Coach Amos

by Gary Paulsen

  “My big name is Francis Howard Butler. But you should call me Sparky ’cause if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

  Amos stared at him.

  Precious pulled on Amos’s sleeve. “That’s what started the rock fight. Tommy Johnson called him Francis. He gets awful mad when you do that.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” Amos set up the T and placed the ball on top of it. Slowly, with great reluctance, he handed Sparky the bat. “All right. Give it your best shot.”

  Sparky stepped up to the plate, gave a mighty swing—and missed.

  Amos scratched his head. “Why don’t you try that again?”

  Sparky swung and missed a second time. Dunc was watching him from the pitcher’s mound. “I think it would help a lot if he opened his eyes when he swings.”

  Amos knelt down beside him. “Sparky, you have to keep your eyes open when you swing at the ball. And another thing.” Amos whispered something in his ear.

  This time Sparky swung and hit a high fly that went almost to the pitcher’s mound. Dunc brought the ball in. “What did you to say to him, Amos? That was great.”

  Amos leaned over. “I told him to pretend that the ball was the kid who called him Francis.”

  Dunc smiled. “Amos, you may be a born coach. Just one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You might want to tell him where first base is.”

  Amos looked up. Sparky was still running full blast. He had turned at the backstop and run behind the bleachers, off the playing field toward the fence.

  “All in all, I think practice went pretty well, don’t you?” Dunc said.

  They were in Amos’s room bandaging his thumb. Dunc measured the ointment precisely and cut the three gauze strips into exactly two-point-three-decimeter lengths.

  “Let me explain something to you, Dunc. When you get hit between the eyes by a rock, lose your allowance to a bunch of shrimps, and nearly get your thumb bit off, things are not going well.”

  “The part about the thumb isn’t too good. But now you know Tommy Johnson doesn’t like anybody to touch him. Next time, you won’t push him up to the plate. Hold still, or this won’t look neat.”

  Amos looked at his swollen thumb. “Only you would be worried about my having a neat-looking thumb. And as for Tommy, he could have told me. He didn’t have to try and bite my thumb off to get his point across. I just hope the kid doesn’t have rabies or something.”

  “Well, I think you’ve made a lot of progress. At least your team all knows where first base is. And they know they have to hit the ball before they can run.” Dunc taped the gauze in place. “Except for Sarah. She still likes to run first. But she’ll get the hang of it. I think you’re doing a great job, Amos. I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Amos sat on his bed. “I guess things could be worse. And we do have one more practice to try and get the bugs worked out.”

  “Don’t you think it’s kind of strange that in all this time, Coach Sanders didn’t teach them anything about T-ball?”

  “Not really. Some people just don’t have my incredible way with kids.”

  “Right.”

  Amos put his hands behind his head. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”

  “I think I’ll give him a call later and see if he’s feeling any better.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not going to be able to find some big dark mystery in this. I know you’re trying hard, but all we have here is a bunch of little kids and a coach who couldn’t handle them. That’s why he resigned. That’s it. There’s nothing else to it.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we go talk to him before practice tomorrow?” Dunc asked.

  Amos eyed him suspiciously. “You had that in mind the whole time, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t worry. You said yourself there was nothing to it. Let’s work on a lineup for tomorrow’s practice.”

  “You’re going to help me?”

  “Of course. We’re best friends. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “I think Precious would make a great pitcher. She can throw like nobody’s business.”

  Amos rubbed the knot between his eyes. “I’ll go along with that. But we really don’t need a good pitcher. They hit the ball off of the T.”

  “I told you to read the handbook.” Dunc pulled it out of his pocket and quickly found the page. “It says here to put someone who can throw at pitcher, so they can get the ball and throw it to first base. Because that’s where most of your outs take place.”

  “Why should I bother to read the book when I have you? I’d bet my grandma’s false teeth that you’ve already read that handbook from cover to cover—memorized every rule in it, made notes, corrected the punctuation in red ink, and probably have the whole thing outlined. Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Wrong.” Dunc closed the book. “I used blue ink.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.” Amos powered through a dip down the street from the hospital. He had figured out a way to tie the equipment bag across his handlebars. Turning wasn’t all that easy, but not being able to steer was better than getting mushy knees.

  “Of course it does,” Dunc argued. “Nobody says ‘be careful’ when they’re talking about a ball game. They say ‘good luck’ or ‘I hope you win,’ but they definitely don’t tell you to be careful.”

  “You forget, this guy knows our team.”

  “Coach Sanders was trying to tell us something, Amos, but for some reason he didn’t want to come right out and say it.”

  Amos jumped the curb in front of the elementary school. “The nurse said he was on a strong pain-killer and probably didn’t know what he was saying. He kept calling me Fred, or Ford, or something.”

  Dunc parked his bike. “It might be a good idea to wait a few days and go back when he’s a little more clear-headed.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s a waste of—”

  “Pssst.”

  Amos turned. A black limousine had pulled up alongside the curb, and a dark-tinted window snaked down a few inches. A finger motioned for Amos to come closer.

  “Don’t look now, Dunc, but I think we’re being paged.”

  Dunc grabbed the duffel bag. “Keep walking, Amos. Pretend like you don’t notice.”

  The car moved along the curb beside them. A raspy voice came from the car. “If you two know what’s good for you, you’ll forget the coaching and go on home. Ask Mr. Sanders what happens to people who mess with the organization.” The car window slid up, and the limousine sped off around the corner.

  They watched it until it was out of sight.

  Dunc pulled a small note pad out of his shirt pocket and started writing.

  “Shouldn’t we call the cops or something?” Amos asked. “What are you doing?”

  “I got the first two letters of the license plate. And I’m writing down a description of the car and everything that guy said so we can give it to the police once we’ve collected enough evidence.”

  “The guy threatened us. How much more evidence do you think they need?”

  “Amos, think about this logically. If we go report that some guy in a black limo threatened us because we coach T-ball, we’ll be the laughingstock of the whole town. We need to get something a little more solid. Find out what he’s up to.”

  “You’re out of your league this time, Dunc.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I recognized that voice.”

  “You did? Amos that’s great. Who was it?”

  “The Godfather.”

  Dunc rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t the Godfather.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me. It wasn’t him.”

  Amos took the duffel bag and started for his bike.

  “Where are you going?” Dunc asked. “The kids are waiting for us out on the field.”

  “I�
�m not taking any chances. You heard him. It’s not smart to mess with the ‘organization.’ We could wind up with cement shoes.”

  “Amos, there’s nothing to worry about. The whole thing was hokey. If that guy really wanted us to believe he was with the mafia, he should have hired a chauffeur. Who ever heard of a godfather who drives his own limo?”

  “You have a point there. Maybe he’s fallen on hard times.”

  Dunc shook his head. “Someone’s just trying to scare us into quitting. Probably a parent from another team.”

  “I’m sure that’s it. The other teams are probably shaking in their cleats because we’re so good.” Amos threw the duffel bag over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s really put a scare into them. Today we’ll teach our team where second base is.”

  Sarah hit the ball. Then she quietly laid the bat down and looked up at Amos.

  “All right, Sarah. It’s okay to run now.” Amos looked out at first base. “Sparky, when Sarah hits the ball, you have to run to second.”

  Sparky’s lip went out. “I don’t like second. Sarah can run to second. I like first.”

  “Everybody has to take their turn on second, Sparky.”

  Sparky folded his arms. “Precious didn’t.”

  Amos sighed. “I explained that. Precious made an out.”

  Precious jerked on Amos’s shirttail. “No, I didn’t, coach. You said I was tagged.”

  Amos threw up his hands. “Okay, everybody in. Coach Culpepper obviously needs to go over the game with you one more time.”

  Amos gathered up the equipment while Dunc tried to explain for the twelfth time why Sparky had to go on to second base.

  It was the team mom’s job to make sure the kids got home after practice. So, when Dunc was done with his speech, all the members of the team piled into Mrs. Johnson’s station wagon—except Sarah.

  “Boys, boys.” Mrs. Johnson motioned Dunc and Amos over to the driver’s side of the car. “I’m sorry, I forgot to ask you if you’d help me out. Sarah’s mother phoned me this afternoon and said that her sitter would be by a little late to pick Sarah up today. I’m just in an awful hurry. I’m a reporter, you know, for the Herald, and I’m supposed to cover the city commission meeting in half an hour. Would you boys mind waiting with Sarah until the sitter comes? I just know she’ll be here in five minutes, tops.”

  Amos looked at Dunc. Dunc looked at Amos and rolled his eyes.

  “Well, I suppose, since you’re an important reporter and all,” Amos said.

  Mrs. Johnson waved as she peeled out down the street. Amos called out to remind the kids to come early on Saturday so he could give them their new caps and jerseys.

  “Come on, Sarah,” Dunc said. “Coach Binder and I will throw the ball to you until your sitter gets here.”

  Sarah was having a great time. She didn’t throw very straight, but her two coaches didn’t seem to mind chasing the balls.

  “There’s my sitter.” She threw one last ball to Amos. It went off to his right, and he trotted after it.

  Amos reached for the ball, but he never quite got hold of it. He looked up to say good-bye and couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was.

  Melissa Hansen.

  Amos stood in a trance. He couldn’t move. His feet were like lead. He watched Melissa smile her angelic smile and thank Dunc for staying with Sarah. Then she turned, took Sarah’s hand, and walked off the field.

  Finally Amos came to. He ran full blast across the field. He thought if he could hurl himself over the fence and be casually standing on the sidewalk when she passed, she would have to notice him.

  He made a wild jump over the chain link fence. His pants caught on something sharp, and he hung there, upside down. One leg was attached to the fence, and, his face was mashed into the wire.

  Melissa crossed the street before she got to him and kept on walking.

  Dunc ran up to him. “Melissa was here.”

  “I know.”

  “Didn’t you want to talk to her?”

  “No. I thought it would be more fun to hang around on this fence.”

  “Oh.” Dunc waited.

  “Are you planning to stand there all day, or are you going to help me get down?”

  Dunc smiled. He pulled Amos up by the belt loops and unhooked him. Amos fell on his head.

  “Did she mention me?” Amos crawled to a sitting position.

  “No.”

  “Well, you mentioned me, didn’t you? I mean, you told her I was the coach and everything—right?”

  “The conversation never really got around to you, Amos. I did find out something interesting, though.”

  Amos stood up. “What? Is she crazy about me? Does she want me to come over? What?”

  “Melissa said she might be able to come watch Sarah play her first game.”

  Amos’s fence-waffled face broke into a slow grin.

  “Mr. Posey’s not here,” Jimmy Banes said. Jimmy worked part time at the sporting goods store. Right now, he was picking his teeth and watching cartoons on a portable black and white TV. “Hasn’t been here all day.”

  “We’re here to pick up the jerseys and caps for our T-ball team,” Dunc said. “Mr. Posey told us he’d have them for us by our first game tomorrow.”

  Jimmy didn’t look up. He jerked his thumb toward the back of the store. “They’re probably in the storeroom somewhere. You’ll have to come back when Mr. Posey’s here. I’m too busy to help you right now.”

  Dunc straightened a key-chain display on the counter. All the chains were crooked, and he pushed each one into line. “Yeah, we can see that you’re awful busy. Would you mind if we looked for them? We’re in kind of a hurry.”

  “I guess that would be okay. But don’t mess anything up.”

  The boys stepped into the back room. Merchandise was piled haphazardly all over the place. Shipping orders were thumb-tacked to the walls.

  “How does he find anything back here?” Amos asked.

  Dunc moved some empty boxes. “The question is, how are we going to find anything back here?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I found them.” Amos held up one of the jerseys. “It says Posey’s. Our team is called The Poseys.”

  Dunc laughed. “Just be glad Mr. Butts over at the meat market didn’t sponsor you.”

  “Cute.”

  “It’ll be okay, Amos. The kids won’t care.”

  “I care. How am I supposed to impress Melissa with a team name like The Poseys?”

  “She’ll think you’re too grown-up to need one of those macho team names.”

  Amos smiled. “You think so?”

  “Sure. Girls go for the mature type every time. You gather up the stuff. I’m going to leave a note for Mr. Posey so he’ll know we took the jerseys.”

  Dunc looked around on the desk for a pencil. He pulled open the top drawer. “Look at this, Amos. Mr. Posey has a list of every game that’s been played in this town since football season. And all the ones that haven’t been played yet. Everything from chess to soccer. He must really be into sports.”

  Amos glanced at the list. “Hey, there’s our first game. I wonder why he wrote ‘ten-to-one’ out beside our team’s name?”

  “Hmmm. Every game has a note like that beside it. Here’s one that says ‘five-to-one.’ ”

  Amos put his finger on the last high school football game. “This one says ‘even money.’ ”

  Dunc pulled out his note pad and started writing furiously.

  “Now what are you doing?”

  “Amos, I think this means something. There’s a phone number here. I’m not sure, but it could be important. I’m going to try and copy down some of this information. Watch the door.”

  Amos started for the door. He didn’t make it. A barbell was lying on the floor. He caught his foot under it and sprawled into a stack of athletic shoes.

  Jimmy Banes came barreling through the door. “What’s going on back here?”


  Dunc moved around in front of the open desk drawer. He carefully reached his right arm behind him and slid it shut. “Nothing, Jimmy. We were having a little trouble finding the jerseys, that’s all.”

  Jimmy picked up the bag near where Amos had gone down. “They’re right there in front of you. You two get out of here before you wreck the place and get me in trouble.”

  Dunc helped Amos up. He picked up the bag of jerseys and headed for the door. “Thanks, Jimmy. Try not to work too hard.”

  “Amos, see if you can hit your mouth more often.”

  Amos was in Dunc’s room throwing cheese popcorn in the air and trying to catch it in his mouth. Dunc was following him around the room with a dust blaster, sucking up the pieces that didn’t quite make it. Normally, Dunc was too neat to go for something like this. But today he was torn between neatness and the world record.

  Somebody in Duluth had caught one hundred and fifty-seven pieces of popcorn in his mouth, nonstop, without dropping any.

  Dunc figured, with a little practice Amos should be able to top that easily.

  Amos wasn’t into world records, but he was into eating popcorn. So far, he had made it to forty-three pieces straight.

  Dunc turned off the dust blaster. “I guess that’s enough practice for today. You’re getting better all the time. By my calculations, if we keep working, you ought to have it by Christmas.”

  “As long as you supply the popcorn, I’ll keep practicing.” Amos plopped onto Dunc’s bed.

  Dunc straightened the bedspread and carefully sat down beside him. He took out his pocket notebook and flipped through the pages. “I can’t quite figure out this case. It’s too weird.”

  “I’ll say.” Amos reached for another handful of popcorn. “We’ve never had the mafia after us before.”

  “We don’t have the mafia after us. I told you, that was somebody’s idea of a joke. Either that, or someone who’s afraid our team might win tomorrow.”

  “Nobody in their right mind would be afraid of that.”

  Dunc flipped another page. “I called around. Nobody rented any limousines yesterday. Whoever it was either already owned one, or they went out of town to get it.”