by Matt Christopher
THE LUCKY BASEBALL BAT BASEBALL PALS
BASKETBALL SPARKPLUG
TWO STRIKES ON JOHNNY LITTLE LEFTY
TOUCHDOWN FOR TOMMY
LONG STRETCH AT FIRST BASE
BREAK FOR THE BASKET
TALL MAN IN THE PIVOT
CHALLENGE AT SECOND BASE
CRACKERJACK HALFBACK
BASEBALL FLYHAWK
SINK IT, RUSTY
Copyright
COPYRIGHT © 1963 BY MATTHEW F. CHRISTOPHER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER, EXCEPT BY A REVIEWER WHO MAY QUOTE BRIEF PASSAGES IN A REVIEW.
Hachette Book Group
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-09585-3
to
John and Ann
Contents
by Matt Christopher
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Sports Stories for Young Readers
1
RUSTY YOUNG blew the whistle as hard as he could. The shrill sound pierced the big barn. It was so loud his own ears rang.
“Foul on Perry!” Rusty shouted.
“What?”
The boys on the floor stopped moving instantly. The tallest one stared at Rusty, his eyes cold and hard.
“You struck Joby's wrist when you stole the ball from him!” Rusty said. “I saw you!”
He trotted forward in his slow, awkward way, took the ball from Perry, and handed it to Joby. “One shot,” he said.
He felt Perry's stinging glance. Perry always thought he could get away with anything when he played basketball here with the kids. Probably he thought he could because he handled the ball better than any of them, and because he was the tallest.
Rusty didn't care. He'd call the fouls if he saw them, just like the referees did in the big games.
Joby stepped to the free-throw line. One of the boys had drawn it with white chalk a couple of weeks ago when the gang had first started coming to the barn to play basketball.
Joby held the ball close to his chest and looked long and hard at the basket. Players stood on each side of the free-throw lane, watching him. Rusty watched him, too. He could not help smiling a little. Every time Joby tried a foul shot, his mouth hung wide open.
Joby shot. The ball hit the backboard, bounced back and fluttered through the net.
“Nice shot!” somebody yelled.
Joby's mouth snapped shut like a trap and he grinned.
Jim Bush caught the ball as it dropped from the basket. He stepped near the wall at one side of the backboard, passed the ball to Perry. Perry dribbled it down-court.
Rusty followed him. For a moment he tried to keep up with Perry. Then he slowed down. His legs refused to obey his wishes. He couldn't lift his knees as high as he wanted to. He couldn't take long strides.
That was why he was refereeing now instead of playing.
Mom and Dad said he was improving, though. He wished he could improve faster. He wanted to play basketball as well as the boys did. And other sports, too.
Mom and Dad had often reminded him that he was much more fortunate than many other children. Some had serious effects from polio for years and years, whereas he had got over the worst of his two years ago.
Two years! And he still wasn't able to run, jump, and do other things that his friends did!
Rusty pushed the thoughts from his mind. He watched Perry dribble toward the basket. Corny Moon was guarding Perry closely. Quick as a wink, Perry dribbled past him and broke for the basket. He went up, pushed the ball against the backboard, and scored two points.
The ball dropped to the floor. Rusty caught it on the bounce. He tossed it to a boy waiting to take it out. Then he saw a movement near the corner of the room, and paused to get a better look.
A man had climbed the ladder from the floor below. He wasn't really too old —perhaps twenty-five. But boy, was he tall! Six-foot-four! That's what the kids had said. His name was Alec Daws. His father had recently purchased the grocery store in Cannerville. They were still a little like strangers.
He stepped onto the floor. A wide grin spread across his face.
“Keep playing,” he said. “Don't stop because of me.”
For a second Rusty's gaze fell upon the black glove Alec Daws wore on his left hand. He thought it was funny that Alec should wear only one glove.
The boys played awhile longer. Rusty blew the whistle a couple of times when he thought a foul was made. Both times the boys on whom Rusty made the call yelled at him. And both times Rusty's face turned red.
“Here, Mr. Daws,” he said, holding the ball out toward the tall onlooker. “You ref.”
“No. You're doing all right,” said Alec Daws.
“Good idea!” Perry Webb exclaimed. “Come on, Alec! Ref for us!”
Alec Daws smiled, shrugged, and accepted the ball from Rusty.
Rusty went to the side of the floor and sat down. The boys played more carefully now that Alec was refereeing. But while Rusty watched, an ache started inside him. An ache to be on the floor, to run. An ache to scramble after the ball, to dribble it, and to shoot for the basket.
After a while, when the action was taking place near the farther basket, he went to the ladder and climbed down.
He was glad nobody was around to see his face when he reached the bottom.
2
RUSTY walked across the cracked cement floor toward the wide, open doorway. Overhead, the boards squeaked from running, thumping feet.
He walked outside into the cool night air. A high moon hung like a glowing crystal ball in the sky. It was about seven o'clock. Mom and Dad expected him home soon, anyway.
He got to thinking about his future. It looked very dim. Alec Daws had taken interest in the boys' playing basketball. He would be coming to the barn more often now. No doubt he understood the game well. At least, well enough to know how to referee.
All at once Rusty didn't like Alec Daws. He didn't like him at all. Alec had come and taken away from him the one thing he was able to do — referee.
The evening was so quiet Rusty could hear the soft whisper of the creek water to his left. He walked alongside the concrete wall and watched the moonlit water glisten like patches of silver. He reached the bridge, crossed it, and started down the paved road.
On the right was a park. Picnic benches stood empty under shadowy trees. Beyond the park was Cato Lake, a dark-blue mirror under the pale moon.
Ahead, on the left, was the Dawses' grocery store. A dim, yellow light beamed out from its big window. The store was closed.
Rusty looked up at the hill behind the store. It was steep, covered with pine trees, elms, and oaks. On top of the hill he could see the outline of a house. Other houses were up there, out of his view. One of them was his.
Rusty paused. He could continue on his way home by taking the road. It led past the store, wound around the hill and up to the houses. But now he wanted to take the shortcut. He would climb the steep hill.
He walked behind the store, reached the bottom of the hill,
and began climbing. He discovered that the dark tree-shadows made it hard to see. The footing was difficult, too. The ground was hard as rock.
He slipped on dead leaves and clutched a tiny sapling to keep from falling. He helped himself upward by pulling on the saplings. By the time he was a third of the way up the hill his legs ached. His arms were tired. He wished now he had taken the road.
Suddenly, he slipped again. He reached out in the darkness for a sapling or some brush to stop his fall. He grabbed at a thin branch. But he fell so quickly that the branch slid through his hand. He rolled down the hill, panic filling his heart. Twigs snapped loudly as he rolled over them.
Finally, he struck the wide base of a tree. He lay still a moment, breathing hard.
His breathing was the only sound he heard in the very still night. He shuddered and wondered if he was hurt.
3
RUSTY got up. He wasn't hurt. He brushed the dirt off his clothes. He swallowed and pressed his lips tightly together.
Just then a voice from the direction of the barn broke the stillness of the night.
“Rusty! Rusty! Wait for me!”
Joby's voice.
“I'm up here, Joby,” he replied. “Wait! I'm coming down.”
He could see Joby running swiftly toward the bridge. Carefully, Rusty climbed down the hill. He reached the bottom and walked out of the shadows. Joby came running toward him.
“Rusty!” he shouted. “What were you doing up there?”
“I wanted to take the shortcut,” said Rusty, ashamed. “Nobody else ever had trouble climbing that hill.”
“But it's night!” said Joby. “It's hard to see.”
“I know,” replied Rusty. “Guess that's why I fell. If it hadn't been for a tree, I might have rolled all the way to the bottom.”
“You fell?” Joby's voice pierced the night air. “You sure were nutty trying to climb that hill! Come on. Let's take the road. I'm going home, too.”
They walked to the paved road and followed it around the hill. Lights on poles blazed the way.
“Joby,” said Rusty suddenly, “please don't tell anybody I tried to climb the hill.”
“Don't worry,” said Joby. “I won't. But you were really nutty to do it!”
They reached the houses on top of the hill. Lights glowed in windows. Smoke curled out of chimneys, faded into the dark sky.
Joby's and Rusty's homes were across from each other.
“Goodnight, Joby,” said Rusty.
“Goodnight, Rusty.”
The instant Rusty walked into the kitchen he looked at his pants. Horror came over him. They were covered with dirt! There were even bits of twigs and leaves sticking to his clothes.
Quickly, he began brushing them off. But he wasn't improving things. The dirt was bouncing onto the clean, polished floor. If Mom —
He started to go back out. Just then his mother appeared from the dining room.
“Rusty! Heavens! What are you doing? And where in glory's name have you been?”
Rusty trembled and stammered out his story.
Her blue eyes softened. Rusty hoped she'd smile, too, but she didn't.
“Get the clothes brush, step outside, and get yourself cleaned,” she ordered. “And then sweep up this floor. After that, you'd better take a bath.”
Rusty did all those things. Afterwards, his mother showed him a letter they had received from Marylou, Rusty's sister. She was a sophomore at State Teachers College.
He read the letter. There were a lot of words, but as far as Rusty was concerned she hardly said anything.
Rusty didn't go to the barn again until Saturday afternoon. First he made sure no one was there. He took his own basketball and began playing all by himself.
He dribbled and shot from different spots on the floor. His shots were either too short or far to the left or right of the basket. He tried jump shots and realized he could hardly get off the floor.
Anger built up inside him. Why couldn't he run faster? Why couldn't he jump? Why did he have to be different from other boys? Why did it have to happen to him?
“Hello!” a voice said behind him.
He dropped the ball. He spun, and almost lost his balance.
“Oh! Hi!” he said. His heart thumped. “Hi, Mr. Daws!”
4
“I saw you pass by the store with the basketball,” said Alec. “I thought you were coming here. Practicing shots?”
“I guess so,” said Rusty.
Alec came forward. He walked gracefully despite his towering height. A smile warmed his gray eyes. Then a little frown appeared on his forehead.
“Aren't you the boy who was refereeing the ball game here a few nights ago?”
Rusty nodded. He was really nervous. Boy, this guy was tall!
“Bet you didn't like it when I took over your job, did you?” Alec Daws said.
Rusty looked away. He shrugged. “I —I didn't mind,” he said.
Alec Daws reached out a long, muscular arm and squeezed Rusty's shoulder. “Don't tell me that,” he said. “What's your name? Mine's Alec Daws. You can call me Alec.”
“My name's Ronald Young,” said Rusty. “Everybody calls me Rusty. Because of my hair.”
Alec laughed.
Rusty's gaze fell upon the black glove Alec wore on his left hand. There was something strange about the hand. Even with the glove on, it didn't look as big as the other.
“Go ahead,” said Alec. “Let's see you hit one from here.”
Rusty turned, looked at the basket. He stood near the middle of the floor. He had no chance of even hitting the backboard from here. He began to dribble, then quickly stopped. He stood frozen, his face turning red.
“What's the matter, Rusty?”
“N-nothing,” he said. He shot. The ball fell far short.
He'll notice something is wrong with my legs! He will!
Suddenly Alec swept past him. He caught the bouncing ball with one hand — the hand without the glove — and dribbled it to the side. He stopped, held the ball up in both hands, then shot at the basket. Rusty noticed that Alec had used his gloved hand only to hold the ball up in front of him. When he shot, he used only his right hand.
The ball arched beautifully, and sank through the hoop.
Rusty stared. What a shot!
“Now you try it, Rusty,” Alec said. He caught the ball and tossed it to Rusty.
Rusty dribbled slowly toward the basket, then stopped and looped a shot. The ball banged against the rim and dropped to the floor.
“Run after it!” said Alec.
Rusty ran after it. He tried hard to lift his knees, to keep from scraping the toes of his sneakers. He felt the ache in his legs, felt his toes scrape the floor, and knew he wasn't succeeding. He reached the ball, tried to make a quick shot, and stumbled. He fell. Once more his face flushed.
Alec rushed toward him, picked him up, and grinned.
“Hurt yourself?”
“No,” said Rusty. “Guess I'm — slow.”
“Just take it easy,” said Alec. “You rushed the ball too fast. I have a suggestion. Go over to that corner. Inside the playing area.”
Rusty went to the corner. Alec bounced the ball to him.
“Shoot,” said Alec, “then chase after the ball, and shoot from the opposite side.”
Rusty shot. He missed, went after the ball, and shot it from the other corner.
“Make that your goal,” said Alec. “Every time you come here, practice those corner shots. You'll start hitting, and some day you'll be a corner-shot artist.”
Rusty grinned. “Okay,” he said.
He and Alec took turns shooting at the basket. Rusty saw how gracefully Alec moved, how quickly he dribbled, how smoothly he made his lay-ups.
“Did you ever play on a team, Alec?” Rusty asked.
“In high school and college,” said Alec. “Until I hurt my hand.”
Rusty's eyes widened. “Hurt your hand playing basketball?”
�
��Oh, no. I worked on a farm during my summer vacation a few years ago, and did it on a corn husker. That finished me.” Alec stood near the middle of the court now. He aimed for the basket and shot. The ball hit the backboard and bounced into the net.
“I had polio,” Rusty said. “That's why I can't move around very fast.”
“I figured that,” said Alec. “You'll come along fine, though. Best thing in the world is exercise.” He took another shot, then headed for the ladder. “Well, I must get back to the store. Keep shooting, Rusty!”
“Thanks for coming, Alec!” Rusty said.
Five minutes after Alec left, Corny Moon and Perry Webb showed up.
“Well, look who's here!” cried Perry. “What are you doing, Rusty?”
“Practicing corner shots,” replied Rusty.
“Alec Daws was just here. He told me to keep at it and maybe I'll become a corner-shot artist.”
Perry and Corny laughed. Rusty could tell that laugh. They thought it was really funny.
His lips tightened. He took his ball and started down the ladder.
“Wait!” said Perry. “We're sorry, Rusty. We didn't mean to be nasty.”
“Stick around,” added Corny. “Let's the three of us play awhile.”
Rusty paused, then changed his mind. Well, guess they didn't really mean it.
They took turns shooting at the basket. Rusty's shots seldom hit. But he did as Alec had suggested. He kept shooting from the corners. Perhaps someday he might become good at it.
Perhaps.
5
“DID Alec tell you he's going to buy uniforms and form a basketball team?” said Perry.
Rusty was holding the ball, ready to shoot. Now he looked at Perry wonderingly.
“No. Alec didn't say anything to me about it.”
That was funny, he thought. Why didn't Alec say something to me about it?
“Come on, Rusty!” yelled Corny. “Let go of the ball!”
Rusty shot. He threw far short. Corny caught the ball on a bounce, broke fast for the basket, and laid it up neatly.
Sink it Rusty Page 1