The Submarine Pitch by Matt Christopher

1
    T here was no way in the world that Bernie Shantz would have connected a lady’s vanity with baseball. A vanity was a piece of
     furniture with drawers into which women put their personal things, such as cosmetics. Baseball was — well, everybody knew
     what baseball was.
    Actually, what brought about the connection was the newspaper clipping that Ann-Marie found in the bottom drawer of the vanity.
     How it got there, whose it was, and why it was there were the questions thatimmediately bothered Bernie, AnnMarie, his fifteen-year-old sister, who had bought it from a friend, and Frankie, the youngest
     of the Shantz clan.
    “Hey, read this,” said Frankie, who was only eight and longed to be old enough to play ball on his brother’s team.
    “It’s about a guy who used to pitch for a team called the Keystones,” said AnnMarie, who looked up at Bernie with her enormous
     blue eyes.
    “He threw a submarine pitch,” Frankie added. “Ever hear of a submarine pitch? Weird-sounding, isn’t it?”
    Bernie frowned as he looked at his sister and brother. “Submarine pitch? Never heard of it.”
    “It must’ve been some pitch,” said Frankie, looking at his brother anxiously. “It says here that he had the strikeout record
     in the league for three years.”
    Bernie knew why Frankie had that anxious look on his face. Bernie was a pitcher himself. Was — until last week, that is. Since
     then he had given it up, closed it out of his life forever. No more pitching. In fact, no more baseball
at all
for him, except watching it on TV, maybe. He just wasn’t cut out for it, no matter how much he loved it. He knew his decision
     bothered Frankie, who couldn’t understand why his older brother didn’t want to play ball anymore. Well, Frankie was just a
     kid. He wouldn’t.
    “Dusty Fowler,” Bernie began to read out loud, “pitching his fourth straight victory of the season against Rockville in the
     City Twilight League, says of his pitching form, ‘I throw that way because it’s the easiest for me. I can throw all day if
     I have to and not get tired. The thing is, I can’t throw overhand if I try. I hurt my shoulder one daywhile baling hay, and I’ve been throwing underhand ever since.’”
    There was more, but Bernie didn’t care to read any further.
    “You’d better give this back to the people you bought the vanity from,” he said to Ann-Marie. “They might not have known it
     was there and would want it back.”
    “But their name isn’t Fowler,” Frankie intervened. “It’s Hudson. Why would
they
want it back?”
    Bernie looked at him. “Dusty Fowler could’ve been a friend,” he replied. “Anyway,” he turned to AnnMarie, “I think you should
     call the Hudsons and tell them about it.”
    “But,” said Frankie, not one to yield so easily, “there’s more about that submarine pitch that I think you should know.”
    “I don’t care.” Bernie’s eyes flashed as helooked at his younger brother. “I know what you’re thinking, Frankie, and you might as well get it out of your head. I’m through
     with baseball. Through… finished… out. Okay?”
    Frankie looked at him with large eyes. Bernie paused. No kid on the block read as much about baseball players and teams as
     Frankie did. When it came to records, Frankie was a walking encyclopedia. And Bernie — although he wouldn’t say so — admired
     him for it.
    “Okay,” said Frankie. “I just thought…” He turned and went out of the room abruptly without finishing what he was going to
     say.
    AnnMarie took the clipping from Bernie. “Too bad he’s too young to play,” she said icily. “I think he’s really more nuts about
     baseball than you are.”
    “Yeah, I know,” said Bernie sullenly.
    There was a sound from the other room, and then a cheery greeting, as a boy with rust-colored hair and a thin smattering of
     freckles on his high-cheekboned face came in.
    “Hi, AnnMarie. Hi, Bernie. What’s new?”
    “Hi,