Baseball Turnaround (3 page)

Sandy scowled but didn’t say a word. All he wanted to do was leave the courtroom.

Mr. and Mrs. Comstock registered Sandy for his first appointment with his probation officer, then walked with him out to the
car. But his father didn’t start the engine right away.

“All things considered, that wasn’t too bad,” said Mr. Comstock. “I mean, let’s face it — you were somewhere you shouldn’t
have been.”

“Twenty hours of community service seems like a bargain price to pay to have your record cleared,” added Mrs. Comstock.

Sandy just looked out the window.

Mrs. Comstock sighed. “Look at it this way, Sandy.
We’ll be in Newtown in a few more weeks. No one there knows anything about this. We can all just put it behind us. Until then,
you’re going to have to deal with whatever backlash comes your way.”

As they drove into the Grantville Middle School parking lot, Sandy couldn’t help wonder what form that “backlash” might take.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

S
andy arrived at school in time for lunch. As usual, he sat with some of the guys from the team. As he took his chair, some
of them looked at him a little funny.

“What?” he asked. “Can’t a guy be late one day?”

Timmy Phelps, the Raiders’ catcher, swallowed his hunk of chicken salad sandwich and blurted out, “So what happened, you know,
this morning? Did you get in big trouble in juvenile court ’cause of the shed fire? Did you really steal that stuff?”

“Yeah, we just heard that a perpetrator wearing a Raiders cap was arrested for the shack fire. Was it you? Is that why you
quit the team?” said Skip. The other boys gave Sandy sidelong looks.

Sandy turned red. “Who’d you hear that from?”

“Some kid with red hair told another kid who told Timmy.”

“And Timmy just couldn’t wait to tell you guys, I bet,” Sandy retorted, his temper rising. “I would have thought you guys
would believe me over some rumor! Do I look like a criminal to you? No. So why don’t you all just leave me alone?”

He grabbed up the rest of his lunch and moved to another table across the room.
They’ve already decided that I’m a juvenile delinquent! Well, who cares what they think. And what’s with that Perry Warden,
spreading rumors about me
?

No one came near him. They just finished eating lunch and left the table as quickly as possible.

On his way out, Timmy said to Sandy, “Sorry if I said anything that made you mad.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll get over it. Don’t forget — I’m moving out of this stupid town at the end of the school year. Then maybe
I’ll find some real friends.”

Timmy didn’t say a word. He hurried away to join the other boys. Sandy watched as he tugged on Skip’s arm and muttered something
in his ear.

Sandy fumed about the cafeteria incident for the
rest of the school day. When he was at his locker after the last bell, he overheard a group of girls making plans to attend
the Raiders baseball game. He slammed his locker shut and stormed down the hall to get away from them.

“Whoa, what’s eating him?” he heard one girl say.

“Didn’t you hear?” another said. “He got kicked off the team because he’s an arsonist and a shoplifter!”

Sandy had never been so happy to be in the apartment as he was that night. He helped his parents pack up books, paintings,
toys, and other items they weren’t going to need until they got to their new house.

When he climbed into bed, he said a silent prayer of thanks that the next day was Saturday so he didn’t have to go to school.
Then he remembered that he was meeting with his probation officer first thing in the morning.

Saturday was warm and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. Normally on a day like this, Sandy would be out playing ball with
the rest of the guys. But all that was different now.

It took Sandy and his mom less than twenty minutes by car to get to the big brick building where he had his appointment. But
it was another ten minutes before he was asked to go inside for his first meeting with Stan Richards, the probation officer.

He slumped in a chair across from the officer’s desk, eyes down on his toes. He looked up only after Mr. Richards cleared
his throat.

“So, looks like you got mixed up in a bit of trouble. Have you looked into your community service yet?”

“No,” Sandy told him. “And I don’t know if I should even look for something around here.” He explained that his family was
moving.

“Moving, eh? How do you feel about that?” Mr. Richards asked.

“How do I feel?” he replied. “I feel fine about it. It’s getting me out of this lousy town, anyway.” He couldn’t stop the
bitterness from entering in his voice.

Mr. Richards cocked an eyebrow. “Things been a little rough lately?”

Sandy shifted in his chair. “Yeah, you could say that — if you call being wrongly accused of arson and theft, finding out
your so-called friends are rats,
and being forced to quit the baseball team all in one week ‘rough,’ ” he said sourly.

“Baseball, huh? I’m a fan of baseball myself,” Mr. Richards replied mildly. “Maybe we can find you some community service
that has to do with baseball.”

Sandy looked at the probation officer for the first time. “What would I have to do?” he asked.

Mr. Richards kept talking as if Sandy hadn’t spoken. “I have to warn you, though, if I hook you up with the job I’m thinking
of, you’re going to have to lose the bad attitude I’m hearing from you. You’ve got a lot of resentment churning around inside
you because of what’s happened. Maybe it goes back before then, even. Whatever the case, this job isn’t the place for a guy
with a chip on his shoulder.”

Sandy was silent.

“Tell you what,” Mr. Richards continued. “We’ll give you a trial run. Meet me tomorrow at Begley Field. You’ll try the job
for an hour, then we’ll decide if it will work. That hour will count toward the twenty you owe us. Oh, and bring your glove.
Okay?”

Sandy nodded.

“By the way, Sandy, what did you tell your coach about quitting the baseball team?”

“He thinks it’s because we’re moving. The kids at school think that, too.”
Or they used to before Perry Warden interfered
, he added silently.

Mr. Richards tapped his pencil on his desk. “You know, sooner or later, stories about the incidents are going to surface.
You might be better off being up front with people right from the start.”

Sandy shook his head. “The way I see it, I’m out of this town. Then anyone can say anything he wants to about me. It won’t
matter.”

Mr. Richards didn’t say anything to that. The meeting ended a few minutes later. Sandy went outside to the waiting car.

“How did it go?” his mother asked.

“Okay,” said Sandy. “I think I have a job.”

T
he next day, Sandy arrived at Begley Field at the appointed time. The field was located on the town line between Newtown and
Grantville and was a short bike ride from his house. Two minutes later, Mr. Richards drove up. Someone was in the car with
him.

“Sandy, I’d like you to meet my brother, Lou,” Mr. Richards said. “I told him about you, and he thinks he might be able to
use you.”

“You see, I need a little help coaching baseball,” Mr. Lou Richards added.

Sandy’s eyebrows shot up. “Coaching? Coaching who?”

“I coach a team for the Police Athletic League. Most of the players haven’t had much experience with baseball, but they’re
trying to get better. I need
volunteers to help them work on the rules, on their batting, and things like that. Think you could do that?”

“I don’t know if I could, but I guess I could try,” said Sandy.

“All right then, let’s see what you can do.” Coach Richards opened the trunk of the car and pulled out a bat, ball, and two
gloves. He also had three baseball caps with the name
Dolphins
printed on them. He gave one to Sandy.

“Head out into the field and see what you can do with these hits,” he instructed. “You, too, Stan. No slackers on a day like
today.”

Obediently, Mr. Richards and Sandy jogged onto the field. Coach Richards started hitting high fly balls. Sandy was a little
rusty at first, but soon he was back in the groove and having a good time.

“Next drill!” called Coach Richards. “Three-way catch. Heads up, Sandy!” A fireball blazed toward Sandy. But he caught it
with ease and rifled it to Mr. Richards in a flash. The ball went round and round among them, then zigzagged at random. Sandy
had to work hard to keep up. And to his surprise, he found that he was beginning to enjoy himself.

“Last but not least, let’s see your hitting power. Stan, you play the field. Sandy, I’m going to pitch you some. Try hitting
them all over. My brother needs some exercise.”

For the first time in days, Sandy cracked a smile. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Richards trotted in from the field. “Enough,
already. If I have to sprint the width of the field one more time, I’m going to expire.”

“Well, Sandy,” said Coach Richards, chuckling, “that’s all the proof I need. You can play the game, and I’m willing to take
a chance that you can coach it, too. If you want to give me some time, I’d like to have you help out.”

“Only twenty hours, though, right?” Sandy asked.

Mr. Richards checked his watch. “Nineteen, actually.”

Sandy nodded. “Okay, you got a deal.”

“All right, then, the team meets right here,” said Coach Richards. “Every Tuesday and Thursday from two-thirty to four. You
can use your school pass on the bus to get there and back. That’s true from both Grantville and Newtown, by the way. Oh, and
if your parents want to know anything about this, ask them to give me a call. Here’s the number.”

Sandy took the piece of paper Coach Richards handed to him and shoved it in his pocket.

“I’ll give it to them, but I doubt they’ll be calling you. They don’t really care about baseball,” said Sandy.

The brothers exchanged a look. Coach Richards shrugged. “I see. Well, maybe they’ll change their minds. See you on Tuesday.”

They waved to him and walked off.

Sandy looked after them for a long time. Then he unlocked his bike and headed home.

On Tuesday, Sandy brought his glove and his new Dolphins hat with him to school, along with a change of clothes. When the
final bell rang, he ran quickly to the gym locker room and switched into his sweats. He wanted to be out before the baseball
team came in. But he didn’t make it. Timmy Phelps came in just as he was leaving.

“Dolphins?” said Timmy, pointing to Sandy’s hat. “Who are they?”

“Just some team I’m coaching,” Sandy replied. “And I’m late, so look out.” He pushed by Timmy, who called out, “How come you
have time to coach
but not to play for the Raiders? I bet that’s not even what you’re really doing!”

Sandy just kept on walking.
Who needs you!
he fumed.
I can’t wait to get out of this town
.

Timmy’s comment rattled in his head the whole bus ride to Begley Field. By the time he got there, he was ready to slug more
than one baseball out into deep center field.

Then he remembered what Mr. Richards had said: He wouldn’t be right for this job if he let his temper get in the way. And
when he caught sight of the members of the Dolphins team, he thought he understood why.

Seated in a semicircle around Coach Richards was a ragtag group of kids, none of whom looked older than ten. In the parking
lot behind them was a minivan with the lettering
Grantville Homeless Shelter
on the side.

Coach Richards waved Sandy over. When the kids turned their faces up to him, his anger started to fade. They all looked so
eager to learn.

“How many of you have played the game?” Coach Richards asked the kids.

A few hands were raised in the air.

“A real game on an actual field with uniforms and protective helmets?”

There were no hands raised now.

“I thought so,” said Mr. Richards. “Well, this is Sandy. He’s played a lot of baseball, and he’s here to help us out. So half
of you grab a glove and stay with him. He’s going to talk with you about the game. The other half, I’m going to take over
there” — he pointed to the batting cage — “and we’re going to see how well you can hit a ball. After a while Sandy and I will
swap groups.”

And so it began. After a few hesitant starts, Sandy found himself talking easily to his group about the rules of the game.
Most of them wanted to do nothing but hit the ball. Then Sandy explained how satisfying it could be to make a play, tag someone
out, or make a tough catch. After that, they peppered him with questions.

When their interest waned, he told them about some of his games with the Raiders.

“So why aren’t you playing now?” asked a little girl nicknamed Newt. “Why are you here with us?”

“That’s none of your business!” snapped Sandy. The girl recoiled, tugged her hat low over her eyes, and held her glove up
to her face.

Sandy wished he could pull the words back into his mouth. “Newt, listen, I didn’t mean anything by that. Come on, put your
glove down. How do you expect to catch any fly balls holding it like that?”

The girl slowly lowered her glove and peeked out from under her hat. Sandy gave her a half smile that turned into a full grin
when she smiled back.

Gotta watch that, Comstock
, he reprimanded himself.
Coach Richards might decide you’re too hotheaded for the job, and then where will you be? It may not be the Raiders, but at
least you’re on the ball field instead of back in the apartment with boxes, tape, and twins!

Still, by the end of the hour-and-a-half session, he was ready to head home. Coaching was harder work and the kids more demanding
than he had thought they’d be. The team wasn’t much good, either. Yet to his surprise, he was looking forward to the next
practice.

He came back that Thursday afternoon and the following Tuesday and Thursday as well. On Wednesdays,
he met with Mr. Richards to give him an update and record his hours. Mr. Richards listened with such interest that Sandy found
himself talking about much more than just the coaching job. The attitude of the kids at school, wanting to keep what had happened
a secret, and problems with his parents all came up.