by reading the whole thing this
time.”
Curious, Bernie took the clipping from her and started to read it again from the beginning. By the time he was finished with
it, his skin was prickling.
2
T he pitch comes up like a submarine coming up out of the water, which is how it got its name,” Bernie read. “It sails in a
straight path toward the plate, rising until it reaches the batter. Then, at the last instant, the ball curves sharply — away
from a right-handed batter, toward a left-handed batter.
“Some batters have accused Dusty of putting some kind of substance on the ball, such as saliva, to make it act the way it
does. But no evidence has been found that such is the case. He just throws the ball naturally, and it comes up to the batter,
curves, andthen flies by into the catcher’s mitt. The batter either watches it go by or swings at it, usually missing it by a foot. If
Dusty Fowler keeps his pitch under control, no one will be the least surprised to hear that some major league ball club has
signed him up.”
Bernie waited for his pulse to slow down a bit. He had read about pitchers throwing the illegal spitball in the big leagues,
but never had he heard of
anyone
throwing a submarine pitch.
“Does this clipping belong to you or your father?” Bernie asked.
“It’s my father’s,” admitted Dave. “I got it out of his scrapbook of interesting sports stories. When I saw the guys loading
the piece of furniture on the truck and they said that they were bringing it over here to your house, I got it and stuck it
into the bottom drawer. I suppose it was a stupid thing to do.”
“Not stupid, just silly,” said Bernie. “DidDusty Fowler ever make it to the big leagues?”
“No. He only got as far as the International. But that wasn’t bad.”
“Why don’t you try it, Bernie?” Frankie broke in with an eager voice that grabbed Bernie’s attention.
“Try what?” said Bernie.
“Learn to throw that submarine pitch,” Frankie answered. “You said yourself that your overhand pitches are like fat balloons
to the batters. Maybe if you learn this submarine pitch you won’t have to give up baseball.”
Frankie made it sound so simple. Ann-Marie had said that he probably loved baseball more than Bernie did. Well, that wasn’t
true. No one could love it more than Bernie did. He was just too darned proud, that was his trouble. He wanted to be really
good at it, and he just couldn’t be.
Last year he had tried pitching because he had a fair throwing arm. He had no curve, but his overhand delivery could cut the
plate in two most of the time. His problem was not being able to get the ball past the hitters. Players on the other teams
always hoped Bernie would be pitching to them. They boosted their batting averages every time he pitched for the Rangers.
In the infield or outfield he was no worse than any other fielder; his troubles all centered around the plate. Because when
he was up, pitchers were as happy to see him bat as batters were to see him pitch. He couldn’t hit, and whoever heard of a
nonhitting fielder?
Why should he make a fool of himself again this year?
“I’ve brought a ball and mitt,” said Dave. “Get your glove and let’s throw a few. Maybe you can develop into another Dusty
Fowler.”
“Yeah, Bernie! Let’s!” cried Frankie. His eyes flashed as if it were he about whom all the fuss was being made.
Bernie glanced at AnnMarie, not saying anything, but asking her with his eyes if what Dave was asking him to do made sense.
As if she read his thoughts she said, “You know how nuts you are about baseball, Bernie. I was just kidding you when I said
that Frankie loves it more than you do. If you don’t play, you’ll mope around here all summer and bug both Mom and me. I think
you ought to listen to Dave.”
“Come on!” Dave insisted, and started out of the house. “You’re not doing anything else right now,
time.”
Curious, Bernie took the clipping from her and started to read it again from the beginning. By the time he was finished with
it, his skin was prickling.
2
T he pitch comes up like a submarine coming up out of the water, which is how it got its name,” Bernie read. “It sails in a
straight path toward the plate, rising until it reaches the batter. Then, at the last instant, the ball curves sharply — away
from a right-handed batter, toward a left-handed batter.
“Some batters have accused Dusty of putting some kind of substance on the ball, such as saliva, to make it act the way it
does. But no evidence has been found that such is the case. He just throws the ball naturally, and it comes up to the batter,
curves, andthen flies by into the catcher’s mitt. The batter either watches it go by or swings at it, usually missing it by a foot. If
Dusty Fowler keeps his pitch under control, no one will be the least surprised to hear that some major league ball club has
signed him up.”
Bernie waited for his pulse to slow down a bit. He had read about pitchers throwing the illegal spitball in the big leagues,
but never had he heard of
anyone
throwing a submarine pitch.
“Does this clipping belong to you or your father?” Bernie asked.
“It’s my father’s,” admitted Dave. “I got it out of his scrapbook of interesting sports stories. When I saw the guys loading
the piece of furniture on the truck and they said that they were bringing it over here to your house, I got it and stuck it
into the bottom drawer. I suppose it was a stupid thing to do.”
“Not stupid, just silly,” said Bernie. “DidDusty Fowler ever make it to the big leagues?”
“No. He only got as far as the International. But that wasn’t bad.”
“Why don’t you try it, Bernie?” Frankie broke in with an eager voice that grabbed Bernie’s attention.
“Try what?” said Bernie.
“Learn to throw that submarine pitch,” Frankie answered. “You said yourself that your overhand pitches are like fat balloons
to the batters. Maybe if you learn this submarine pitch you won’t have to give up baseball.”
Frankie made it sound so simple. Ann-Marie had said that he probably loved baseball more than Bernie did. Well, that wasn’t
true. No one could love it more than Bernie did. He was just too darned proud, that was his trouble. He wanted to be really
good at it, and he just couldn’t be.
Last year he had tried pitching because he had a fair throwing arm. He had no curve, but his overhand delivery could cut the
plate in two most of the time. His problem was not being able to get the ball past the hitters. Players on the other teams
always hoped Bernie would be pitching to them. They boosted their batting averages every time he pitched for the Rangers.
In the infield or outfield he was no worse than any other fielder; his troubles all centered around the plate. Because when
he was up, pitchers were as happy to see him bat as batters were to see him pitch. He couldn’t hit, and whoever heard of a
nonhitting fielder?
Why should he make a fool of himself again this year?
“I’ve brought a ball and mitt,” said Dave. “Get your glove and let’s throw a few. Maybe you can develop into another Dusty
Fowler.”
“Yeah, Bernie! Let’s!” cried Frankie. His eyes flashed as if it were he about whom all the fuss was being made.
Bernie glanced at AnnMarie, not saying anything, but asking her with his eyes if what Dave was asking him to do made sense.
As if she read his thoughts she said, “You know how nuts you are about baseball, Bernie. I was just kidding you when I said
that Frankie loves it more than you do. If you don’t play, you’ll mope around here all summer and bug both Mom and me. I think
you ought to listen to Dave.”
“Come on!” Dave insisted, and started out of the house. “You’re not doing anything else right now,
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