Bucky Stone: The Complete Adventure (Volumes 1-10)

by David B. Smith

  “Yeah, a million years ago.”

  As he stepped into the box, the lanky pitcher approached the plate to get a drink from a bottle perched against the backstop netting. He muttered something to Bill, who was doing the catching, then turned and stared at Bucky, his lip curled.

  “What’s the matter?” Bucky blurted without thinking.

  The pitcher gave his battery mate a knowing glance. “Don’t crowd the plate, creep,” he muttered as he stalked back to the mound.

  Turning, Bucky gave Dan a helpless shrug, then waited for the first pitch.

  Jeff went into his windup and whistled a ball across the inside part of the plate. Bucky swung but missed.

  On the mound the pitcher gave a short laugh. Coach Brayshaw turned his head and looked at the pitcher with a questioning eye before returning his attention to the players in the field.

  Breathing heavily, Bucky dug in for a more solid footing and prepared to hit again. The second pitch sailed high and outside. No curveballs – Jeff was throwing nothing but heat. His delivery had a vicious edge that Bucky didn’t like.

  “Go get him, tiger,” Dan said from the side of the cage as he waited his turn.

  The third pitch went down the center of the plate right at Bucky’s thighs. With a hard swing, he connected solidly. A screaming line drive jumped off his metal bat and whistled right by the pitcher’s ear. Jeff lurched out of the way with a sharp oath and glanced behind him at the ball as it eluded the fielders and rolled to the wall.

  “Good poke!” Dan grinned as he glanced over at the mound, “Way to undress that pitcher!” The tall lefthander was steaming.

  Bucky tightened his grip on the bat. “Here comes another fastball,” he murmured to himself.

  The pitcher shrugged away the catcher’s signal and went into his windup. Without warning the fastball sailed right toward Bucky. High and tight!

  Crack! The shattering sound echoed across the ballfield. Coach Brayshaw turned and saw Bucky crumpled in a heap next to home plate.

  Dan dashed in from the other side. “Stone! Are you OK?” He knelt next to his friend.

  Sickening pain shot through Bucky’s entire body. It felt as if his arm was on fire.

  “Busted.” Bill, standing over them in his catcher’s outfit, said it without surprise in his voice. “Right on the elbow. No question.”

  Clenching his fists, Dan barked an obscenity and turned toward the pitcher on the mound. “You did that on purpose, you . . .” He took two steps toward the mound before his growled words died as he saw the coach approaching.

  Jeff, hands at his sides, stood motionless, his face a mask.

  Coach Brayshaw stared at the lanky pitcher, then back at Dan, uncertainty in his face. “Are . . . are you sure?”

  Dan looked down at his friend, still writhing in pain. “Bucky got a hit up the middle, just about flattened Jeff. Next pitch was right at him. Hard.” He was breathing heavily. “You figure it out, Coach.”

  The athletic director motioned for his assistant. “Steve, get some guys out here with that stretcher. In my office! And hurry!”

  He put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “How’s it feel?”

  The boy groaned, “Bad.” A second wave of pain engulfed him, threatening to tear his guts inside-out.

  “Hang in there. We’ll get you out of here as quick as we can.” The coach’s words were gentle.

  Dan, kneeling next to Bucky, looked up at Brayshaw, his eyes smoldering.

  The coach slowly made his way out to the mound, frustration showing in every step. Jeff, still motionless, faced him without flinching.

  “What’s this all about?”

  The pitcher shrugged. “Sorry. The ball slipped on me. Guess I’m a little out of shape.”

  “That’s not how I hear it,” Brayshaw barked. “Litton, there, says you went straight at him.”

  Jeff snorted and shook his head. “Hey, those two boys stick together on everything, Coach. You know that. They’re practically married.”

  “Never mind that! I want to know right now, did you throw at him?”

  “Hey, I’m tellin’ you, the ball slipped,” Jeff insisted, his voice rising.

  The two faced each other in strained silence. Coach Brayshaw, uncertain how to overcome the apparent impasse, hesitated, then began to turn away. “Well, I guess . . .”

  “Coach?”

  He jerked his head. “Yeah, Bill, what is it?”

  The stocky catcher stared down at his cleats, avoiding the man’s gaze. He glanced at Jeff, then down again.

  “Come on, what is it? I haven’t got time for games.”

  Bill licked his lips. “He did go after him.” The words dragged out in a low voice, reluctantly.

  The coach sucked in his breath. “Are you sure?”

  A nod. “Been layin’ for him all week. Told me so in practice.”

  Coach Brayshaw gave the pitcher a questioning look, then turned back to the catcher. “How come?”

  Bill shrugged. “Oh, you know. That playoff business. Said he thought Stone was a stoolie. And a wimp. You know.” He lowered his voice. “He told me once last fall, ‘Watch, I’m gonna get that guy someday.’”

  Brayshaw glanced at the knot of players surrounding Bucky. “Why are you tellin’ me this? Stone isn’t any big friend of yours from what I remember.”

  The catcher shuffled uneasily. “I know. But . . . I mean . . . turns out he really is a pretty decent guy. We all found that out last fall, man. Awesome at hoops, plus, just good to work with. A solid team guy. Plus . . . something like this.” His face tightened. “Somebody could get killed.” He gulped. “Next time it could be me.” His gaze met the coach’s. “I told him not to do it.”

  Coach Brayshaw’s face hardened into a determined look at he muttered something to himself, then started toward the pitcher’s mound.

  “All right, Hilliard. That’s it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re through here. Get off the field!”

  The two stood in a tense silence. Jeff took a couple of steps toward Brayshaw. “You kicking me off the team?”

  A nod. “That’s right.” Now they were only inches apart. “Throwing at a batter like that . . . no way.”

  The pitcher looked over at Bucky, weighing his answer. “Look . . .” He took a breath. “OK, it was a mistake. I got a little hot. Come on.”

  Coach Brayshaw didn’t bother to keep his voice low any longer. “You got a little hot, and now one of my best players has a broken arm because of it! You’re bad news, Hilliard. And now you’re gonna get a whole year to get yourself cooled off!”

  The tall pitcher glanced around the field, trying to find some support. Finding none, he glared at the coach. “Yeah. Whatever you want.” With an angry obscenity, he threw down the baseball. “Good luck winnin’ any games with this bunch of losers.”

  “Out!”

  Chapter Three: Watching From the Sidelines

  “How’s that feel?”

  Bucky looked down at the aluminum cast encasing his left arm. “Terrific,” he muttered.

  “That’s a tough break,” the doctor sympathized. “First game?”

  “First practice.” Bucky winced as a fresh twinge shuddered through his upper arm. “How long will it hurt like this?”

  “Oh, most of that will ease by tomorrow. We’ll give you some pills to take the edge off until then.”

  Mom and Rachel Marie were waiting in the outer office when Bucky emerged. Forcing a smile, he gingerly raised his arm. “Where’s my purple heart?”

  Mom came up and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Hurt much?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “What happened to your arm, Bucky?” Rachel Marie gently touched the sling holding his arm in place. “

  He sighed. “I got hit by a baseball.”

  “You got thrown at, from what I heard.”

  Bucky turned to see who had spoken. Seated in the far corner of the room was a man he�
�d seen before. The news reporter stood and offered his hand.

  “Max Teufeld from the News Chronicle. You know. ‘Big Max.’” The large man grinned.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen you at the games.”

  The reporter pointed at Bucky’s arm. “I hear this wasn’t no accident. Old Hilliard threw right at you.”

  Bucky did not answer for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said carefully.

  “Coach booted him off the team,” Big Max persisted. “Man doesn’t do that for no reason.”

  Knowing that his words could easily wind up in print for the whole town to read, Bucky fought down the temptation to lash out at the hot-tempered pitcher. “Well, that’s up to the coach,” he said finally.

  “What do you think about it?” Teufeld, Bucky could tell, was searching for a controversial quote he could use.

  The boy shook his head. “I guess . . . no comment.”

  The man groaned. “Come on, kid. You must have some reaction.”

  “Well, I’m disappointed I can’t play.”

  “Out for the season, I guess.” The pencil poised over the notepad. “Pretty mad at Hilliard?”

  Bucky licked his lips. “I’m trying not to be.” A pause. “I guess I’m trying to understand why he was so frustrated.”

  Big Max gave him an odd look but didn’t write anything down. “You out. Hilliard out. What’s this mean for the Panthers?”

  “I don’t know. If anyone can still pull things together, Coach Brayshaw can do it.”

  “You and he had a pretty good tangle last year,” the reporter prompted.

  “That was last year.” Despite his easy-going personality, Bucky was beginning to get impatient with the pushy reporter. Plus his elbow was really starting to throb. “Coach Brayshaw’s got everything ironed out . . . and I think he’s an awesome coach. I support him all the way. If you want to put something in the paper, put that.” He looked over at his mother. “Listen, if there’s nothing else, I really would like to get out of here.”

  The big man sighed. “Sure, kid, go ahead. You’re one whale of an exciting interview.”

  Pretending not to notice the sarcasm, Bucky turned to Rachel Marie. “Come on, baby, drive your poor old brother home.”

  • • • • •

  The next day he struggled to maneuver around campus with his arm awkwardly trussed up. “This is one pain in the neck!” he snapped at Dan as the older boy gave him a ride home in the late afternoon. “I can’t even ride my bike for a month with this stupid thing on!”

  Dan shook his head sadly. “Boy, team is hurtin’ without you.”

  “Coach say much about it in practice?” Dan peered in the rearview mirror before responding.

  “Not much. Just told us that kind of playing was ‘verboten.’ ‘No headhunting.’” He shifted down, the gears grinding. “Still, you bein’ out really flattens the lineup. And, like him or not, old Jeff was a hard-throwin’ guy.”

  “That’s really too bad he’s off the squad.” Bucky, trying to keep his voice even, had to force the words out. “He made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “Man, sometimes you are too much,” Dan said, looking at him. “If it was me, I’d be in the Yellow pages trying to hire a hit man.”

  As they pulled up at his house, Bucky suddenly slammed his fist down on the schoolbooks lying in his lap. “My job! Jeez! How’m I gonna keep working weekends at Home Fix-It with this cast?”

  “Better go on unemployment or disability or whatever they call it.” Dan forced a laugh.

  “Hey, I need the money,” Bucky complained. Awkwardly gathering his books together, he fumbled for the door handle. “Boy, what a week.” He slid out of the bucket seat, adding, “Anyway, thanks for the ride. Sorry about all the crabbing.”

  “No sweat.” Dan pulled the door closed. “You need a lift in the morning?”

  “Nah. My mom can drop me off.”

  “OK. Let me know. I’m around, man.”

  Bucky watched as the sporty car rumbled down the street, the late afternoon sunlight sparkling off the personalized license plate: SLUGGR 1.

  At least it wasn’t his right arm, he reflected later that evening. Eating and homework were still fairly routine functions for him – and the broken arm did get him out of doing dishes for the next few weeks.

  “That’s your job now, honey,” Mom had said to his little sister after supper. “While Bucky’s hurt, you’ll have to be my Number One helper.”

  “No fair,” she complained, sticking her tongue out at him.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, gingerly giving her a hug.

  In the living room, Dad grinned as he saw Bucky balancing his biology book on his leg while writing with his free hand. “Pretty good trick, doin’ all that and watching the Warriors on TV at the same time.”

  His son shrugged. “At least there’s not much schoolwork with spring vacation coming next week.”

  Dad sat down next to him. “How’s your arm feeling now?”

  “Better. It’s not really sore any more, just . . . clumsy in this thing.”

  “Too bad to miss the ball season.”

  “Yeah.” Bucky tucked the paper into his textbook and slammed it shut. “I really wanted to play.”

  Dad rubbed at his nose. “I guess getting plunked by a pitch is part of the game. You know, brushing the hitter away so he doesn’t dig in and hog the plate.”

  Bucky was silent. Inside, he knew it had been more than a brushback incident, but he was determined not to keep rehashing it. “I guess you’re right. Just get well fast and get back up to the plate.”

  “There ya go.”

  The telephone interrupted their conversation. After two rings, Dad looked upstairs with an expression of mild irritation. “Shoot, guess nobody’s going to get it.” He ambled into the kitchen.

  A moment later he returned. “It’s for you. Just like always.”

  “Who is it?”

  Dad shook his head. “Some Mr. Willis. I never heard of him.”

  Bucky sat down in the high kitchen stool and picked up the receiver lying on the breakfast deck. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end was unfamiliar. “Bucky? Bucky Stone?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “This is Mr. Willis. I work down at First California Bank. You know, on Fourth Street?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  A pause. “I read today’s story about your broken arm. I’m sure sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Another story in the paper. Bucky grinned in spite of himself.

  “Paper said you couldn’t play this season at all.” The strange voice sounded sympathetic.

  “No, I guess not. I’ll have this cast off in about a month, but it’ll take longer than that before I’m back to normal again.” He paused. “By then the season’s practically over.”

  The man clicked his tongue. “Boy, that’s too bad. Were you working anywhere? What about that?”

  Bucky nodded to himself. “Yeah, over at a home improvement center. Just Sundays during the ball season.”

  “So that’s out for a while now, too?”

  “Yeah.” What’s he getting at? Bucky wondered.

  “Well, that’s kind of why I called,” Mr. Willis continued. “We have a student training program here at the bank, and every year I look for one or two students I think could do a good job for us. From what I hear, you’re the kind of man I like to get.”

  Bucky’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Working at the bank?”

  “It’s really a very good program. We run a one-week training seminar that’s very intensive, then two weeks of supervised work here at the branch. After that you’re pretty much a full-fledged employee. Full time in the summers if you want, and a very flexible program during the school year. If you were involved in sports again, I know we could make a good schedule up for you. You know, to fit around practice and games.”

  Frowning to himself, Bucky asked, “Would I have a hard time with this training progr
am while my arm’s in a cast?”

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Willis hastily assured him. “That’s no problem.”

  “Where’s it at?”

  “Up in Sacramento. I’ve got one other student going up there all week, a little older than you are. You might even be able to carpool. Are you sixteen yet?”

  “Next month.”

  The man paused. “Well, our candidates are really supposed to be sixteen, but I’m willing to make an exception for you.”

  Tingling with excitement, Bucky shifted on the stool. “This sounds terrific. I’ll have to ask my folks, but I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  “Let me give you my number. Talk it over with them and call me tomorrow, OK?”

  “Sure.” Bucky jotted it down. “Can I just ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How’d you come to pick me? I mean . . . just ‘cause I got plunked on the arm . . .” He hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong. It sounds great, and I hope I can do it, but . . .”

  Mr. Willis was silent a moment before answering. “Well, Bucky, I’ve read more about you than just your broken arm.” The older man’s voice softened. “My mother was a very dedicated Christian all her life until she passed away about a year ago. So I know what believers like you stand for.”

  Bucky said nothing.

  “Here at the bank I need student trainees I can count on one hundred percent. Total honesty – or my own neck’s on the line. ‘Cause there’s a lot of money here at the bank!” A short laugh. “So, like I said, I kind of know what you’re all about and also how you respond when people push you a little bit. That’s all.”

  Bucky chewed thoughtfully on the ragged pencil eraser. Despite the dull ache in his elbow, the comment flooded him with a warm feeling. “Well, I . . . like I said, I’ll have to call you back tomorrow, but I’m sure it’ll be OK.”

  “Terrific!” The bank manager bade him a cheerful farewell and hung up.

  • • • • •

  Two days later Bucky sat alone in the stands and watched as the Panthers took the field for their home opener. Everything about the ball diamond tugged at his heart: blue sky, green grass, the white chalk marking the foul lines, and the gleam of the Panthers’ white home uniforms. The ballplayers hollered good-naturedly at each other as they pegged warm-up tosses back and forth before the game.