No Arm in Left Field Read Free Page B

go to dinner with your family!”
    “The liar!” Terry cried. “He never called me at all!”
    “The rat,” Mick said softly.
    Terry saw Tony the next day at practice. He was boiling mad. “Tony, I heard that you were supposed to call me last night,”
     he said, trying to control his rage.
    Tony blushed. “I thought you were going to dinner with your family,” he said.
    “I didn’t say I was,” Terry shot back. “I said that we had
planned
to go, butthat I would go to the World Series movie instead. You must have heard me.”
    Tony’s lips pressed together, then spread apart in a forced smile. “You didn’t miss anything,” he said. “It wasn’t that good.”
    “I
bet
it wasn’t,” Terry snapped, and stamped angrily toward the pile of bats. He selected one he liked, slipped a metal doughnut
     over the fat part of it and began swinging it hard back and forth over his shoulder.

4
    L ATER , WHILE waiting for supper, Terry and Mick played catch on the front lawn. Terry was trying to strengthen his throwing arm. He
had
to be able to peg the ball to second or third base when it was hit to deep left. Mick had put a handkerchief in his glove
     to cushion the throws and was catching them with hardly a wince.
    “How am I doing?” Terry asked.
    “I don’t know,” Mick answered. “It’s hard to tell. Let’s go to the ballfield after supper.”
    Mick’s father came by and paused on the sidewalk.
    “Hi, Mr. Jordan,” Terry greeted him. “I’m trying to build up my throwing arm.”
    “Hi, Dad,” Mick said.
    “Hi, boys,” Mr. Jordan greeted them. He was tall, yellow-haired, and had the long, lithe build of an athlete. “Mind a bit
     of advice, Terry?”
    Terry held up his throw and looked at Mr. Jordan. “Anything you want to tell me is sure welcome, Mr. Jordan,” he replied honestly.
    Mr. Jordan grinned. “Well, it isn’t much, but it might save you a lot of torture later on.” He slapped at an annoying bee.
     “I understand what you’re trying to do, but at your age you’d better not throw too hard nor too long or you might come up
     with a permanent injury in that arm.You’re just a kid yet. Your arm isn’t strong enough to take it.”
    “That’s why I’m throwing harder,” Terry explained, frowning. “So it will be stronger.”
    “You’re taking a chance, Terry,” Mr. Jordan warned. “A big chance.” He shrugged and started toward home. “Well, don’t say
     I didn’t warn you.”
    Terry smiled. “I won’t, Mr. Jordan,” he promised, “because, as of right now, I’m going to take your advice.”
    Terry waited for Mr. Jordan to walk on, then looked at his friend. “Now there’s a guy who turns me on, Mick,” he said happily.
     “Not even my own father tells me things like that.”
    He pegged the ball to Mick, then heard footsteps on the porch behind him.
    “That’s because your own father doesn’tknow a thing about baseball,” said a voice. Terry turned to see his tall, broad-shouldered father standing behind the screen
     door, a genial smile on his lips.

    Terry chuckled. “Did you hear what Mr. Jordan told me, Dad?”
    “I sure did,” Mr. Delaney said. “And I think that it makes a lot of sense.”
    He came off the porch, stopped beside Mick, and began to play catch with the boys.
    Presently a dune buggy with a huge flower painted on its hood came buzzing up the street, crept up to the curb, and stopped.
     Out of it hopped Tony Caster-line and Jeff Roberts. Terry saw that the driver looked to be about nineteen or twenty, wore
     long hair, and had a striking resemblance to Tony.
    The two boys waved to him as he stepped on the gas and sped away.
    Terry looked at Tony and Jeff without speaking. His first impression was that they had come to see him, since the dune buggy
     had stopped directly in front of his house. But the guys motioned to Mick and ignored him completely.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Delaney,” Mick said, and ran over to them.
    Terry smiled at his