of the game so long, he reflected.
A tall left-hander named Dick Fleming was pitching for the Surfs. He looked calm, relaxed. He stretched, kicked, delivered,
and in short order disposed of Larry, Rod, and Dale.
Harry didn’t do badly, either. One, two, three — he bowled over the Surfs’ first three hitters.
Fleming’s performance was repeated in the top of the second, but at their turn at bat Bob Adams, their center fielder, slashed
out a single over Puffy’s head and went to second base on a sacrifice bunt.
Phyllis came up, cheers and applause greeting her the minute she started for the batter’s box.
“Talk about a celebrity,” said Don, sitting next to Eddie.
“Yeah,” Eddie murmured softly.
He felt a nervous twitching in his stomach. This was the part of the game he was waiting for. The part that counted for her.
And for him.
She took a ball and a strike. Then she laid into one. The ball rocketed to deep center. It was high. It looked like a sure
homer. Eddie got to his feet, his mouth clasped tightly, his breath held. The fans too had risen and were cheering madly.
The ball came down inside the park. Lynn reached high for it and caught it.
The roar of the crowd died. There was a sound of sadness in it. But the drive had advanced the runner to third, and then he
scored on D. D. Davis’s double.
Eddie sat down, his heart beating hard. It was close to being a home run, he thought. Very close.
Puffy started a hitting spree for the Lancers in the top of the third. His single, Larry’s double, and Rod’s triple combined
to pile up three runs to put them ahead of the Surfs, 3 to 1.
In the fourth, Phyl rapped out a smashing single, but got thrown out at second on a double play. Her slide into the bag was
just as neat as any ballplayer’s Eddie had ever seen.
The score remained unchanged until the bottom of the fifth when the Surfs began spraying the baseball all over the lot.
“Eddie! Warm up!” Coach Inger told him.
The call startled Eddie. He’d been wrapped up in the game.
“Come on, Pete,” he said.
He stepped out of the dugout, picked up one of the loose balls lying on the ground near the bat rack, and went down behind
the first-base bleachers. Pete Turner followed him with a catcher’s mitt.
He began throwing easily, feeling the kinks in his shoulders loosen until he could throw them in hard enough to make the ball
sound like a rifle shot as it hit Pete’s mitt.
He heard a familiar call and saw the coach waving him in. Harry was finished.
But he wasn’t leaving the game. He was replacing Tony in right field.
Eddie tossed the practice ball to Pete and took his time walking out to the mound. A few cheers and casual remarks greeted
him.
He got on the mound, tossed in a few practice throws, and was ready to go.
Examining the situation, he saw that runners were on first and second.
Tip trotted out to him, his shin guards, belly guard, and mask looking bulky on him.
“Great spot to put you in,” he muttered quietly. “There are two on and only one out.”
“How many runs they got?”
“Two.” Tip’s eyes glittered through the mask. “See who’s second batter?”
Eddie glanced toward the Surfs’ on-deck circle. Phyllis was bent there on one knee, grasping a bat.
“Yeah,” he said.
Tip slapped him on the butt. “Let’s get ’em.”
Pierce, the Surfs’ catcher, was up. So far he had laid down a sacrifice bunt and flied out. A hit now could score another
run. Maybe two. Eddie realized his disadvantages.
He threw two low pitches, the second around Pierce’s knees. Pierce bit at it and popped up. Two outs.
Phyl got off her knee and walked up to the plate. Her fans applauded her. A few added comments.
“There’s your chance, Phyl! Drill it down his throat!”
“Blast it back at him, Phyl! On the head!”
“A home run! Pile it on, Phyl!”
Eddie stood behind the mound, collecting his wits. He avoided meeting her eyes, and concentrated
A tall left-hander named Dick Fleming was pitching for the Surfs. He looked calm, relaxed. He stretched, kicked, delivered,
and in short order disposed of Larry, Rod, and Dale.
Harry didn’t do badly, either. One, two, three — he bowled over the Surfs’ first three hitters.
Fleming’s performance was repeated in the top of the second, but at their turn at bat Bob Adams, their center fielder, slashed
out a single over Puffy’s head and went to second base on a sacrifice bunt.
Phyllis came up, cheers and applause greeting her the minute she started for the batter’s box.
“Talk about a celebrity,” said Don, sitting next to Eddie.
“Yeah,” Eddie murmured softly.
He felt a nervous twitching in his stomach. This was the part of the game he was waiting for. The part that counted for her.
And for him.
She took a ball and a strike. Then she laid into one. The ball rocketed to deep center. It was high. It looked like a sure
homer. Eddie got to his feet, his mouth clasped tightly, his breath held. The fans too had risen and were cheering madly.
The ball came down inside the park. Lynn reached high for it and caught it.
The roar of the crowd died. There was a sound of sadness in it. But the drive had advanced the runner to third, and then he
scored on D. D. Davis’s double.
Eddie sat down, his heart beating hard. It was close to being a home run, he thought. Very close.
Puffy started a hitting spree for the Lancers in the top of the third. His single, Larry’s double, and Rod’s triple combined
to pile up three runs to put them ahead of the Surfs, 3 to 1.
In the fourth, Phyl rapped out a smashing single, but got thrown out at second on a double play. Her slide into the bag was
just as neat as any ballplayer’s Eddie had ever seen.
The score remained unchanged until the bottom of the fifth when the Surfs began spraying the baseball all over the lot.
“Eddie! Warm up!” Coach Inger told him.
The call startled Eddie. He’d been wrapped up in the game.
“Come on, Pete,” he said.
He stepped out of the dugout, picked up one of the loose balls lying on the ground near the bat rack, and went down behind
the first-base bleachers. Pete Turner followed him with a catcher’s mitt.
He began throwing easily, feeling the kinks in his shoulders loosen until he could throw them in hard enough to make the ball
sound like a rifle shot as it hit Pete’s mitt.
He heard a familiar call and saw the coach waving him in. Harry was finished.
But he wasn’t leaving the game. He was replacing Tony in right field.
Eddie tossed the practice ball to Pete and took his time walking out to the mound. A few cheers and casual remarks greeted
him.
He got on the mound, tossed in a few practice throws, and was ready to go.
Examining the situation, he saw that runners were on first and second.
Tip trotted out to him, his shin guards, belly guard, and mask looking bulky on him.
“Great spot to put you in,” he muttered quietly. “There are two on and only one out.”
“How many runs they got?”
“Two.” Tip’s eyes glittered through the mask. “See who’s second batter?”
Eddie glanced toward the Surfs’ on-deck circle. Phyllis was bent there on one knee, grasping a bat.
“Yeah,” he said.
Tip slapped him on the butt. “Let’s get ’em.”
Pierce, the Surfs’ catcher, was up. So far he had laid down a sacrifice bunt and flied out. A hit now could score another
run. Maybe two. Eddie realized his disadvantages.
He threw two low pitches, the second around Pierce’s knees. Pierce bit at it and popped up. Two outs.
Phyl got off her knee and walked up to the plate. Her fans applauded her. A few added comments.
“There’s your chance, Phyl! Drill it down his throat!”
“Blast it back at him, Phyl! On the head!”
“A home run! Pile it on, Phyl!”
Eddie stood behind the mound, collecting his wits. He avoided meeting her eyes, and concentrated
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