No Arm in Left Field (4 page)

The next batter drove a sizzling line drive over Woody’s head, scoring a run. A strikeout ended the Yellow Jackets’ romp.
Yellow Jackets 2, Forest Lakers 0.

“Get on, Bud,” Coach Harper said.

Bud did. He singled to left and Ed
Caliel scored him on a triple to right center. Stu Henderson popped out and Caesar Valquez grounded out, bringing up Woody
Davis. The fans cheered the young pitcher as he took the metal doughnut off the fat end of his bat and stepped to the plate.
He windmilled the bat a couple of times, then stood still as he waited for the pitch. It came in and he belted it for a single
over third, scoring Ed. Jeff flied out, ending the second inning.

Terry ran out to left, wondering how long he’d last if he muffed another play. Bob Decker was a utility infielder and outfielder,
and Mick Jordan was able to handle an outfield position if necessary. Either one could take his place if Coach Don Harper
saw fit to take him out.

Woody fanned the first Yellow Jacket, then grooved the first pitch to the
next batter. The blow was a long high drive to left that made Terry get on his bicycle. He made a leaping catch that drew
applause from the crowd — including some Yellow Jacket fans — and pegged the ball in to Ed. It bounced and rolled most of
the way to the third baseman, but it didn’t matter. No one was on base.

Jeff missed a hot drive. Then a safe hit to left field, which Terry caught on the first hop, left men on first and third.
A good arm might have thrown the runner out at third, but Terry’s weak throw gave him time to make it standing up.

The runners perished on base, though, as Woody struck out the next batter. Greatly relieved, Terry ran in from the outfield.

Tony led off in the bottom of the third, smashing out a double to start things rolling.
Terry stepped up to the plate, then moved a few inches closer to it as Coach Harper had suggested. He waited for a pitch he
liked, hoping desperately to knock Tony in, and struck out on the same pitch that had become his bugaboo — the high outsider.

“I guess that standing closer to the plate doesn’t help,” observed the coach. “You’ve just got to learn to bring ’em down,
Terry. Jim Burling’s got good control, and he knows your weakness.”

“I’ve been trying,” Terry confessed.

“I know.” The coach patted him on the knee. “Take it easy the rest of the game. I’ll have Bob Decker take your place.”

“Okay,” said Terry. Deep inside he was relieved by the coach’s decision.

He watched Rich hit a double, scoring Tony. Then Bud singled, scoring Rich.
Those were the only runs the Lakers were able to run up that half inning. They were in front now, 4–2.

The fourth inning went by scoreless. The Yellow Jackets picked up a run in the fifth, but neither team scored again and the
Lakers won, 4–3.

The guys rushed at Woody, yelling and cheering their first victory. Terry found himself among them, forgetting everything
that had happened on the field, thinking only about this wonderful moment. He flung his arms around the guys and cheered with
them.

Not until he felt his arm being lifted away from a shoulder did the spell break. The shoulder belonged to Tony Caster-line,
and the look was plain enough:
Keep your arm off me.

T
ERRY STARTED
in the game against the Roadrunners, a fiery team that wore all-white uniforms except for the picture of a roadrunner on
the front of their jerseys. It was Thursday, the first of July, and the temperature was soaring in the nineties.

The Forest Lakers had first raps and Mick Jordan was scheduled to pitch. On the mound for the Roadrunners was a left-hander,
Hank Rhodes.

The game got underway and Jeff Roberts, leading off, took a 1–2 count, then
blasted a pitch directly at the center fielder. One out. Tony grounded out on the first pitch and Terry stepped to the plate.

Swoosh!
A swing and a miss.

“Too high, Terry!” Tony shouted.

Terry grimaced.
I wish Tony would keep his mouth shut while I’m batting,
he thought angrily.

“Ball!” High and outside.

“That’ a way to look, Terry!” Mick said.

Swoosh!
Another swing and a miss.

“Oh, no!” Tony moaned. “He did it again!”

Terry stepped out of the box, leaned over and ran his hands up and down the smooth sides of the bat. Then he stepped in again,
braced his feet and held his bat high and off his shoulder.

The pitch. It came in belt-high. Terry
stepped into it and swung.
Crack!
A bullet-piercing drive to deep left! The ball kept going… going… going…

Over the fence! A home run!

Terry dropped his bat and circled the bases, the cries of the fans ringing warmly in his ears. Nothing had sounded so great
in a long, long time.

He was met at the plate by each player, who shook his hand as he ran by. Even Tony was there to meet him, saying, “Nice blast,
Terry.”

Rich flied out, ending the top of the inning.

Mick had trouble with the first Road-runner and walked him on four straight pitches. A bunt sent the man down to second, then
a line drive over second scored him. 1–1.

In the top of the second, Bud Philips
singled, Ed flied out, and Stu Henderson hit into a double play.

In the bottom of the second Mick again had trouble with his control. He walked the first man up, then redeemed himself by
catching a pop fly when the next batter tried to bunt.

A drive between first and third allowed the runner to reach third base. Then, with men on first and third, the next batter
delivered a solid blow to deep left that again made Terry get on his bicycle. The ball dropped over his head for a hit. He
ran after it as it bounced to the fence, picked it up and heaved it as hard as he could toward the infield.

Ed Caliel, as he should have, played close to his third-base sack. Tony came out to the outfield to receive Terry’s throw
in, but not far enough. By the time he got
the ball and pegged it home, both runners had scored —
and so had the hitter.

It was a home run. The Roadrunner fans went wild.

Terry stood glued to the spot from where he had pegged the ball, looking on with his legs spread-eagled.
Darn you, Tony,
he thought.
That would not have been a home run if you had come closer. You could’ve thrown him out!

He didn’t know how they got the next hitters out, but they did.

“I’m sorry, Mick,” Terry said as he ran in and reached the pitcher’s side. “That was my fault.”

“Your fault, my eye,” Mick said. “Tony knows you’ve got a poor arm. He should’ve run out farther for your throw.”

Terry agreed, but said nothing.

The Forest Lakers soon picked up two
runs, beginning with a single by Caesar Valquez, then successive hits by Jeff, Tony and Terry. Terry had doubled, giving him
a two-for-two hitting record in the game so far.

Mick held the Roadrunners hitless in the bottom of the third, and Lefty Rhodes did the same with the Forest Lakers.

It was in the bottom of the fourth that the Roadrunners started to lambaste Mick again, getting two hits right off the bat.
Then Mick walked two men, forcing in a run. He had three balls and no strikes on the next batter when Stu called time, ran
out to the mound and talked to Mick.

The talk hardly helped. Mick fired a strike, then grooved the next pitch too, only to see it go for a hit over short. Two
runs scored and Coach Harper called time. He took Mick out and called in the
reserve pitcher, Woody Davis, who had been warming up behind the third-base bleachers.

Woody pulled the Lakers through without giving up a hit, and managed to pitch the rest of the game with no Roadrunner scoring.
The bats of the Lakers weren’t sounding off loud enough, however, and the Roadrunners took the game, 7–3.

Terry had been up four times: knocking a homer, a double, walking once and striking out his last time up. It was the strikeout
Tony Casterline remembered, for it was the last out of the game.

“You just can’t get it into your head, Terry,” he said with biting sarcasm. “You struck at two pitches that were way high
and outside. You could’ve walked and saved Rich a chance to bat. We had two men on. And Rich was due to hit.”

Terry looked at him. His eyes shone like hard glass. “And you could’ve come out farther on that hit that went up against the
fence to save a run,” he countered. “Why didn’t you?”

Tony’s face reddened. He looked around, saw Jeff, and went toward him. Mick grinned at Terry.

“That’s telling him,” he said.

Terry saw his father come running toward him and the boys. Behind him were Mrs. Delaney and Connie.

“Tony! Jeff!” Mr. Delaney yelled. “Lose or not, you’re all invited to our place for ice cream and cake!” he said cheerfully.

Terry looked happily at his father and mother. No one could say that Dad wasn’t trying to keep harmony among the boys.

“I… I’m sorry,” Tony stammered. “I’ve got someplace else to go.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Mr. Delaney. “Maybe next time.”

“I’ll be there, Mr. Delaney,” Rich Muldoon said.

“So will I,” said Ed Caliel.

A similar chorus rose from the other guys, including Coach Harper, whose blue eyes twinkled. “Me, too, Mr. Delaney,” he said.

“Mark,” Mr. Delaney said.

Coach Harper grinned. “Mark,” he echoed. “And I’m Don.”

They shook hands, smiled at each other, and Mr. Delaney said, “Everybody come right over. All we have to do is put the stuff
on the table.”

Some of the players rode to Terry’s house with Coach Harper. But most of them, including Terry and his family, walked.

There wasn’t enough room for every Laker to sit at the red picnic table, so Mr. Delaney brought out a card table and chairs.
Mrs. Delaney and Connie served the refreshments.

Terry looked at the group, pleased as he could be that most of the members of the team had accepted his father’s invitation.
Only Tony and Jeff weren’t there. He wasn’t surprised that Jeff hadn’t come. Tony had probably influenced him not to.

A noisy vehicle came buzzing down the street, and Terry saw Harry Casterline’s dune buggy pulling up to the curb. He was alone.

For a moment he sat there, the motor idling. He was gazing at the group, and Terry surmised that he was looking for Tony.

“Come in, Harry!” Mr. Delaney yelled.
“Join us for some ice cream and cake!”

Harry Casterline seemed to hesitate a while, as if considering the invitation. Then he shut off the motor and came striding
across the lawn, looking sharp in a black sweater and flashy, bell-bottom pants.

“Where’s Tony?” he asked curiously.

“He said he couldn’t come,” Mr. Delaney replied. “Wait. Ill get you a chair.”

“Thanks, Mr. Delaney,” Harry said. “I can stand.”

His smile faded slightly as his thoughts seemed to stray — stray, Terry thought, to his brother Tony.

A
FTER THE
ice cream, cake and soft drinks were finished, Coach Harper and the members of the Forest Lakers thanked the Delaneys for
the treat and left. Harry Casterline thanked them too, then turned to Terry.

“Would you like to ride in a dune buggy, Terry?” he asked.

Terry’s eyes widened. “You bet I would!”

“Do you mind, Mr. Delaney?”

The big man’s eyes shone as he looked from Harry to his son. “Not at all.”

“Thanks, Dad!” cried Terry. “Oh — can Mick come along?”

“Why not?” Harry waved to Mr. Delaney and headed for the dune buggy. “See you, Mr. Delaney! Come on, guys!”

Terry and Mick raced across the lawn to the little vehicle. Mick climbed up behind the seat and grabbed hold of the metal
guard bar. “You sit in front, Terry,” he said, his face glowing with excitement.

Terry sat down in the passenger seat and buckled on his seat belt. Harry slid in behind the wheel, buckled on his seat belt,
then started the motor and drove off with a roar from the twin exhausts.

“Tony say why he couldn’t go to your party?” Harry asked.

“No,” Terry replied. “He just said he had someplace else to go.”

The dune buggy sped smoothly down
the street, turned left at the intersection and went up a steep grade.

“How are you and Tony getting along, Terry?” Harry asked.

Terry was surprised at the question. “Okay, I guess,” he said half-heartedly.

“You’re being modest,” Harry said. “I know better. That kid brother of mine was brainwashed about black people by our parents
a long time ago, and it’s going to take some doing to change him. I just hope you two guys will become friends. I’d like Tony
to realize that the color of a person’s skin has nothing to do with what he believes in and how he lives.”

“Any reason why your parents don’t like black people, Harry?” Terry asked freely.

“Yes and no, Terry,” Harry replied. “My parents never knew a black family.
All they knew was what they read in the papers or heard what white people said. Then my father was beaten out of a job as
a construction foreman by a black guy. My father admits that the better man won, but it didn’t help him see blacks as great
guys. I don’t know. It’s a pretty complicated thing to talk about. I confess that I was like my folks until I was old enough
to get away from home more and meet a lot of people, both white and black. I don’t choose my friends by their race anymore.”