The Submarine Pitch

by Matt Christopher

  His didn’t. They were always straight as a string. But maybe in time the submarine pitch would work for him.

  3

  One thirty-nine… one forty… one forty-one…

  Bernie heard a light knock on the door, then the door opening and finally closing.

  He kept on counting. “… one forty-two… one forty-three… one forty-four.”

  That was it. One hundred forty-four dollars. He folded up the bills and pushed them into the canvas bag Dad had picked up for him at the bank.

  “Wow! That’s quite a pile of dough, Bernie,” said Frankie. “Haven’t you saved up enough yet for that bike?”

  Bernie opened a drawer and dropped the bag of money into it. Then he turned around and faced Frankie, who had plunked himself down on his bed. The brothers shared the room. Each had his own desk and his own preferred team pennants and sports prints on the wall nearest his bed.

  “No,” Bernie answered, stretching out his bare legs and wiggling his toes. “I’ve got a lot more to earn yet.”

  Frankie whistled. “Man! I didn’t think mountain bikes cost that much!”

  “Well, they do,” said Bernie. “That means a lot of lawn mowing and small jobs I’ve got to scratch up. Maybe I won’t have time to go out for baseball after all.”

  Frankie’s head jerked up off the bed as if he’d been stung. He looked at Bernie with disbelieving eyes. “Won’t have time for baseball?” he echoed. “Don’t say that, Bernie! With that submarine pitch you might turn out to be the best pitcher in the league!”

  “That’s crazy, Frankie,” said Bernie. “You saw how many pitches I threw to Dave yesterday. Not one curved as much as a hair. I might as well keep throwing overhand and watch the pitches being knocked all over the lot.”

  “It will, though,” Frankie insisted. “You just keep throwing it. You’ll see.”

  Bernie shook his head. This kid was impossible. Maybe what I need is some of his grit, he thought.

  Then he thought about Dave and about Dave’s attitude when Vince and Mike had stopped by to watch them play catch.

  “Frankie, did you notice how Dave acted when Vince and Mick showed up?” he said. “Right away he wanted to quit. He didn’t want them to watch me throw that pitch. I think he really wants us to keep it a secret.”

  “Sure, he does,” replied Frankie seriously. A smile curved his lips. “You know what? Sometimes he acts as if he’s your brother, too.”

  Bernie nodded. “I know. That’s why I — I hate to disappoint him.”

  For a week Bernie worked on the submarine pitch, practicing it either at his own home or at Dave’s, and he had made solid improvement. There was a hook on the end of the pitch now. He had discovered how to accomplish it by twisting his wrist just slightly when releasing the ball.

  He never worked out long at a time, though. About fifteen minutes was the limit, because Dave wanted to stop to rest then. But after half an hour’s rest Dave would insist that they continue. This they did two or three times a day.

  The only other time they paused for a rest was when a kid who played on an opposing team stopped by for a visit. This, too, was Dave’s idea. He was really serious about not wanting anybody else to know about the submarine pitch.

  “Why, Dave?” asked Bernie, when it happened for the third time. “Why don’t you want anybody else to know about the pitch?”

  Dave looked at him seriously, as if he couldn’t understand why Bernie should ask him such a question.

  “Because I want this to surprise them,” he explained. “If you’re going to start pitching when the league opens in a couple of weeks, you’d want the pitch developed enough to make it effective, wouldn’t you?”

  Bernie frowned at him. Dave sure was serious about the pitch, all right. He was talking as if he were Bernie’s pitching coach. Well, in a way he was. He had introduced Bernie to the pitch, showed him how to throw it, and was having him practice it as often as he could. He was doing everything a pitching coach would do.

  But Dave was taking a lot for granted, too.

  “Dave, I haven’t really said that I was going to pitch,” said Bernie.

  The statement seemed to hit Dave like a bombshell. “What do you mean you haven’t said? I thought that’s why we’ve been working on the submarine pitch all this time.”

  “I know. But it’s real new for me, Dave. I might walk every guy that steps up to the plate.”

  “But you won’t! Your control is good. Real good.” Dave wiped a sleeve across his sweating forehead. “You can’t say that you’re not going to pitch, Bernie. You just can’t.”

  Bernie stared at him. “I don’t get it, Dave,” he said. “Why should you be so anxious that I pitch? I could see why my brother Frankie is. But why you?”

  Dave gazed at him a long minute. “Because I can’t do it myself,” he answered. “Don’t ask me why, but I can’t. I would like to see you do it… for me.”

  “Suppose I fail?”

  “That’s all right. I’m not worried about that.”

  Again Bernie frowned, puzzled by Dave’s answer.

  “Okay, Dave,” he said finally. “If you have faith in me, I should have, too. I’ll give Coach Salerno a call tonight and ask him if he’ll still have me for the Rangers.”

  Dave’s face brightened. “You won’t have to,” he said.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve already talked with him,” replied Dave. “He’s got your name. And he wants you to be at the ball park Saturday morning for a practice game against the Atoms.”

  “Why, you jerk!” cried Bernie, poking him in the stomach.

  “I knew you’d like that,” said Dave, grinning.

  The Atoms looked as if they had changed into their new uniforms in a sporting goods store; their white jerseys and blue pants were spanking clean. The Rangers’ uniforms, green jerseys and white pants, were clean, too, but had that telltale look of having been through the mill. The fuzz was nearly all worn off all the pants at the knees, giving them a burlapish look.

  Both teams had their names on the fronts of the jerseys and large numbers on the backs. Bernie’s number was 3.

  The catchers of both teams flipped a coin to see who’d bat first. Fritz Boon, the Atoms’ catcher — a roly-poly kid who seemed to have been squeezed into his uniform — won the toss and chose to bat last.

  “Okay, here’s the roster,” said Coach Salerno. He wasn’t quite as stout as Fritz, nor as short, and his red, long-brimmed cap made him stand out like a cardinal among a flock of sparrows. He thumbtacked the list to the side of the dugout. “Read it to find out who you follow in the batting order and let’s get started. Bernie, you’re chucking.”

  Although Bernie expected it, hearing the coach tell him was like a slight electric shock. He nodded, and then felt suddenly numb as questions popped into his head. Suppose I can’t throw the ball within a mile of the plate? Suppose that even if I do get it over, the Atoms blast it all over the lot?

  He shook the thoughts loose from his mind and went over to read the roster.

  Bill Conley — shortstop

  Ed Masters — right field

  Deke Smith — first base

  Buzz Ames — left field

  Tom McDermott — second base

  Rudy Sims — center field

  Chuck Haley — third base

  Fred Button — catcher

  Bernie Shantz — pitcher

  Chris Morgan, the Atoms’ pitcher, had an overhand delivery that reminded Bernie very much of the way he used to throw. But Chris’s pitches could thread a needle. Nearly all of them were teasers, thrown near or below the batters’ knees. In the top of the first both Bill and Ed struck out and Deke grounded out to short.

  The teams exchanged sides, and after a few warm-up pitches Bernie toed the rubber and winged in his first submarine pitch that anybody had ever seen besides Frankie and Dave.

  A soft, surprised cry broke from the Atom bench.

  “Hey
! What kind of a pitch was that?” one of the guys exclaimed.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him throw like that before,” observed another.

  Bernie got two balls and two strikes on the leadoff batter, Ralph Benz — who stood in a deep crouch at the plate — then struck him out. As the infielders whipped the ball around the horn, Bernie felt his heart pound. One down, two to go.

  Jim Hayes, the Atoms’ second batter, waited out the pitches till the count built up to three and two. Then he too swung at a high sweeping pitch and whiffed.

  Hank Dooley, the Atoms’ left fielder, got a piece of the ball and beat out a scratch hit to third. Then Mark Pine, the Atoms’ big gun, let two strikes go by him and swung at the third, missing it by a foot.

  Bernie heard the hum rise among the Atom players as he walked off the mound. His heart was still pounding, though not as hard as before.

  His own teammates showered him with words of praise. The coach shook his hand, grinning. “I don’t know what you’re throwing, kid,” he said, “but whatever it is, don’t lose it.”

  But the voice that he heard when he was near the dugout was the one that really mattered.

  “What did I tell you, Bernie?” Dave called. “Huh? What did I tell you?”

  4

  Buzz Ames singled to center, scooted to second on Tom’s sacrifice bunt, and scored on Rudy’s smashing drive through short. The Ranger bench yelled as if the 1–0 lead were the straw that would break the Atoms’ back.

  They picked up two more runs when Fred belted a double, scoring both Rudy and Chuck, who had walked on four straight pitches. Then Bernie popped out to second and Bill fanned to end the top half of the second inning. Rangers 3; Atoms 0.

  Bernie’s second time on the mound was almost a replica of his first, except that he had only one strikeout instead of two. The pitches that were hit were a pop fly to Fred and a dribbler to the pitcher’s box.

  It was weird. The pitch was turning out a lot better than Bernie had expected. When he came off the field he looked up and saw a beaming smile on Dave’s face — and of course on Frankie’s, too. He was sure that there weren’t any guys more proud of him at that moment than those two.

  The Rangers garnered four runs during their trip at the plate, then went out on the field, bolstered with the confidence that a seven-run lead can inspire. Bernie wondered how Dave was enjoying it. Of course he had to be. This was what he expected, wasn’t it?

  Jim Hayes tried to slaughter the first pitch and tripped over his legs.

  “Strike one!” boomed the ump.

  Jim tried it again. “Strike two!”

  And again. “Strike three!”

  The ball made its quick rainbow hops around the horn.

  “What’s he throwing?” Bernie heard Jim say as he returned dejectedly to his bench.

  “You just batted against him,” replied one of his teammates. “You saw it.”

  “Yeah, but…” That’s all Jim had to say.

  Mark Pine, the Atoms’ center fielder, seemed to have a better idea. He waited out Bernie’s pitches, but at the two-two mark he swung and managed to meet the ball. It was a skyrocketing blow. If it had gone as far horizontally as it did vertically, it might have disappeared over the fence. As it was, it dropped down just outside of the third-base foul line and Chuck caught it.

  Third baseman Dick Stone waited out Bernie’s pitches, too, but with no better luck. He popped up a three-two pitch to Fred to end the bottom of the third inning.

  “Okay, Bernie,” said Coach Salerno as Bernie came in and laid his glove on top of the dugout. “You can rest for a change. I’ll have Jeff finish the game. You did all right, kid. You’ve really got a mean pitch there.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “You really changed your delivery from last year, didn’t you?” the coach observed, his eyes shaded by the long brim of his cap.

  “Right.”

  The coach peered at him, his thick eyebrows lowering till they came together at the bridge of his nose. “That pitch your own idea, or did somebody tell you about it?”

  Bernie looked at him, surprised. “Somebody told me about it.”

  “What I figured,” replied Coach Salerno, grinning. “Your father?”

  “No. A friend.”

  “He must’ve known Dusty Fowler,” said the coach. “Dusty’s the only guy I can remember who used to pitch like that. I was just a kid, but I can remember. A lot of guys tried to imitate him, but nobody ever could hold a candle to him. He was the best.”

  “I read a newspaper clipping about him,” said Bernie. “That’s what it said.”

  The coach chuckled. “You keep it up, maybe you’ll be the first who can really pitch like him,” he said. “But be careful. Don’t twist your wrist too much or it’ll get sore and you’ll have had it. Throw it without too much effort. You’re big and strong, but you’re still a kid. Your arms aren’t too well developed yet. Know what I mean?”

  Bernie nodded. “Yes, I do. I’ll be careful.”

  “Good boy.”

  The top of the fourth zipped by quickly as Chris had the Rangers ground out to the infield. Then, with catcher Nick Collidino on first base by virtue of a scratch single, Chris came up and scored him at the end of a long triple. The Atoms had their heads out of the water.

  Jeff settled down after that and, with some help from his fielders, got the Atoms out. The game went to the sixth inning with both teams scoring two more runs each, ending up with the Rangers winning, 9–3.

  It wasn’t until Bernie was alone and walking off the field that Frankie and Dave came running up to him, both slapping him enthusiastically on the back.

  “You did it, Bernie!” Frankie cried. “You had those Atoms biting the dirt!”

  “He did it because he’s got it!” said Dave. “And you know what, Bernie? You’ll get even better!”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Bernie pessimistically.

  “Why not? There’s no other way to go, Bernie, but up.”

  Down too, Bernie wanted to say. For crying out loud, Dave, this was the first time I threw that pitch in a game. It was new to the batters. They could blast me out of the lot the next time!

  The Rangers’ first league game was against the Coronas on Thursday, July 6, at four o’clock. Instead of starting on the mound, Bernie found himself on the bench. He couldn’t believe it. After his excellent performance the other day, you’d think the coach would pitch him again. Instead, Jeff Eastman was pitching.

  The Coronas, batting first, had trouble lining up their swings with Jeffs throws and went down — one, two. The third batter, however, Bobo Johnson, leaned into Jeff’s first pitch and poled it for a long home run over the left-field fence.

  The slam was a shock. An electric jolt. It seemed to sap the strength — the will —out of Jeff and the other players. Bernie looked at Coach Salerno and saw the thick eyebrows lower with worry.

  Ron Coletti, the Coronas’ really big gun, then pounded out a double. His teammates cheered like mad. The Corona fans joined in. The combined sound was a symphony that made it seem as if every person there were for the Coronas.

  Then Harry Perkowski walked, Angie Bruno singled, and Tom Bowman doubled, giving the Coronas an indisputable hot lead of four runs. Red Parker ended the, merrygo-round by flying out to Ed in right field.

  “C’mon! C’mon! C’mon!” yelled the coach, clapping his hands fast as if to pump life back into the guys as they came trotting in like robots. “Get your chins off your chests! Look alive! C’mon! C’mon!”

  Maybe the encouragement helped, because Bill Conley, leading off, belted Dick Lunger’s first pitch for a double over second base. But that was it. Ed, Deke, and Buzz got a piece of the ball, but no hits.

  The top of the second inning started off as if it were a new ball game, and Jeff a new pitcher. He faced only three batters, striking out one of them, Jim Black.

  As if that scoreless half had had an effect on Dick Lunger, he walked the
first man to face him, Tom McDermott. Tom raced to second on Rudy’s sacrifice bunt, then scored on Chuck’s two-bagger. Fred singled, scoring Chuck, and died there on first as Jeff struck out and Bill grounded out to short.

  Bernie saw that the coach’s eyebrows had returned to where they belonged and a smile warmed his face; he couldn’t help but share the coach’s enthusiasm. Now if only Jeff could repeat his pitching prowess of the second inning.

  He didn’t, though. Both Bobo and Ron singled. Then, after both Harry and Angie went down swinging, Tom smashed a triple to the left-field fence and both runners scored.

  Bernie saw Jeff’s shoulders droop as if a heavy weight had been dropped on him. He looked at the coach. This time not only were the man’s eyebrows lowered, but he was muttering to himself, too.

  5

  Warm up, Bernie,” said Coach Salerno quietly.

  Putting on his glove, Bernie stepped out of the dugout and went behind the stands with Dick Singer, the utility infielder. He started to throw the submarine pitch, aiming it for the target that Dick held up for him. Sometimes he hit it, sometimes he didn’t. He was nervous and hot; he was thinking of that long home run that Bobo had belted off Jeff, the two-baggers off the bats of Ron and Tom, and of Tom’s long triple.

  Those guys can really hit, he thought. My submarine pitch could be right up their alley.

  He didn’t realize he had two interested spectators until he heard one of them say, “Nothing to worry about, Bernie. Just pitch it to ’em.”

  He looked at Dave, who had an infectious smile of confidence on his face. Frankie was with him, sharing the same expression.

  “I’m nervous,” admitted Bernie. “Do I look it?”

  “No.”

  Somebody chuckled from a seat over his head. Bernie glanced up and saw Vincent Steele leering down at him. Next to Vincent was Mick. They looked like a couple of alley cats.

  “Now we’ll see what that mighty secret pitch can do,” said Vincent. “Right, Bernie?”