Authors: Matt Christopher
The Hit-Away Kid
To Stephanie Owens Lurie
Text copyright © 1998 by Catherine M. Christopher
Illustrations copyright © 1988 by Little Brown
and Company (Inc.)
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
.
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS
,
INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS
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WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER
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EXCEPT BY A REVIEWER WHO MAY QUOTE BRIEF PASSAGES IN A REVIEW.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are
fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of
Catherine M. Christopher.
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-09595-2
Contents
It was the top of the fourth inning and Barry McGee, left fielder for the Peach Street Mudders, was bored. He loved baseball,
and he loved to win. He would do almost
anything
to win. But today’s game was slow as molasses. A ball hadn’t been hit out to him since the first inning, when the Belk’s
Junk Shop batters had knocked out seven hits and racked up six runs. It sure had looked as if they would
never
get out.
Then the Mudders had scored three times
in the second inning and once in the third, proving to the Junk Shoppers that they were still in the game.
But now Barry felt as if he were just one of the spectators. The Shoppers were hitting the ball in every direction but left
field.
Crack!
Barry reacted to the sharp sound of the bat connecting with the ball and saw the white pill zip past pitcher Sparrow Fisher’s
head. Center fielder José Mendez scooped it up and whipped it in to second baseman Nicky Chong, holding the Belk’s Joe Tuttle
to a single.
Maybe good ol’ Brian Feinberg will pop one out to me, Barry thought hopefully.
Good ol’ Brian popped one out, all right, but it was to right fielder Alfie Maples.
Then Eddie Lathan hit a hard one to shortstop Bus Mercer, who had to go to his right a little to catch the ball. But he flubbed
it. And by the time he had control of it, Joe was on second and Eddie was on first.
“That’s okay, Bus!” Barry yelled, knowing how Bus must feel after making an error. He hated making errors, too. Nothing was
worse, except maybe striking out with runners on base.
Sparrow mowed Monk Solomon down with three straight strikes, bringing up the Belk’s left fielder, Jerry Moon. Jerry was a
righthander, but he batted from the left side of the plate. No way, Barry thought, will he hit a ball out to me.
Crack!
Jerry belted Sparrow’s first pitch to deep left field. Surprised, Barry turned and sprinted toward the sign-covered fence.
A hit would score a run. A catch would end the inning. He glanced back over his shoulder, saw the ball dropping down fast
over his head, and reached out for it.
Just then he tripped over a lump of sod. He lost his balance and started to fall. But he kept his eye on the ball and got
his glove under it just as he hit the ground.
It was a great play … until the ball rolled off his glove and onto the grass! In a flash Barry retrieved it. His back was
to the umpire and the crowd — who could see what he did? He jumped to his feet, shouting, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
“Out!” yelled the base umpire.
Barry ran in, holding the ball up in his gloved hand and grinning widely. He heard some Peach Street Mudders fans yell, “Nice
catch, Barry!”
Then another voice from the sideline said, “You dropped it. I saw you.”
Barry’s smile faded and his heart leaped as he glanced toward the sideline. There sat his sister, Susan, and their little
brother, Tommy. Barry had seen them there earlier but had practically forgotten about them.
He gave Susan a dirty look that said Keep your mouth shut. Then he turned away and continued on toward the dugout.
But some of the Belk’s Junk Shop fans must have seen him drop the ball, too. “He dropped
it, ump! What are you, blind?” a couple of them yelled.
Luckily, the umpire’s decision held. Jerry Moon was out.
So much for your big mouth, Susan, he thought. But at the same time, deep down he felt guilty. What he’d done wasn’t right.
Well, he’d have to forget it, that’s all. If he could.
Sparrow, batting last in the lineup, led off with a single. Then Barry stepped to the plate. He felt comfortable here. He’d
rather bat than field any day. Maybe, he thought, he could get a long hit and make up for his cover-up.
He glanced at Coach Parker, who was coaching third base, and got the bunt signal.
Barry couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, no!” he moaned. “I can’t bunt!”
He decided he wouldn’t bunt, no matter what the coach had signaled him to do. Even
though he was leadoff hitter for the Mudders, he was known by a lot of the players and fans as a hit-away batter, and he liked
that. It made him feel good. Important.
Anyway, so far today he had gotten a single and a walk. He deserved to keep swinging. Maybe this time he could sock the old
apple out of the lot for a two-run homer. He was due for a round-tripper.
Barry stepped into the box, waited for the first pitch, and shifted into a bunting position. He missed the pitch deliberately.
He missed the second one, too, even though both pitches were almost directly over the heart of the plate.
Then he looked at the coach again and saw him give the hit-away sign. Barry hid a grin. I fooled him, he thought.
He didn’t hit a round-tripper, but he managed to lace a line drive between third base and shortstop for a single.
“That-away, hit-away!” a fan yelled.
Barry smiled.
“Tell me something, Barry,” Monk, the Belk’s first baseman, said. “Did you really catch that fly ball?”
Barry stared at him. “Of course I did!” he snapped. He let his eyes bore into Monk’s dark ones for a moment, then he leaned
over to tuck his blue socks under his white pant-legs. He hated to lie. But it was too late to tell the truth now. Like his
father used to say when such situations came up, Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.
Turtleneck Jones — who got his nickname from the turtleneck sweaters he usually wore — batted next and drove a double between
left and center fields. Sparrow scored, and Barry circled the bases to third.
Coach Parker approached Barry from the coaching box. His eyes were shadowed by the baseball cap pushed low over his forehead.
“Barry, who do you think you’re kidding?” the coach said sharply. “You missed bunting those balls on purpose. You were lucky
to get a hit, but the next time I give you a bunt sign, you bunt. Understand?”
Barry blushed. So he
hadn’t
fooled him.
Silent, he nodded.
“Okay. Play it safe,” Coach Parker cautioned. “Make sure the ball goes through the infield before you run for home.”
The coach returned to the coaching box, and Barry turned his attention back to the batter, his best friend, José Mendez. José
took a called strike, then popped out to short for the first out, bringing up T.V. Adams. T.V. was short, stocky, and
smart,
and he could hit the ball a mile — if he connected. Barry remembered that T.V. had doubled in the second inning and flied
out in the third. As a cleanup hitter, he’s due for another long hit, Barry thought.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the scoreboard. Junk Shop 6, Mudders 5.
A hit could score two runs, putting the Mudders ahead, Barry reflected. But suppose T.V. didn’t get a hit? Suppose he popped
up, or hit a grounder …?
“Keep on your toes,” Coach Parker’s soft
voice reached him. “If he hits it, make sure it goes through.”
“Strike two!” cried the umpire, as Finky O’Dell, the Junk Shop’s left-handed pitcher, steamed his second pitch past T.V.
Oh, no! Barry thought. What’s T.V. going to do? Strike out?
Then …
crack!
A sharp grounder down toward first base! T.V. dropped his bat and scooted for first. And Barry, seeing that the ball
seemed
to be heading past Monk’s right side, bolted for home.
“Barry! Wait up!” Barry heard the coach yell.
But he was several running steps away from third base by now, too late to turn around and go back. Monk was diving after the
ball, which was between him and the bag, and Barry thought,
I should be able to make it. And we need this run to tie the score.