Wild Pitch

by Matt Christopher

  Eddie frowned. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his dark, damp hair.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t give a darn about pitching to a girl.” He spoke his mind with honest conviction.

  “Why not? Afraid that she’d get a hit off of you?” Puffy laughed.

  “I just don’t like the idea, that’s all,” said Eddie.

  Deep inside, he felt that it might have something to do with what had caused his family to move to Florida. His father had been in line for a promotion in the company he was working for, but the job was given to a woman. Although Mr. Rhodes hardly ever complained about it, Eddie thought it wasn’t fair. Now a girl was playing on a boys’ team, taking a position away from a boy. Why did they have to butt in where they weren’t welcome, anyway?

  A kid walked, and Monahan went to second, taking long, swift steps, her arms swinging at her sides.

  “Look at her,” said Eddie critically. “She acts like she’s it.”

  “How do you expect her to act?” said Tip. “She’s doing well.”

  “Yes, but she thinks she’s really something. I can tell.”

  “Maybe she is,” Puffy cut in. “She’s got to be, to be able to play with a bunch of guys.”

  Eddie kept his eye on her. She had reached the bag and was standing with one foot on it, the other on the ground.

  “Maybe her father’s got something to do with it,” he said. “I’ve heard of families with only one daughter, and the father pushes her into something he’d been planning on a son to do.”

  “I don’t know whether she’s an only child or not,” said Puffy. “Whatever she is, she isn’t bad.”

  “But I wouldn’t want her to play with us,” Tip said.

  “Neither would I,” agreed Eddie. He looked at Puffy. “I suppose you would.”

  Puffy turned to him. “Who said so? I’m just saying she’s not bad.”

  She scored easily on a drive to right center field. “Let’s go,” suggested Tip.

  “I’m ready,” said Eddie.

  They left the park and went home.

  Eddie lived on Baker Avenue, a block away from Tip and three blocks away from Puffy. It was a relatively new neighborhood. Most of the homes were less than five years old. Some of the lawns looked like pictures cut out of House and Garden magazine.

  Eddie found his mother paring potatoes at the kitchen sink.

  “Hi, Mom,” he greeted her. “What’re you making for supper?”

  “Steak and potatoes,” she answered promptly. “Hamburg steak, that is.”

  She was short, brown-haired, and had a weight problem. Once a week she attended a weight-control class, but Eddie couldn’t see that it was doing much good.

  She had taken to the new town right away. Besides working with her husband at the gift shop, she was secretary of the Junior Women’s League, a member of the church’s women’s auxiliary, and she sang in the choir.

  “How’d you boys do?”

  He took off his cap and headed toward the bathroom. “We won.”

  “Score?”

  “Six—four.”

  He walked on past the bathroom, took a look inside the living room, and saw his sister Margie sprawled out on a chair. She was reading a teens’ magazine.

  “Hi,” he said.

  The magazine lowered below a pair of sharp, intelligent blue eyes. “Hi.” Above the eyes was a head of straight dark hair that disappeared again as the magazine resumed its former position.

  “Hey, pie face,” said Eddie, “you know a girl named Monahan? Phyllis Monahan?”

  The magazine lowered again, this time enough to reveal a button nose and a small, perky mouth. Margie was twelve.

  “Phyl Monahan? Sure. Why?”

  “What do you know about her?”

  The eyes brightened with interest. “Not much. Except that she’s popular. Why?”

  “What do you mean, popular?”

  “She’s a nice kid. She’s a brain. And she’s got a lot of friends. Why?”

  “Where does she live?”

  “On Brenda Ave. Hey, what’s going on? Why all this interest in Phyllis Monahan?”

  “She plays first base for the Surfs.”

  Margie’s eyes almost popped. “She what?”

  Eddie smiled.

  “See ya later,” he said, waving to her. “I’ve got to wash this stinking sweat off.”

  3

  Tip came over on his ten-speed bike after supper. Eddie heard the sound of its bell from inside the house and went out to meet him in the driveway. He had one similar to Tip’s, except that his was three years old, and rust had begun to show.

  “Where you heading?” asked Eddie.

  Tip stood astride his bike and took off his bright blue helmet.

  “Thought we’d go for a spin and stop for some soft ice cream,” he replied. “You got enough dough? If not, I —”

  “Yeah, I’ve got enough,” said Eddie.

  “Good. Get your wheels.”

  Eddie went into the house and found his mother cutting coupons out of a newspaper.

  “Mom, Tip’s here. Okay if I get my bike and go with him for a spin?”

  “Just get back before dark,” she told him.

  He grinned. “Don’t I always?”

  He hurried out to the garage, grabbed his helmet off a wall hook, and took out his bike. He was careful not to scrape it against his father’s crimson-colored Thunderbird. One scratch on that baby and he might as well figure on being grounded for a week. His father had planned on owning a Thunderbird as long as five years ago and had had this one for only three months.

  Eddie pulled down the door, got on the bike, and took off down the street after Tip.

  They rode side by side, Eddie between Tip and the curb. Riding to Big Mike’s Soft Ice Cream Shop was a regular ritual for them. But this time Eddie thought about taking a different route to it.

  “Let’s turn right on the next street,” he suggested.

  Tip looked at him. “Why?”

  “Trust me,” replied Eddie.

  They reached the end of the block and turned right, both making the turn at precisely the same time. Eddie thought it would’ve made a neat picture if a photographer had been standing close by then.

  “We’re going out of our way, you know that?” Tip said.

  “Not for long,” said Eddie.

  They rode on for six more blocks. Tip looked at Eddie again and wanted to know what he had on his mind to want to ride out of their way like this.

  “Tell you later,” Eddie promised, getting a kick out of keeping Tip in suspense.

  Trees lined both sides of the street, providing plenty of shade for the elite-looking, two- and three-story homes. Cars were parked along the curb, most of them big and shiny, with spoke wheels, new tires, and vinyl tops.

  They reached the intersection. Eddie looked to the left and right and saw a girl riding a three-speed bicycle. She was about halfway down the block. She had long, blond hair and was wearing a cap. She looked as if she were carrying something on one arm, and steering with the other.

  “Tip!” shouted Eddie, recognizing her. “This way!”

  He slowed down, made a sharp, right-hand turn, and headed up the street after the girl. He waited for Tip to catch up to him, then pedalled faster.

  “Hey! Where you going?” Tip called after him.

  Eddie smiled. “That’s her,” he said.

  Tip frowned. “That’s who?”

  “Monahan.”

  “Monahan? You crazy? Is that why you wanted to come this way?”

  They drew up fast behind her, Eddie leading the way. She was riding her bike near the right side of the street, but leaving enough space for Eddie to ride up between her and the curb.

  He turned and motioned to Tip to ride up on the other side of her, trying to hide a mischievous smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  She was a ballplayer, right? She was one of the guys. Okay, let’s see how she
’d take to two guys riding shotgun with her. Eddie almost burst out laughing at the thought.

  He saw her turn and look at him, her eyes widening. Then she turned and looked at Tip. Whatever it was — surprise at their sudden appearance, fear that they might run into her, or both — caused her to lose control of her bicycle.

  She let out a scream as it started to weave. Both Eddie and Tip, seeing what was happening, pedalled harder. She lost her balance and fell, spilling the contents of a bag she was carrying. Onions, tomatoes, a head of lettuce, a box of salt, and a carton of eggs all hit the street, and everything that could roll, rolled. What couldn’t, thumped, thudded, and then spilled over in a slimy yellow and white pattern on the street.

  “Oh, no!” Phyl Monahan screamed. “You freaks! You dirty, awful freaks! Look what you made me do!”

  Eddie wished he could turn time back. Of all the dumb moves, this idea of taking a different route to Big Mike’s, meeting Monahan, then riding up on both sides of her was the dumbest.

  He stopped his bike next to her, kicked out the stand, and rushed over to her. Close by, Tip was doing the same thing, the expression on his face full of accusation and disgust. The look on his face said, “I hope you’re satisfied, you jerk!”

  “I’m sorry,” Eddie said to Phyllis Monahan. “Geez, I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” murmured Tip.

  She stared at one of them and then the other, daggers shooting from her fiery blue eyes.

  “Let me help you up,” Eddie offered.

  “Don’t touch me!” she yelled, drawing away from him as if he were some kind of poisonous insect. “I’ll help myself!”

  While she started to unscramble herself from the bike and pick herself up, Eddie got the paper sack and started to refill it with the onions, the tomatoes, the head of lettuce, and the box of salt. Tip had picked up the egg carton and was replacing the few eggs that had managed to survive the accident.

  “There are only four that were broken,” he observed. “The rest look okay.”

  Phyl Monahan glared at him. “Only four?” she yelled. “Do you know how much eggs cost? But how would you? You probably know nothing about eggs except to eat them! Neither one of you look as if you’ve got an ounce of brains —”

  She stopped as Eddie took out his imitation-leather coin purse and the folded dollar bill he had stashed in it. He’d been carrying it around for two weeks, waiting for something worthwhile to spend it on.

  “Here,” he said, unfolding it and handing it to her. “Take it. Here’s also fifty cents. If that’s not enough — ”

  “Here’s my dollar, too,” Tip cut in, unrolling a bill and holding it out to her.

  She grabbed Eddie’s. “One’s enough,” she said. Then she looked at the ugly blotch of smashed eggs on the street. “What a mess. You guys ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “The rain will wash it away,” said Eddie.

  Monahan grabbed her bike, lifted it upright, and started to ride it away, but stopped suddenly when a loud, rubbing sound came from the front wheel.

  “Oh, great!” she said sharply. “You’ve dented the fender. It’s rubbing against the wheel.”

  “Maybe I can fix it,” said Eddie. He stepped to the bike, grabbed the dented fender, and tried to pry it away from the wheel. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Who do you think you are?” Monahan snapped. “Mr. Muscles? Walk it home for me. That’s the least you can do.”

  Eddie looked at Tip. “Stay here with the bikes. I’ll walk it home for her.”

  He walked it alongside her while she carried the bag of groceries. Halfway down the block she stepped into a driveway, turned, and looked at him.

  “Lean it against the garage,” she ordered, looking at him as if he were a kind of insect she didn’t like. “And, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, placing the bike where she had told him to. Then he ran back up the street to where Tip was waiting for him.

  “Man!” he said. “What a woman!”

  They got on their bikes and headed home. The heck with the ice cream, Eddie thought. He had lost his appetite for it. Even Tip, whose only fault was that he had gone along with Eddie’s crazy idea, didn’t care about having the stuff.

  “I just don’t understand why you wanted to go that way in the first place,” Tip exclaimed as they took their time riding home.

  “I just wanted to see where she lived. Her neighborhood,” replied Eddie.

  “But, why? What difference does it make?”

  “No difference.”

  “You wanted to see what she looks like in jeans? Is that it?”

  “No. I told you. I just wanted to see where she lived. That’s all there is to it. Forget it. Okay?”

  Tip could get real aggravating at times, he thought.

  “You’re crazy, you know that? You’re really crazy, Eddie Rhodes.”

  Sometimes a guy does things he can’t understand, Eddie told himself. If he can’t understand why he does them, how can he explain them? He just can’t.

  They rode their bikes down the street to their homes, Eddie splitting first, giving a wave to Tip as Tip rode on.

  It had turned out to be a very unsatisfying evening.

  4

  Harry Goldman pitched in the game against the Pirates. Eddie watched it from the bench, taking his turn to coach at first base at the top of the fourth inning.

  He had hoped he would pitch, because whoever pitched today wouldn’t be pitching next Tuesday. Coach Inger liked to alternate his pitchers just as he did his infielders and outfielders. He didn’t carry more than a thirteen-man team, and alternated his infielders and outfielders in the same game.

  The Pirates were leading 6–1. The Lancers had gotten five hits off Shifty McGoon, the Pirates’ left-hander, but hadn’t been able to bunch them together.

  Eddie kept his eye on Coach Inger, noticing the tanned, knitted forehead, the intense, intelligent eyes. The coach still had hopes of lifting the Lancers out from under.

  But how? Eddie wondered. He considered one possibility, but it was a slim one.

  He’s going to have me go in there, Eddie assumed. I can feel it. And I hope he does. Because then he would have me start against the Surfs next Tuesday, and have Harry finish it. Which would be fine with me. I don’t want to pitch against that girl any more than I have to.

  Eddie’s guess was confirmed the next inning. Rod Bellow was coming to the plate in the top of the fifth when the coach asked Puffy to coach first and had Pete Turner, the second-string catcher, warm up Eddie.

  By now Eddie didn’t care whether he pitched or not. Unless something drastic happened to his pitching arm he was sure he’d be in the game against the Surfs. Even pitching four or five innings would mean he’d face Phyl Monahan at least twice.

  They went to the bullpen behind the third-base bleachers. He began throwing them slowly, then gradually harder. His first fast pitch sailed off to the right and out of Pete’s reach. It bounced near the fence and rolled toward the left-field foul line.

  “Hey, man,” Pete said. “Keep them in the batting zone, okay?”

  “Sorry,” said Eddie.

  Pete started to chase after the ball, but some kid sitting by the fence went after it, picked it up, and threw it back to him.

  Eddie threw in a few more, trying hard to maintain control. He had a strong arm, one of the strongest in the league, according to Coach Inger. The coach once said that Eddie could be the best pitcher in the league were it not for his wild pitches. All Eddie had to do was practice on his control and eventually he’d come around.

  No one had to tell him he still had a long way to go.

  He had thrown about twenty pitches when there was a shout from the stands, and a few seconds later Coach Inger appeared from around the corner of the third-base bleachers.

  “Eddie! Come on.”

  Eddie tossed the ball back to Pete and went around the bleachers to the mound. He accepted a brand-new ball from the um
pire, waited for Tip to get on his gear, then began throwing in warmup pitches.

  The plate umpire turned to face the crowd. “Pitching for the Lancers — Eddie Rhodes!”

  “Yaaaaay!” sang the fans.

  He had trouble finding the strike zone with the Pirates’ first batter, and walked him. He was more careful with the next. He didn’t throw too hard, and the batter hit into a double play. He struck out the third batter on a pitch that might’ve been called a ball, but the guy was too eager to hit and lashed at poor pitches.

  Puffy met Eddie near the base path between home and third as they headed in toward the dugout. A teasing grin played on his round face.

  “Well, buddy boy, looks like you’re going in against the Surfs next week.”

  “Yeah.” A dismal look came over Eddie’s face.

  “And Monahan,” Puffy added.

  “Monahan? Who’s Monahan?”

  Puffy laughed. “As if you didn’t know.”

  They reached the dugout, and Eddie tossed his glove under the bench, turned, and sat down.

  Tip came in, the buckles of his shin guards clanking. He smiled at Eddie through the smudges of sweaty dirt that covered his face.

  “That last batter really went for your wild ones, didn’t he?”

  “An eager beaver,” agreed Eddie. “That’s the kind I like.”

  He moved over to give Tip room. Tip sat down, the seat of his pants caked with dirt.

  “Good thing you’ve got me catching you or that fence behind home plate would be in big trouble,” said Tip.

  Eddie tapped him on the knee. “What’re you squawking about? I’ve only walked one guy, haven’t I?”

  “Yes. But unless you start getting that ball down near the strike zone you’ll be walking the crowd.”

  They picked up two runs. It was now 6–3, in favor of the Pirates.

  Eddie remembered Tip’s warning when he got back on the mound and tried his best to groove his pitches. Nonetheless, he gave up a hit and walked a man, almost hitting him on the shoulder with his fourth pitch.

  The Pirates picked up one run that inning. It was the only one either team managed to score the rest of the game.

  Pirates 7, Lancers 3.

  “We played lousy,” Puffy grumbled as he, Tip, and Eddie headed through the gate for home. “Like a bunch of little kids who never had a ball in their hands.”