The voice woke Bobby Canfield from his thoughts, and he looked at Coach Mark Tarbell, the tall, thin man standing near the
right-side corner of the Sunbirds’ dugout.

Bobby stepped back to the grass behind third base, suddenly conscious of the Cowbirds’ batter that had just come to the plate.
A kid in a uniform too large for him, with one pantleg hanging lower than the other.

Bobby’s face colored slightly. He should have made that move without being told, but he had not been quite himself lately.
It had been hard to concentrate on baseball with all the trouble that had gone on back home.

He glanced over his shoulder at the scoreboard, and saw that it was still one out and the top of the third inning. So far
both teams had nothing but goose eggs showing in the black squares.

“Pitch it to ‘im, B.J.!” yelled Andy Sanders at first base. “He’s nobody!”

“Lay it in there, B.J.!” Bobby chimed in, spitting into the pocket of his glove.

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake off the thoughts that kept plaguing him. His mother and father’s divorce papers had been
filed only a few days ago, and it was like a bad dream. Every once in a while he felt almost convinced that he would wake
up from it, but he had reached the point now where he knew it was no dream. It was all real.

“Come on, Bobby!” yelled second baseman Eddie Boyce. “Look alive there!”

Look alive? How could he when he felt so lousy?

He saw that there were runners on first and second, and vaguely remembered the sizzling grounder and the scratch hit that
had got them on.

“Ball!” boomed the ump as B.J. breezed in a pitch.

“Don’t walk him, B.J.!” pleaded Billy Trollop from center field.

B.J. laid his next pitch across the inside corner.

“Steerike!” announced the ump.

The Sunbirds and their fans exploded with approval. It was a hot June day, ideal for the shirtsleeve crowd. Ideal for everyone
except Bobby, to whom these last few days had all seemed the same. Terrible.

“Strike two!” said the ump as the batter swung at another pitch and missed.

Sherm Simmons tossed the ball back to B.J., who stepped off the mound and rubbed the ball a bit before getting back on the
rubber again.

Checking the base runners, and then quickly shifting his attention to the batter, B.J. chucked in his next pitch.

Crack!
It was a low bouncing grounder to Bobby’s left side! Sprinting after it, he caught it in his outstretched glove, and snapped
it to second
base. Eddie Boyce was there, made the catch, and whipped it to first.

A double play! Three outs.

The fans applauded, and the Sunbirds praised Bobby for the play. He blushed slightly as he ran into the dugout and laid his
glove on its roof. He liked the sound of that applause. It was the kind of music he could listen to anytime.

He wished he would hear another voice, too. That not-too-loud, mildly excited voice of his father’s.

A couple of times during the game he had glanced at the crowd, hoping to spot the yellow cap that was his father’s trademark.
He hadn’t seen it, and a sadness had crept into his heart. He wondered if his father would ever come to see him play again.

“Hey, Bobby! You’re up, you old glove man, you!” said Eddie with a grin, picking up a bat out of the upright rack. Eddie was
second batter in the lineup. Bobby was first.

Bobby selected his bat. He put on his helmet and stepped to the plate. This was about the time
he would usually hear his father’s voice ringing out, a cheerful sound that was really encouraging, especially when he needed
it.

He wished he could hear it now.

He looked at Walter Wilson, the Cowbirds’ big right-handed pitcher. After two innings of acute observation, Bobby figured
him to be somewhat arrogant.

He let the first pitch go by. It was in there for a strike.

The first time at bat he had flied out to center. This time he hoped to even things up a bit. It would be awful to get up
tomorrow morning knowing that he had played his first game of the season and hadn’t gotten a single hit.

Walter stretched, jerked out his left foot, came around with the ball, and winged it. It was in there, letter-high and straight
as a string.

Bobby swung.
Crack!
He met the ball on the fat part of his bat and saw the white blur streak over second for a clean hit. A good, triumphant feeling
went through him as he dropped his bat and sprinted to first.

He glanced at Walter, and saw the Cowbirds’ pitcher picking up a handful of dirt. Rising up, the big boy tossed it disgustedly
back to the ground.

I guess that hit got to him,
thought Bobby, a hint of a smile on his lips.

He looked at the third-base coach, and couldn’t believe what he saw — thumb to cap, to belt, to chest, and back to cap. The
steal sign was on!

He sucked in his breath. What a surprise! He had never stolen a base before!

Well, he loved running the bases. He was fast. He had always outrun Billy Trollop in a sprint.

He waited for Walter Wilson to step into the pitcher’s box, then took a four-step lead. He stood, crouched — and sped back
safely as Walter whipped the ball to first.

The first baseman tossed the ball back to Walter. Again Walter got on the mound, checked Bobby carefully, then delivered.

Bobby took off, losing his helmet halfway down the base path as he ran as fast as he ever had. Just as he neared the bag he
saw the Cowbirds’ second baseman reach for the ball, catch it, and bring it down for the tag.

But, in his anxiety to tag Bobby, the second baseman moved too quickly. Never having had complete control of the ball, he
dropped it.

“Safe!” yelled the base umpire.

An enthusiastic cheer exploded from the Sunbirds’ fans as Bobby rose slowly to his feet and brushed off his pants.

His father would have liked that. Yes, sireee.

After retrieving his helmet, Bobby again glanced at the third-base coach. This time it was finger to cap, to chest, back to
cap, and then to belt. The bunt signal was on.

Eddie went after the first pitch. His position for bunting was perfect, but his execution of it wasn’t. The ball popped up
to the third baseman, who then zipped it to second before Bobby could tag up. It was a quick, surprising double play that
left Bobby bewildered.

For the second time he rose with dirt-smeared pants. As he ran across the diamond to the front of the dugout before brushing
himself off, he didn’t fail to notice the smug look on Walter Wilson’s round, sweaty face.

“Way to go, Walt!” yelled the Cowbirds’ third
baseman. “Let’s take the next one! He’s a no-hitter!”

Billy Trollop, the Sunbirds’ third batter, made the player eat his words on the first pitch as he walloped it between right
and center fields for a double. Andy Sanders repeated the feat, driving his two-bagger down along the left field foul line,
scoring Billy. As if that weren’t enough to prick Walter Wilson’s ego, Snoop Myers belted a single over short that scored
Andy.

That called for a consultation with Walter around the mound. It involved all four infielders and the catcher, each of whom
presumably suggested to him how to handle the situation.

It probably did some good, for the next batter, Marv Goldstein, drew a walk. Then Hank Spencer flied out, ending the four-hit,
two-run inning.

The teams exchanged sides, the Sunbirds standing somewhat more erect and looking self-assured now that they were enjoying
a 2-0 lead.

Bobby, however, wasn’t very happy about getting picked off at second base. He thought that if he’d had his wits about him,
he would have waited to see where the ball was going.

He could just picture his dad looking at him after that dumb play and saying, “No use being sore about it. It’s over. Just
try not to let it happen again.”

He knew it wasn’t his father’s disposition that had been the cause of his parents’ breakup. Nobody in this wide world had
a more pleasant disposition than did his father. And it wasn’t drink, the way it had been with Mr. Blake who lived down the
block. Oh, Bobby’s father had a glass now and then, but never enough to intoxicate him. He just didn’t care for the stuff
that much. As a matter of fact, neither did Bobby’s mother. It was other things that had caused the lousy breakup. Their interests.
Their priorities.

“Watch for the bunt, Bobby,” cautioned Coach Tarbell.

The thoughts dispersed as Bobby glanced at the batter, a kid with hair the color of washed carrots. He bent his knees, let
his arms dangle loosely at his sides, and suddenly imagined he was Pete Rose, Graig Nettles, and Wade Boggs all rolled into
one. He was sure that nothing was going to
get past him. He was a staunch wall, able to stop anything that came his way.

B.J. pitched.
Crack!
A smashing line drive directly to the shortstop.

One out.

Well — what difference did it make where the ball was hit? As long as it was caught.

The next batter popped up to first.

“You’re in the groove, B.J.!” Bobby yelled.

The Cowbirds’ third batter came up, a small kid with blond curls sticking out from underneath his helmet. He let two pitches
sail by him, one a ball, the other a strike. Then he laid into the third pitch as if he really meant it. The
smack!
of bat connecting with ball was solid. So was the hit, a sharp single over Bobby’s head. Not even with a ten-foot ladder would
he have been able to nab that one.

He stepped back, forgetting the famous triple personalities all rolled into one that he had imagined himself to be. Right
now he was just Bobby Canfield, the not-so-famous third baseman for the not-so-famous Sunbirds.

B.J.
walked the next batter, and a hopeful hum started among the Cowbirds’ fans. They cheered as their next hitter stepped to
the plate, a look of anxiety on his round face. He was chubby, and his helmet sat high on his head, leaving the ear-protective
section almost too high to do any good. He held his bat about four inches from the end of the handle, and waved it like a
club.

Boom!
B.J.’s first pitch went skyrocketing to deep right center, scoring both runners. Chubby, not blessed with lightning speed,
had to be satisfied with a double.

It was all tied up now, 2-2. The Cowbirds were making a gallant comeback with two outs.

“Let’s get back in the groove, B.J.!” yelled
Bobby, spitting into his glove as he crouched in his spot at third.

“Take yer time, B.J.!” advised Snoop. “Take yer old time, boy!”

B.J. didn’t have to be told to take his time. He had been doing that. Bobby knew B.J. had seen lots of games on television
in which the pitcher dilly-dallied on the mound, dug and redug the dirt around the rubber, wiped the sweat off his face, hitched
up his pants, and then studied the catcher’s signs for five minutes before going about his business of pitching the ball.
B.J. was already a vet in that department.

The kid in the uniform that looked two sizes too large for him, with the uneven pantlegs, came up. Bobby remembered the smashing
grounder he had driven down to Snoop that Snoop had muffed. This kid was no slouch with the bat.

“Not too good to him, B.J.,” said Bobby quietly.

B.J. checked the runner on second — more out of habit than because he expected the chubby guy to steal third — and delivered
the pitch. It was high and inside.

His next pitch was almost in the same spot. His third was low for ball three.

Nervously, he began digging at the mound with the toe of his shoe, wiping the sweat off his face, and hitching up his pants
again. Then he studied Sherm Simmons’s sign, which Sherm displayed with the professional aptitude of a Johnny Bench. Nodding
agreeably, B.J. got into position and pitched.

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