Copyright

  Copyright © 1971 by Matthew F. Christopher

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may he reproduced in any

  form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information

  storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from

  the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages

  in a review.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09399-6

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  How many of these Matt Christopher sports classics have you read?

  1

  THE BOY was tall, dark-haired and left-handed. He was new in the neighborhood. He lived in the same ten-story brick apartment building that Mike Hagin lived in, but so far Mike hadn’t had a chance to talk with him. All Mike knew was what Art Colt had said. Art was a close friend, and if anything new happened within ten miles of Plainview, Art would be the first to hear about it.

  “He’s from Russia,” Art had said. “His father’s a teacher.”

  “Can he speak English?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked with him. But he goes to our school. So does his sister.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Yuri something.”

  That was all Art could tell him.

  Then came the day when Mike was walking home and saw Yuri throwing a hard rubber ball against the side of the apartment building and catching it on the first bounce. Twice the ball struck a curved narrow ledge about three feet above the pavement and rebounded to Yuri without touching the ground. He seemed to be playing a game.

  Suddenly the ball struck the ledge again and bounced over Yuri’s head, too high for him to catch. It struck the hard pavement behind him and bounced toward the swimming pool about a hundred feet away.

  Mike could see that Yuri wouldn’t be able to get it before it plunged into the water, so Mike ran after the ball as hard as he could. The ball dropped into the pool just as he reached the pool’s concrete deck.

  He looked around and saw Yuri running forward, a grin on his round, handsome face.

  “It won’t sink,” said Yuri. “Anyway, thanks for trying.”

  Mike returned the grin. He was shorter than Yuri, and stockier. “There’s a long pole here somewhere with a net on it,” he said. “I’ll look for it.”

  “Oh — thanks.”

  Mike found the pole behind the concrete wall on the opposite side of the pool. It was about ten feet long and big around as a broom handle. The net on the end was used to clear leaves and bugs from the water.

  Mike scooped up the ball and held the net up to Yuri, who took out the ball and thanked Mike again.

  While Mike put the pole back, he saw that Yuri was waiting for him.

  “I’m Mike Hagin,” he said. “I live up on the sixth floor.”

  Yuri put out his hand and Mike took it. “I am Yuri Dotzen. I live on the fourth floor. We just moved here a few days ago.” He had a foreign accent but his English was clear. “I go to Plainview School.”

  Mike smiled. “So do I! Maybe we can go together.”

  Yuri’s eyes warmed. “That would be nice. I have a sister, too. Anna. She is younger than I.”

  “Maybe she knows my sister, Ginnie,” said Mike. He frowned thoughtfully. “Yuri, are you really from Russia?”

  Yuri laughed. “Of course. We moved to the United States a year ago.”

  Mike looked into the dark brown eyes. “You speak English pretty well.”

  “That is because I learned it in school. So did my sister. And my parents speak it most of the time at home.”

  Russia. Man, Russia was halfway round the world. Mike could see the map of Europe in his mind and the huge country of Russia occupying most of its eastern part. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The country that had launched Sputnik, the first satellite to orbit the earth.

  “You ever going back?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. We like it very much here.” Yuri laughed and ran toward the apartment building. “Did you ever play this game? One point for catching a first bounce, two for catching it in the air.”

  “No. But try.”

  “You must try to hit that ledge,” advised Yuri. “If you hit it squarely, the ball will fly back to you in the air. If you miss a catch, it’s my turn.”

  The game was simple, and Mike caught twelve bounces and two flies before he missed.

  They started to walk to school together the next day, and their sisters tagged along. The girls were in the same grade but, like Mike and Yuri, had different homerooms.

  Then one day Mike heard that the Moodys were moving out of Plainview, which meant that the Checkmates, the team Mike played on in the Bantam Baseball League, were losing their first baseman. Bill Moody was a long string of a kid and left-handed. He could scoop up low throws and pull down high ones as if he were born to do just that. Without Bill the Checkmates had small chance of having a decent team.

  I wonder if Yuri plays baseball? Mike thought.

  “Yuri, did you ever play baseball?” Mike asked him a couple of days before the Moodys left.

  Yuri shrugged. “I played last year. I enjoyed it, but I am not the best player. Maybe the worst.”

  “Did you play first base? Our first baseman, Bill Moody, is moving away, and we’ll need a first baseman.”

  “No. I played outfield.” Yuri’s brows lifted. “Do you think that maybe I can play first base? It looks like a hard position.”

  “You’re tall and left-handed,” said Mike. “Lefties make the best first basemen. If you want me to, I’ll talk with Mr. Terko, our coach.”

  “When does the league start?”

  “We have two weeks of practice which starts next Monday. Our first game is the following week.”

  Yuri’s eyes lit up. “You think he would let me play first base, Mike?”

  “Why not? I can’t think of anybody else who’d fit there. Maybe Mr. Terko can — I don’t know. But right now I can’t.”

  2

  IT WAS a perfect day for baseball. Sunny and warm. It was a day when Mike Hagin wished that everything would go smoothly.

  He was afraid it wouldn’t though. He had that feeling.

  He stood at the sixth-story apartment window and looked out at the Little League ball diamond a quarter of a mile away.

  The bleachers stretching behind third base and behind home plate to first base were empty now, but later this afternoon most of them would be filled. The green grass and the white foul lines looked like fresh paint.

  The swimming pool in the park next to the apartment building was chock-full of yelling, screaming, happy kids. Two lifeguards sat in their towers on each side of the pool and watched the swimmers with close attention.

  Mike spotted his sister, Ginnie. She was wearing a blue and white striped bathing suit. Even as a ten-year-old, she could swim like a fish.

  He lifted his eyes and saw, far off in the distance, the hazy skyline of New York City. It was a forty-five-minute ride by bus from Plainview to New York.

  He heard footsteps and suddenly a hand rested on his shoulder. “Well, are you a little excited?”

  Mike turned and smiled. His father was a big man with dark hair and warm, brown eyes. He spoke often of his baseball playing days with the Plainview Tigers.

  “A little, I guess,” admitted Mike.

  “What kind of a team have you got this year? Pretty good?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  Mike shrugged. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, our regular first baseman left.”

  “Bill Moody?”

  Mike nodded. “They moved out West.”

  “Yes, I know,” replied his dad. “But there must be another kid in the neighborhood who can take his place, isn’t there?”

  Mike shrugged. “Yeah,” he said halfheartedly.

  He moved away from the window. “You and Mom going to the game?”

  Dad grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Mike started toward his room. “I’ll get dressed.”

  His mother was ironing in the kitchen. She was a fraction of an inch taller than he and wore her brown hair short.

  “Were you able to see Ginnie in that crowd?” she asked.

  “Yes. She’s the one doing the most yelling,” he said.

  He changed into his baseball uniform. Checkmates was printed in red script across the front of the jersey and number 12 in big print on its back. He pulled on. his cap and walked out, carrying his infielder’s glove and baseball shoes.

  Two floors down he knocked on a door. No one answered and he knocked again. He waited awhile, then went on down. That’s funny, he thought. Where was Yuri?

  He met Art Colt, Don Waner and Bunker Ford outside. Together they headed for the baseball field. Art was a skinny kid with black-rimmed glasses. He was the Checkm
ates’ starting pitcher. Don was catcher and Bunker played third.

  “Where’s Yuri?” asked Art.

  “I don’t know,” replied Mike. “Nobody answered the door when I knocked.”

  He was glad that no one asked anything more about Yuri. He suspected that Yuri Dotzen might be a touchy subject for a while. Those two weeks of practice hadn’t been enough to develop him into half the first baseman Bill Moody was.

  Coach Bob Terko was already at the field, removing brand-new baseballs from their boxes. He was short, slightly bald, and taught at the Plainview Junior High School.

  “You’re pitching this opening game, Art,” he said, tossing a sparkling white baseball to him. “Here you are. Warm up with Don. Take it easy. I don’t want you tired before the game starts.”

  Don walked with Art to the left of the third-base coaching box and began warming up the right-hander.

  Mike played catch with Bunker and Dick Wallace. Dick, short and broad-shouldered, was the team’s shortstop.

  Mike gave little thought to their opponents, the Maple Leafs. There was no sense wondering how tough they were. The Leafs were probably thinking the same thing. They had shown up and were using the first-base dugout. Some of them already had started batting practice.

  Later the Leafs got off the field and the Checkmates took over. At Mike’s turn at the plate he belted three pitches to the left side of the batting practice pitcher, then bunted down the third-base line.

  He was relaxing in the dugout when Yuri Dotzen appeared, looked at him and waved. “Hi, Mike,” he greeted.

  Mike’s brows shot up. “Yuri! Where were you? I knocked on your door.”

  “I was with my mother,” explained Yuri. A tuft of brown hair stuck out from underneath the brim of his baseball cap. “We were buying groceries. And my watch stopped. Am I very late?”

  “You missed batting practice.”

  “Well, I had plenty of it the last two weeks.”

  Plenty, but not enough, thought Mike.

  “Okay, men!” shouted the coach. “Out on the field! Hop to it!”

  Mike saw Yuri look questioningly at the coach.

  “First base, Yuri,” said Coach Terko. “What’re you waiting for?”

  Yuri grinned and trotted out to first. Just then Mike heard a comment from someone in the bleachers. “Hey, look who’s playing first base. The kid from Russia.”

  3

  THE CHECKMATES had their infield practice, then gave the field up to the Maple Leafs. After the Leaf pitcher threw his warm-up pitches, the umpire brushed off the plate and shouted, “Play ball!”

  Standing in front of the Checkmates’ dugout, Coach Terko announced the first three batters. “Wallace! Hagin! Rush! Get some hits, boys!”

  Dick Wallace put on a protective helmet, selected a bat from the fanned-out pile on the ground and walked to the plate. He batted right-handed.

  He let the first pitch go by. A strike. The next two were balls. Then he corked the two-one pitch high out to center field.

  The Checkmate fans let out a quick yell. It changed instantly to a groan as the ball dropped easily into the center fielder’s glove. One out.

  Mike was up next. He felt jittery. He always did the first time up. He fouled the first pitch into the third-base bleachers, then waited out the next three throws. They were all balls.

  “Go the limit, Mike!” shouted Coach Terko.

  The next pitch breezed in and Mike swung. Another foul. In came the three-two pitch. Mike started to swing, then held up.

  “Ball!” cried the ump and pointed to first base.

  Mike breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped the bat and trotted to first.

  Hank Rush, the left fielder, batted next. He wore thick glasses without which he could barely see. With them he could catch any ball he was able to get to.

  Smack! He socked the first pitch a mile into the air. It came down near the pitcher’s mound, where Lefty Mason, the Leafs’ pitcher, caught it for the second out.

  Center fielder Tom Milligan had no luck, either. He drove a hot grounder to third and was thrown out by four steps.

  Mike scooped up his glove from the roof of the dugout and ran out to his position at second base. The Leafs’ lead-off man, a right-hand hitter, stepped to the plate. Mike saw Yuri standing almost on top of first base and shouted to him, “Get away from the bag, Yuri! Back up a little!”

  Yuri moved several steps to his right and then back. “Come on, Art!” he yelled.

  Mike grinned, bent over with his hands on his knees, and took up the chatter.

  Art’s first pitch missed the plate for ball one. His next missed, too. His third was over. The Maple Leaf then drove the two-one pitch for a single over short.

  A bunt advanced him to second base. Art fielded the ball and threw out the hitter. One out.

  The next batter flied out, bringing up the cleanup hitter. He batted left-handed and Mike saw Yuri take two steps closer toward the foul line. That-a-boy, Yuri, he thought.

  Crack! A hot grounder down to first! The ball bounced up, skimmed past Yuri’s glove and over his shoulder to the outfield. Mike’s heart sank.

  “Yuri!” yelled Don Waner. “You playing baseball or tiddlywinks?”

  Mike shot a burning look at Don, then saw Yuri’s face turn red as a ripe tomato. It had started. Just what he was afraid of. Hot-headed Don was popping off already.

  “Forget it, Yuri!” cried Mike. “Get the next one!”

  He turned, caught the throw-in from right fielder Dave Alberti, and relayed it home to Don as he saw the runner, who had been on second, sprinting for the plate. The runner stopped short and bee-lined back to third. Don’s throw to Bunker was high and the man was safe.

  The fifth batter poled a long fly to center. Tom Milligan backed up a few steps, and missed it. Tom pegged the ball in but the runner on third scored. Art struck out the next hitter for the third out.

  “I’m sorry I missed the ball,” Yuri apologized when he came into the dugout.

  “You were nervous,” said the coach. “Don’t worry about it. There’ll be more coming your way. Ford! Dotzen! Alberti!” He read the names from the list he was holding. “Waner! Colt!”

  Bunker put on a protective helmet, stepped to the plate and poked the first pitch over second for a clean single.

  “Lay it down, Yuri,” advised Coach Terko softly.

  Yuri nodded. He stepped to the plate, held his bat up as if he were going to drive the ball into the New York skyline, then brought it down into bunting position as the pitch came in. A foul tick. Strike one.

  He got into position again, digging his toes into the dirt to brace himself. In came the pitch. Quickly he shifted his position again to bunt.

  Another foul tick. Strike two.

  “Swing at it, Yuri!” cried Coach Terko.

  Hit that ball, Yuri! thought Mike as he watched from the dugout. Drive it a mile!

  The pitch. Yuri cut hard and missed.

  “Oh, no!” cried Don, his voice low and harsh. “He can’t hit! He can’t field! What can he do?” He looked at Mike sourly. “You can really pick ’em, Mike.”

  “Okay, Don,” snapped the coach. “Cool it. We needed a first baseman and Mike thought that Yuri could fit the bill. He’s tall and he’s not that bad at the plate. I’m going to give him a chance.”

  Don shook his head. “He’d better improve before too long,” he muttered, but Mike was sure everybody on the bench heard him.

  Dave Alberti singled on a one-one pitch, driving Bunker around to third. Don started for the plate and got halfway to it when Art Colt yelled to him, “Are you going to bat with your shin guards on, Don?”

  Don laughed, which was a surprise. You’d think that after his temper flared he’d give up laughing, at least till the end of the game. He unbuckled the guards, tossed them aside and stepped to the plate.

  Crack! A solid grounder to third! The third baseman scooped up the ball, glanced briefly at Bunker on third, then pegged to second base, throwing out Dave. The second baseman pegged to first, but Don beat it out. Bunker started to run home, then scooted back.

  Art flied out to left, ending the top half of the second inning. The Maple Leafs still led, 1 to 0.

  Art struck out the Leafs’ lead-off man. The second batter popped out to short and the third lined a drive so straight to Bunker that you could have hung clothes on it. Bunker caught it for the third out.