Wild Pitch by Matt Christopher

just wondered if you’d seen the paper,” said Tip.
    “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Tip. Hey, wait a minute.”
    “What?”
    “If you’re not doing anything, bring over your trumpet.”
    “I’m not doing anything,” said Tip.
    Eddie grinned. “Good. I’ll see ya.”
    He hung up and sat there awhile, concentrating his attention on a fly that was buzzing outside against the window. But his
     mind was on the upcoming game against the Surfs. Well, it should prove interesting, he told himself.
    Tip came over twenty minutes later, carrying the worn case in which he kept his bright and shiny trumpet. Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes
     had gone outside to inspect their garden, so the boys took advantage of their absence, and for half an hour they had a jamsession in the living room, Tip blowing the trumpet as loudly as he could, Eddie banging the snares and rattling the cymbals.
     For a while everything but the music was forgotten — even baseball.
    The weather the next afternoon was hot and sunny, hotter and sunnier than Eddie liked. Because of the publicity the newspaper
     article had generated, Mr. Rhodes promised Eddie that come game time he’d be there in the stands. He wanted to see if this
     Monahan girl was really as good as the paper said she was.
    He didn’t say he also wanted to see how Eddie performed against her if he pitched. But Eddie suspected it.
    Roxie and Margie promised to be there, too. The game would be over in plenty of time for Roxie to relieve their mother at
     the gift shop.
    Eddie, Tip, and Puffy arrived at the park just as the other guys and Coach Inger did. Some of the Surfs were already there,
     taking batting practice. One of them was Phyl.
    The Surfs’ equipment was strewn in front of the third-base dugout, an indication that they were going to have last bats.
    After Coach Inger dumped the Lancers’ equipment in front of the first-base dugout, Tip lifted abaseball out of the canvas bag and started to play catch with Eddie and Puffy. Some of the other Lancers started playing catch,
     too. Some, pepper ball.
    “She’s batting,” remarked Tip.
    Eddie turned to look at her. She had on a helmet, and stood at the plate in a spread-eagle, fearless stance. The kid on the
     mound pitched one in and Phyl rapped it over shortstop.
    “Tip, work out with Harry,” Eddie heard Coach Inger say. “I’m going to have him start.”
    “Okay.”
    Tip smiled as he tossed the ball back to Eddie. “Relieved?” he asked.
    He shrugged. He guessed he was.
    He found himself listening to the sound of Phyl’s bat connecting with the balls, and felt a secret thrill that she was pounding
     the ball so well. It proved to him that his helping her had worked. But practice pitches were no solid proof that she could
     hit as successfully in a game. The real test was how she performed after the ump called “play ball!”
    In routine fashion the Lancers took batting practice after the Surfs finished theirs, then infield practice. When the Surfs
     had the field, Eddie watched Phyl from the bench, saw her scoop upgrounders hit to her by her coach, and whip the ball to second, third, and home with remarkable ease.
    He looked at the crowd. As he expected, the stands were filled almost to capacity.
    They cheered and clapped as the Surfs went out on the field. Some of them yelled at Phyllis, letting her know that they were
     there to support her. She responded with a smile and a brief wave of her hand.
    “Hey, Larry! Hey, Larry!” Dale piped up as the leadoff man stepped to the plate.
    “Get the big one, Larry! Get the big one!” Tip yelled.
    Don was coaching at first, clapping his hands, yelling, his cap brim pulled low to shield his eyes from the sun. Mr. Inger
     was coaching at third, pulling on his cap brim, spitting on his hands, rubbing them together.
    Eddie looked at Phyl. She was leaning forward slightly, pounding a fist into her mitt, her voice joined in the chatter with
     her teammates. She was blending in well after being out