But the pitch comes in low, at my ankles. I swing over the top of it. One more strike and we’ve lost the game.

  Their catcher’s thinking the same thing because he calls out, “One more strike. No hitter no hitter. Just throw it in here.”

  I take a deep breath. I look hard at the pitcher. He looks nervous too…at least I tell myself he does. It makes me feel a little bit better. I try not to watch him, though. I try to focus on the ball. He holds it in his right hand. Then the ball disappears in his glove and his arms go above his head. His right arm comes down, pointing right toward me, and now I see the ball again. I hold back a split second longer on this pitch than I did on the other one. When I see it’s going to be close to the outside corner, I swing.

  I’m surprised at how loud the sound is when my bat meets the ball. I watch the ball take off on a line toward right field, and I start to run. It lands in front of the right fielder. I see him field it cleanly and throw it toward home. I turn and watch the ball bounce twice before the catcher fields it. He catches the ball just as Andy slides into him. The two players are covered by a cloud of dust.

  The ump stands over them with his arms spread in the “safe” signal. Andy scrambles to his feet and starts to whoop. He tosses his cap into the air.

  The whole team races out toward me, Ken leading the pack. I’m jumping up and down. I can’t help it. I just never thought I would get a hit.

  I feel really great. But I can’t stop myself from glancing again at the bleachers. I can’t stop myself from wishing that Mama and Dad were here to see it.

  Two

  post-game

  Coach breaks up our celebration so our team can walk single-file across the middle of the infield to shake hands with the players from the other team. It’s a league rule. Be good sports, whether you win or lose. That’s what Coach preaches to us at every practice. “Play hard,” he says, “but most of all play fair and have fun.” He always tells us, “We should all play to win, because that’s what makes competition fun, but I’d much rather coach a team of good losers than a team of poor winners.”

  I’m really glad he’s coaching us. Ken and I have known him for a long time. He teaches Sunday School at my church and comes along with our youth group on a lot of our activities. The best thing about having him as a coach is he doesn’t yell and get mad like some of the other coaches do. If we make a mistake, like throwing the ball to the wrong base or something, he’ll talk to us and tell us the right thing to do. And he always does it in a quiet way. He never shouts or makes anybody feel bad like some of the other coaches do. Ken played last year, and I went to almost all his games. I couldn’t believe how mean some of the other coaches were to their players. In one game the shortstop on the other team made an error and his coach came right out on the field and yelled at him to go to the bench and he brought another kid in to take his place. Right in the middle of the inning!

  Coach motions for all of us to get together down the left field line. It’s our “post-game critique.” He says we’ll be having one after every game because it’s important to go over things that happen in the game while they’re still fresh in everybody’s mind.

  The things that are really fresh in my mind are that last swing, the sound the bat made when the ball hit it, and Ken and Andy scoring the tying and winning runs.

  “Remember that base hit they got back in the fourth inning?” Coach says. “The one out to right-center that Heather fielded? When the runner on first base was running toward third, the pitcher should have been backing up the base in case the throw got away. That goes for everybody. Always anticipate where the ball will be thrown and back up the base.”

  I can hardly wait for Coach to get to the good part, that last inning.

  “Another thing,” Coach says. “Pay attention to my signs. Twice I gave the bunt sign and the batter swung anyway. Missing a sign is serious business. It can cost a team a game. I remember a game two years ago when a player missed the bunt sign and then grounded into a double play to end the game.” Coach has such a serious look on his face you’d think we lost the game.

  Suddenly his face breaks into a big smile. “Enough of the negatives,” he says. “I’m proud of all of you. You played hard, and you never gave up.”

  Coach takes a couple minutes to tell at least one good thing everybody did in the game, even Cal, who struck out twice and popped out and missed the only two balls hit to him. Coach said, “Cal, you did a great job battling up there at the plate that last inning. Keep it up and the hits will start dropping.”

  I can hardly wait until he gets to me.

  “Ken, Andy, you two set the table for Kate in that last inning with good hits. And Kate, what a clutch hit that was. Two strikes and you hung in there. That was a fine piece of hitting.”

  Everybody starts to cheer.

  Coach shouts out above the cheers, “No practice or game tomorrow. We’ll practice Saturday morning at ten. See you then. Remember, if you know ahead of time you can’t make it, be sure to call me and let me know.”

  Some of our players leave with their parents. Some others get on their bikes. I call out to Ken, “Race you home!”

  “You’re on!” Ken answers.

  Ken’s the better baseball player, but I’m the faster runner. Besides, I alrea
dy have a three or four step head start. I know there’s no way he can catch me.

  I fling open our screen door and burst through first. Dad’s standing by the window.

  “We won!” I shout. “We won!”

  Ken blurts, “Kate got the hit that drove me and Andy in with the tying and winning runs.”

  “It was the last of…” I begin. But I stop when Dad turns toward me. His eyes are red and puffy.

  “Hi kids,” he says. His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “Sorry we missed your game. How’d you do?”

  We’ve already told him. Didn’t he even hear us? I glance at Ken. He’s looking at me with a puzzled look on his face.

  “We won,” I said. “6 to 5.”

  Dad doesn’t say anything. He just nods.

  “Is anything wrong?” I ask. I realize Mama’s not in the room. “Is Mama okay?”

  “Your mom’s not feeling well. She went to bed early.”

  I glance at the wall clock. 8:10. Mama, in bed? She’s never in bed by 8:10. Never. Unless she has the flu or something. And she’s almost never sick.

  “She’s not asleep yet, is she?” I ask. “Maybe she’d like to hear about the game.”

  “I think we’d better let her rest,” Dad said. “You can tell her about the game tomorrow.”

  “She’s not real sick, is she?” Ken says. “She was all right this morning.”