The Team That Stopped Moving Read Free Page A

said.
    That night Eddie came over and the boys played chess. Dick won. It was too late to play another game so they listened to records
     and talked.
    When Eddie left, Cindy said to Dick, “You know that you’re the only guy I know who pays any attention to him?”
    “Anything wrong with that?”
    “No. I think it’s super. But why don’t the other guys have anything to do with him? I could understand it if he’s a creep,
     but he isn’t.”
    “I guess it’s his personality,” replied Dick. “He’s a real shy kid. You know that he never raises his hand in school when
     the teacher asks a question? Yet he’s one of the smartest brains there?”
    “He’s wrapped up in a shell,” Cindy said.“Maybe playing baseball will get him out of it.”
    “Not unless the guys cooperate,” Dick replied somberly.
    Thursday, June 21, was a day of sunshine and ninety-degree heat. Most of the crowd that attended the Bears-Tigers game sat
     in the shade of the trees behind the left-field foul line. Only a few braved the scorching sun by sitting in the stands.
    The Tigers took the field first. Eddie was behind the plate and Art was on the mound. Dick wished that Eddie would do some
     yelling to help perk up the team, but he knew that no one could force Eddie to do anything.
    The game started, and the Bears’ leadoff hitter pushed a Texas league single over second base. Right fielder Tony Berio fielded
     the ball and pegged it to first. On the throw in, the hitter raced to second, and Stanyelled at Tony, “To second, Tony! Second! Never behind the runner!”
    Stan was right, of course, thought Dick as he tossed the ball to Art. “Stay in there, Art,” he said encouragingly.
    Art, rubbing the ball as hard as if he were trying to pull its cover off, faced the second batter, then pitched. Crack! A
     solid hit to short! Stan caught the ball and whipped it to second as the runner, after making a start for third, turned and
     dashed back. Mark reached out to tag him, but the runner made it in time.
    Then Mark bullet-pegged the ball to first. But there, too, the ball arrived too late to nab the runner.
    We’re playing like a bunch of beanheads!
an inner voice screamed inside of Dick.
Are we going to lose all of our games by such terrible scores as 17-3 or worse?
    Then, with runners on first and second, a Bear clouted a long drive to right center fieldthat drove in both runners. It was a stand-up triple. The Bears were on the move.
    “Let’s
do
something!” Stan yelled, making a fist of his right hand.
    It’s going to be a long ball game,
Dick thought despairingly.
    Art pitched. The ball arced like a rainbow. The batter swung as if to drive it out of the state.
Crack!
A slow, dribbling grounder toward first base! Both Dick and Art charged after it.
    Suddenly something happened. Something that Dick had never experienced in all of his thirteen years.
    The ball stopped. Art stopped
—
posed in a running position, looking as if he had frozen solid. Even all sound stopped.
    Dick looked around, then thought that he, himself, would freeze, too. Everybody on the field and in the stands was like a
     statue! Nothing moved!

4
    H I , THERE !” said a voice.
    Dick whirled.
    Less than five feet away from him stood a man, a man Dick had never seen before. He was in his twenties — or was it thirties?
     It was hard to tell because of his handlebar moustache and pointed goatee, both the color of a flaming fire. He was wearing
     a white jersey, baseball pants, and baseball shoes. On his baseball cap, set jauntily on his head, was the word “Champ.”
    “I’m Jack Wanda,” he said, flashing a broad smile.
    Dick’s mouth had popped open, but nothing could come out of it.
    Jack Wanda laughed and stroked his moustache. “I know just how you feel, kid,” he said. “Every boy I meet for the first time
     reacts the same way. And it’s natural!” He paused and crossed his hairy red arms over his chest. “Let me tell you about myself.