Baseball Turnaround

by Matt Christopher

  His mother snapped, “Sandy, were you involved in this trouble?”

  Sandy didn’t look at her. “I guess I might have been.”

  “We have plenty of time,” the policeman said. “Just tell us what happened.”

  Sandy knew he had to come clean. Starting with his meeting up with the kids at the convenience store, he gave them the bare facts. When he produced the magazine, he heard his mother take a sharp breath. Finally, he described the trip to the shack, making sure to mention that he had left as soon as he could.

  “And there was a lot of noise afterward,” he added. “But I don’t know about any fire.”

  Then an image flashed through his mind: He was pushing the big kid into the table with the candles.

  “I guess — maybe one of the candles could have been knocked over,” he said lamely. “There was a lot of newspaper and stuff. Maybe it caught on fire.”

  “Candles and newspapers, huh?” Lieutenant Nolan wrote something in his notebook. “Can you tell us who the other boys were?”

  Sandy hesitated. “No,” he said. Lieutenant Nolan looked at him intently.

  “You’re sure about that? You don’t sound too sure.”

  “Sandy,” his mother warned, “if you know something else, tell the officers. Now.”

  Sandy sighed. “Well, one of the kids might go to Grantville Middle School. But I don’t know his name.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Officer Hughes. From a briefcase he was carrying, he pulled a book that Sandy recognized as the current edition of the Grantville yearbook. “Mind taking a look to see if you can identify this other boy?”

  For the next ten minutes, Sandy sat with the volume in front of him, leafing through the pages. All at once he spotted the redhead. Even though the photo was black-and-white, he knew it was the same kid. Perry Warden, the caption read.

  “That him?” Officer Hughes asked. Sandy nodded. “Fine. Well, we’ll just ask you to write out a statement for now. If we need to get in touch again, we know where to find you.”

  A few minutes later, the policemen stood up to leave. Mrs. Comstock shot Sandy a look that spoke volumes.

  The minute the door was closed, she picked up his Raiders cap and faced him. “What’s gotten into you? The way I see it, you’ve just made the last out of the game. Possession of stolen goods, strike one. Going off with strangers, strike two. Suspicion of arson, strike three. You’re out!”

  Sandy opened his mouth to explain but shut it again. What’s the use? he thought. She’s going to believe what she wants to believe. He picked up his book bag and stalked off to his room without a word.

  Later that night, Sandy could hear his parents’ whispers through his bedroom door. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it didn’t take much imagination to guess what it was about. Yet not in his wildest dreams had he expected to hear what he heard the next morning.

  “Well, Sandy, we have some news for you. We had hoped to let you know this in a more upbeat way, but what you did has made us rethink that,” his mother said. “So here it is: We’re moving to a new house in Newtown at the end of next month. Because of what happened, we have decided that you should help us pack and mind the twins. So that means no more baseball. Talk to Coach Samuels today, tell him you have to quit the team, then come right home.”

  Sandy couldn’t believe his ears. Moving? Quit the baseball team in mid-season “because of what happened”? As if what happened was all his fault! Without a word or a bite of breakfast, Sandy grabbed his book bag and rushed from the room. Frustration and anger clouded his eyesight. This time, he gave in to his temptation to slam the door.

  4

  School was a disaster that day. Everyone was buzzing about the fire — although as far as Sandy could tell, no one knew anything about his part in it. And he wanted to keep it that way.

  So when he broke the news to Coach Samuels after school, he simply told him that his family was moving and that his parents needed his help with the preparations.

  Coach Samuels sat back in his chair and sighed. “I can’t say I’m happy to hear this news, Sandy,” he said. “You’re our number-one center fielder, and you’re always a big help at the plate. But I can’t argue with your parents’ decision. So I’ll shake your hand and wish you well.”

  And that was that. As the week progressed, talk of the trouble died down and Sandy was able to stick to his explanation that it was his parents’ fault he was no longer on the Raiders. His teammates all expressed their anger and surprise, but none of them questioned his story.

  Then, Thursday morning, a notice came to the Comstock household. It said that Sandy and his parents were to appear in Grantville Juvenile Court the following morning.

  Sandy tucked his shirt into his trousers. His fingers stumbled as he buttoned the cuffs.

  “Why’s Sandy getting all dressed up?” asked Mary.

  “He’s going to jail,” Margaret said, her mouth full of cereal.

  “He is not!” said Mr. Comstock. “Sandy just has to go explain to the judge what happened. Then the judge will decide what to do.”

  “But I already told them everything I knew,” Sandy protested.

  “Officer Hughes told me that another boy is telling a different story.”

  Sandy was silent.

  “Do you have to stand up in court and swear to tell the truth?” asked Mary.

  Mrs. Comstock said, “Will you girls please hurry up so we can drive you to school!”

  The two seven-year-olds pestered Sandy all the way to their school. When they finally arrived at the school yard, Mary asked one last question: “Who is the other boy who says you’re not telling the truth?” Sandy had no answer for that. But he had a good idea he knew who it was: Perry Warden.

  The rest of the ride to the juvenile court was quiet. Sandy kept going over what happened in his mind. Could he have knocked over the candles? Would he be considered a shoplifter for not returning the magazine even though he hadn’t taken it?

  What would the judge think? Would his friends at school find out?

  As they walked up the steps to the courthouse, Sandy steeled himself. With a deep breath, he pushed the doors open and walked into the courtroom.

  His courage faltered when he saw who was inside the hearing room. It was the redhead, Perry Warden. He glared at Sandy, then turned away.

  The judge came in and sat down, then took up a stack of papers from his desk. “I’ve read all the statements, the police and the eyewitness reports, and someone is definitely not telling the truth. So, I’ll give you both one last chance to do the right thing. First, the store manager’s allegation of theft. Anyone willing to own up to that?”

  There was a long pause. All Sandy could hear was the whir of the ceiling fan going round and round. Out of the corner of his eye, Sandy saw Perry Warden glance over at him. Sandy refused to look at him. Instead, at a prodding from his father, he stood up and repeated to the judge all that he had told the police officers. He could feel the redhead’s eyes burning a hole in his back when he sat back down.

  “Well, Mr. Comstock, you are in luck,” the judge said. “The store manager is willing to drop the charges if he receives proper payment for the items taken by the end of the day. Although the manager identified Mr. Warden here by his red hair, you were the only one found in actual possession of the stolen goods. So the burden of payment is on you. I trust that won’t be a problem? Good.” He consulted his papers again.

  “All right,” said the judge with a sigh. “What about this fire? Says probable cause was candles and newspapers. Mr. Comstock? Mr. Warden?”

  This time, Sandy stayed seated. He still didn’t know if he had caused the fire. And he wasn’t about to take the blame for something that couldn’t be proven.

  “I see,” said the judge. “Well, then, I’ll have to rule on the evidence I do have. Fortunately, the owner of the abandoned shack has asked for no restitution since the building destroyed was of no real value.”

  S
andy wanted to shout for joy until the judge continued. “But the community was endangered by reckless behavior. Mr. Comstock, you were positively identified as being near the fire and you yourself have admitted that you were there. Mr. Warden, your red hair gave you away again; you, too, were identified. Since your two stories don’t match up and no new evidence is likely to come to light, I’m holding you both responsible. You’re on probation for the next six weeks. During that time, you will be required to perform twenty hours of community service and you will report regularly to your probation officer. When you have fulfilled these requirements to the satisfaction of the court, this incident will be expunged from the record. Is that clear?”

  There was a murmur of assent throughout the courtroom.

  “All right, then, you are free to go.”

  There was a shuffle as everyone stood up to leave. As Sandy passed Perry Warden, he heard the other boy hiss, “Snitch. I’ll get you for this.”

  Sandy scowled but didn’t say a word. All he wanted to do was leave the courtroom.

  Mr. and Mrs. Comstock registered Sandy for his first appointment with his probation officer, then walked with him out to the car. But his father didn’t start the engine right away.

  “All things considered, that wasn’t too bad,” said Mr. Comstock. “I mean, let’s face it — you were somewhere you shouldn’t have been.”

  “Twenty hours of community service seems like a bargain price to pay to have your record cleared,” added Mrs. Comstock.

  Sandy just looked out the window.

  Mrs. Comstock sighed. “Look at it this way, Sandy. We’ll be in Newtown in a few more weeks. No one there knows anything about this. We can all just put it behind us. Until then, you’re going to have to deal with whatever backlash comes your way.”

  As they drove into the Grantville Middle School parking lot, Sandy couldn’t help wonder what form that “backlash” might take. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  5

  Sandy arrived at school in time for lunch. As usual, he sat with some of the guys from the team. As he took his chair, some of them looked at him a little funny.

  “What?” he asked. “Can’t a guy be late one day?”

  Timmy Phelps, the Raiders’ catcher, swallowed his hunk of chicken salad sandwich and blurted out, “So what happened, you know, this morning? Did you get in big trouble in juvenile court ’cause of the shed fire? Did you really steal that stuff?”

  “Yeah, we just heard that a perpetrator wearing a Raiders cap was arrested for the shack fire. Was it you? Is that why you quit the team?” said Skip. The other boys gave Sandy sidelong looks.

  Sandy turned red. “Who’d you hear that from?”

  “Some kid with red hair told another kid who told Timmy.”

  “And Timmy just couldn’t wait to tell you guys, I bet,” Sandy retorted, his temper rising. “I would have thought you guys would believe me over some rumor! Do I look like a criminal to you? No. So why don’t you all just leave me alone?”

  He grabbed up the rest of his lunch and moved to another table across the room. They’ve already decided that I’m a juvenile delinquent! Well, who cares what they think. And what’s with that Perry Warden, spreading rumors about me?

  No one came near him. They just finished eating lunch and left the table as quickly as possible.

  On his way out, Timmy said to Sandy, “Sorry if I said anything that made you mad.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll get over it. Don’t forget — I’m moving out of this stupid town at the end of the school year. Then maybe I’ll find some real friends.”

  Timmy didn’t say a word. He hurried away to join the other boys. Sandy watched as he tugged on Skip’s arm and muttered something in his ear.

  Sandy fumed about the cafeteria incident for the rest of the school day. When he was at his locker after the last bell, he overheard a group of girls making plans to attend the Raiders baseball game. He slammed his locker shut and stormed down the hall to get away from them.

  “Whoa, what’s eating him?” he heard one girl say.

  “Didn’t you hear?” another said. “He got kicked off the team because he’s an arsonist and a shoplifter!”

  Sandy had never been so happy to be in the apartment as he was that night. He helped his parents pack up books, paintings, toys, and other items they weren’t going to need until they got to their new house.

  When he climbed into bed, he said a silent prayer of thanks that the next day was Saturday so he didn’t have to go to school. Then he remembered that he was meeting with his probation officer first thing in the morning.

  Saturday was warm and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Normally on a day like this, Sandy would be out playing ball with the rest of the guys. But all that was different now.

  It took Sandy and his mom less than twenty minutes by car to get to the big brick building where he had his appointment. But it was another ten minutes before he was asked to go inside for his first meeting with Stan Richards, the probation officer.

  He slumped in a chair across from the officer’s desk, eyes down on his toes. He looked up only after Mr. Richards cleared his throat.

  “So, looks like you got mixed up in a bit of trouble. Have you looked into your community service yet?”

  “No,” Sandy told him. “And I don’t know if I should even look for something around here.” He explained that his family was moving.

  “Moving, eh? How do you feel about that?” Mr. Richards asked.

  “How do I feel?” he replied. “I feel fine about it. It’s getting me out of this lousy town, anyway.” He couldn’t stop the bitterness from entering in his voice.

  Mr. Richards cocked an eyebrow. “Things been a little rough lately?”

  Sandy shifted in his chair. “Yeah, you could say that — if you call being wrongly accused of arson and theft, finding out your so-called friends are rats, and being forced to quit the baseball team all in one week ‘rough,’ ” he said sourly.

  “Baseball, huh? I’m a fan of baseball myself,” Mr. Richards replied mildly. “Maybe we can find you some community service that has to do with baseball.”

  Sandy looked at the probation officer for the first time. “What would I have to do?” he asked.

  Mr. Richards kept talking as if Sandy hadn’t spoken. “I have to warn you, though, if I hook you up with the job I’m thinking of, you’re going to have to lose the bad attitude I’m hearing from you. You’ve got a lot of resentment churning around inside you because of what’s happened. Maybe it goes back before then, even. Whatever the case, this job isn’t the place for a guy with a chip on his shoulder.”

  Sandy was silent.

  “Tell you what,” Mr. Richards continued. “We’ll give you a trial run. Meet me tomorrow at Begley Field. You’ll try the job for an hour, then we’ll decide if it will work. That hour will count toward the twenty you owe us. Oh, and bring your glove. Okay?”

  Sandy nodded.

  “By the way, Sandy, what did you tell your coach about quitting the baseball team?”

  “He thinks it’s because we’re moving. The kids at school think that, too.” Or they used to before Perry Warden interfered, he added silently.

  Mr. Richards tapped his pencil on his desk. “You know, sooner or later, stories about the incidents are going to surface. You might be better off being up front with people right from the start.”

  Sandy shook his head. “The way I see it, I’m out of this town. Then anyone can say anything he wants to about me. It won’t matter.”

  Mr. Richards didn’t say anything to that. The meeting ended a few minutes later. Sandy went outside to the waiting car.

  “How did it go?” his mother asked.

  “Okay,” said Sandy. “I think I have a job.”

  6

  The next day, Sandy arrived at Begley Field at the appointed time. The field was located on the town line between Newtown and Grantville and was a short bike ride from his house. Two minutes late
r, Mr. Richards drove up. Someone was in the car with him.

  “Sandy, I’d like you to meet my brother, Lou,” Mr. Richards said. “I told him about you, and he thinks he might be able to use you.”

  “You see, I need a little help coaching baseball,” Mr. Lou Richards added.

  Sandy’s eyebrows shot up. “Coaching? Coaching who?”

  “I coach a team for the Police Athletic League. Most of the players haven’t had much experience with baseball, but they’re trying to get better. I need volunteers to help them work on the rules, on their batting, and things like that. Think you could do that?”

  “I don’t know if I could, but I guess I could try,” said Sandy.

  “All right then, let’s see what you can do.” Coach Richards opened the trunk of the car and pulled out a bat, ball, and two gloves. He also had three baseball caps with the name Dolphins printed on them. He gave one to Sandy.

  “Head out into the field and see what you can do with these hits,” he instructed. “You, too, Stan. No slackers on a day like today.”

  Obediently, Mr. Richards and Sandy jogged onto the field. Coach Richards started hitting high fly balls. Sandy was a little rusty at first, but soon he was back in the groove and having a good time.

  “Next drill!” called Coach Richards. “Three-way catch. Heads up, Sandy!” A fireball blazed toward Sandy. But he caught it with ease and rifled it to Mr. Richards in a flash. The ball went round and round among them, then zigzagged at random. Sandy had to work hard to keep up. And to his surprise, he found that he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “Last but not least, let’s see your hitting power. Stan, you play the field. Sandy, I’m going to pitch you some. Try hitting them all over. My brother needs some exercise.”

  For the first time in days, Sandy cracked a smile. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Richards trotted in from the field. “Enough, already. If I have to sprint the width of the field one more time, I’m going to expire.”