Baseball Turnaround (2 page)

Sandy looked at the magazine in his hands. Deep down, he knew what he should do — return the magazine and go home. But the
store manager thought he was a “punk” and wouldn’t believe him. And he wasn’t about to let this gang see him making nice with
someone who had insulted him.

“So what do you do with all this stuff?” he asked the redhead.

“We bring it back to our hangout and divvy it up. Why, you interested in seeing it firsthand?”

Sandy hesitated. Then he thought about what his mother had been like when he got home.

What the heck
, he said to himself.
If I don’t feel like sticking around, I’ll just leave. At least I’ll have something to do before dinner, whenever that’s going
to be
.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. Then he stuffed the magazine in his back pocket and trailed behind the group.

The boys’ hangout was nothing more than an abandoned storage shack behind one of the neighborhood apartment buildings. A rickety
wooden table in the middle and a collection of old vegetable crates made up all the furniture. Piles of tattered magazines
and newspapers were stacked in one corner. There were no windows or electricity, so one of the kids took some matches from
his pocket and lit some candles.

The other boys joked about how they had fooled the store manager. Then they passed around the candy and opened the soda. The
redhead lit one of the cigars and started puffing. Soon the others were doing the same. One offered Sandy a puff. When Sandy
didn’t take it, the redhead laughed his harsh laugh.

“Well, get
him
,” he said to his buddies. “Thinks he’s too good to give it a try. Is that it? Are you too good to give it a try, baseball
boy?”

The taunts made Sandy angry. “I just remembered something I gotta do,” he said, sidling around the table to the door. “See
ya.”

“What’s the rush?” asked a tall boy with curly brown hair and a million freckles. He was one of the biggest of the kids. His
body blocked the doorway.

“Gotta get home for dinner,” said Sandy, suddenly uneasy.

“Oh, yeah? What’s for dinner? Maybe we’ll all come over and have some,” said the redhead. The others all laughed at his suggestion.

“Yeah, right,” said Sandy with a small laugh.

“Baseball boy’s gotta keep his energy up so he can hit little white balls with sticks,” said one of the other guys, giving
Sandy a push as he passed by.

Automatically, Sandy pushed back at him. “Keep your hands off me,” he warned.

“Aw, let him go,” the redhead called over. “We already got what we needed out of him.”

But the kid who had pushed him took another poke at Sandy’s back. Sandy stumbled and collided with the table. The candles
rocked dangerously.

Sandy’s temper flared. He spun to face the boy who had pushed him. “I said,
Keep your hands off me
.” With one quick move, he pushed the big kid into the table and ran out the door. The boys followed him, shouting angry words
and threats.

The noise brought people inside the apartments to their windows.

“That’s it — I’m calling the cops!” one man yelled from his back stoop. He switched on an overhead light, reached into his
doorway, and pulled out a phone.

Sandy rushed past him, giving the man a glance before disappearing into the shadows. Once there, he broke into a sprint. He
didn’t stop until he’d reached his own doorway. With shaking hands, he fumbled for the key.

That’s when he heard the sirens and smelled the smoke.

S
andy, hat off at the dinner table,” said Mrs. Comstock. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Sandy hung his Raiders cap from the back of his chair. He pushed his string beans around the crumbled remains of the slice
of meat loaf on his plate. After the game, he had been so ravenous, he could have eaten a grizzly bear. Now he had no appetite.

Bzzing! Bzzinggg!
The door buzzer sounded. Mrs. Comstock went to the speaker and pushed the button.

“Hello?… Yes. Yes, I’m his mother. … Yes. … Well, I suppose so. I mean, of course, please come up.”

She turned to the table with a dark look on her
face. “Sandy, why would two police officers want to speak to you?”

Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. A policeman in a blue uniform and one in ordinary clothes came into
the living room. They introduced themselves as Officer Hughes and Lieutenant Nolan.

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Lieutenant Nolan. “Early this evening, there were two disturbances. The first was a robbery
at the corner convenience store. The second was a fire. An old shack behind a building not too far from the store went up
in flames. You were seen leaving both places.”

Sandy stared at him, his heart in his mouth. “Me? What makes you think it was me?”

Lieutenant Nolan plucked the Raiders cap from the chair. “Not too many kids around with one of these. We got a roster of the
team from the paper and a description of you from the witnesses. With the help of some team photos and newspaper clippings,
we put two and two together.”

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.

S
chool 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.”

Sandy 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.”