Lucky Seven Read Free

Jamie,” Ted Salin said coldly as he approached the dugout. “But I told you to bunt. Why didn’t you listen
     to me?”
    “I guess I was trying to be smart,” Jamie answered contritely. He ducked under the roof of the dugout and squeezed in between
     Harold Jones and Petey McMinnis, second baseman and shortstop respectively.
    “Maybe this ball club’s too good to have a manager,” Ted said softly.
    Jamie crossed his arms and slouched down on the bench, still chewing the gum. Why should Ted be sore? He had advanced Artie,
     hadn’t he? Jamie shrugged. It was really a silly thing to argue about, he thought.
    He saw Steve Johnson get the signal from Ted before going to the plate. Steve was a tall, black-haired boy, usually a pretty
     good sticker.
    He laid the first pitch down, a perfect bunt. He dropped his bat and raced for first, while Artie Castner made a beeline for
     home. The Blackbirds’ pitcher fielded the ball and heaved it in. Artie slid, swirling dust up and around the plate.
    “Safe!” cried the man in blue.
    The run broke the tie. The Magpies went ahead, 4 to 3.
    Marty Abrams held the Blackbirds hitless in the next two frames and the Magpies tucked the game in the bag.
    On the bus going home Marty sat with Jamie. The boys had showered and changed into street clothes and now looked fresh.
    Marty said, “Ted’s pretty sore you didn’t listen to him. You should’ve seen his face when you cut at that ball instead of
     bunting.”
    “I guess I was wrong, not doing what he told me,” Jamie said, looking away from the window. “But you know, yourself, it was
     crazy to have me bunt. I’m a hitter, not a bunter.”
    “It isn’t that, Jamie,” Marty said quietly. “Ted’s manager, and he knows his stuff. He’s played a lot of ball.”
    “Well, I won’t worry about it,” replied Jamie confidently, turning back to the window. “He knows he can’t keep me out of a
     game.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Marty said.
    “Well, I am,” retorted Jamie stubbornly. He reached into his pocket for a fresh stick of gum, stripped the wrappings off it
     and poked it into his mouth.
    At game time Saturday afternoon, Jamie Wilcox got the surprise of his life. Ted Salin omitted him from the lineup. Dickie
     Stutz, the utility outfielder, was in his place.
    “How come I’m not playing, Ted?” Jamie asked the manager after gathering the nerve to approach him. Jamie just couldn’t figure
     it. He was the Magpie’s big gun at the plate.
    Ted’s blue eyes met his. His jaw squared. “I’m manager of this ball team, Jamie. Whenthe season started every one of you asked me if I’d take the job. I said I’d be glad to, on the condition that nobody disputed
     my orders. You were one of the strongest in supporting that condition. Then last Thursday you hit when I told you to bunt.
     You’ve been playing good ball all season. All of you have, or we wouldn’t be fighting for the pennant. But you’ve got the
     idea in your head that you’re the star of the team, that you can do what you want. I don’t want that, Jamie. I don’t want
     any stars. I just want a good, fighting ball club with each man doing the best he can. A team that plays together and takes
     orders when I think they should be given.”
    He paused, as if waiting to see whether Jamie might have something to say. Jamie didn’t. There were too many things to think
     about.
    Jamie knew suddenly that Ted was right. Everything Ted said hit home. He truly hadn’t realized that the ball club had come
     pretty far since the season had started, and thereason for the players’ success had a lot to do with the way Ted had managed them.
    “Guess maybe you’re right, Ted,” Jamie finally said, the words barely squeezing past the lump in his throat.
    He turned and went to the dugout, feeling Ted’s look boring into his back. He half-hoped Ted might change his mind, but when
     the game started against the Bluejays Dickie Stutz was playing left