The Fox Steals Home (7 page)

Bobby looked for the sign again. This time he got what he was hoping for — thumb to cap, to belt, to chest, and back to cap.
The steal was on.

He waited for Lefty to get on the mound, and took a lead. Remembering the pointers his father had given him, he made sure
that his lead wasn’t too big. Facing first base, a left-hander had a better advantage over the base runner than a right-hander
did.

Lefty stretched, lowered his arms slowly, then quickly took his foot off the rubber and snapped the ball to first. Just as
quickly Bobby shot back.

He was safe. But it was close.

The first baseman tossed the ball back to Lefty, and once again Bobby got ready. This time, as Lefty lowered his arms and
started his pitch to the batter, Bobby was off like a shot.

He ran as hard as he could, but he felt as if his legs weren’t really obeying his impulses. They didn’t seem to be covering
the ground as fast as he wanted them to.

He was within three feet of the bag when he saw the Swifts’ second baseman reach for the ball and put it on him. By then he
had slid in, a fraction of a second before the player had tagged him.

“Safe!” said the ump.

Bobby rose to his feet, not too happy about his run.

“Thataway to go, Fox!” yelled the two kids, almost in unison.

“Nice run, Fox!” another fan yelled.

Bobby winced. What had those crazy guys done? Tagged him with a nickname that might spread like measles?

With a one-and-one call on him, Eddie tied onto the next pitch and lofted it to center field, where it was easily put away
for the first out.

Hank Spencer stepped to the plate and laid into the first pitch for a long foul strike. Coach Tarbell had shifted the lineup
slightly, moving Hank up
from seventh batter to third to take advantage of his long-ball hitting.

Lefty missed the plate on the next two pitches, then blazed one in that barely cut the inside corner. Two balls, two strikes.

Hank didn’t appreciate the call. He stepped out of the box and looked out over the third-base bleachers for what might be
a sign of sympathy from the fans. He got nothing but subtle chuckles and a sarcastic comment from a Swifts fan instead. “The
plate’s behind you, big shot.”

Finding no sympathy, Hank returned to his position in the box and waited for Lefty’s next pitch. It was a slider, and Hank
laid into it.
Crack!
The ball shot out to left center for a clean hit. Bobby scored. By the time the ball was in, Hank was sliding into third.

“Hey, Fox!” exclaimed Andy Sanders, batting next. “You going for a base-stealing record or something?”

Bobby shrugged. “Something,” he said, grinning. “Like runs.”

He didn’t mind the praise coming at him from
the bench and the fans. It made him feel good, even though he wasn’t thoroughly satisfied with himself. Well, at least, he
had beaten the ball to the bag. That was the idea for a steal.

Andy Sanders grounded out, bringing up Billy Trollop. Billy fouled a pitch to the backstop screen, then belted a line drive
through second, scoring Hank. Snoop Myers couldn’t find the handle of Lefty Thorne’s pitches and went down swinging.

Sunbirds 2, Swifts 0.

B.J. Hendricks had it easy going with the Swifts’ first two batters — a groundout to short, and a pop-up to Bobby.

Dick Flanders, the Swifts’ left-handed left fielder, tied onto one for a sharp drive to center, only to get a single out of
it. Then center fielder Tommy Elders poled an Empire Stater to Billy out in deep center, and that was it for the Swifts.

Jake Shakespeare, a utility outfielder, led off for the Sunbirds in the top of the second, and flied out to right. Neither
Sherm nor B.J. was able to do any better, and the Swifts were back up to bat.

Butch Rollins, their burly catcher who sweated
even when he wasn’t doing anything, tagged B.J.’s first pitch for a two-bagger. Another double and a single followed, tying
up the score.

Nuts,
thought Bobby.
There goes our lead.

A gangling redhead smashed a hot grounder down to third, snapping Bobby out of his doldrums. He scooped it up and whipped
it underhand to second. Eddie caught it and snapped it to first. A fast double play.

Bobby pounded a fist proudly into the pocket of his glove. A play like that gave you a lift every time.

Lefty Thorne, socking a high bouncer back to B.J., ran only partway down to first as the Sunbirds’ hurler caught the ball
and tossed him out.

Bobby, leading off in the top of the third, waited out Lefty’s pitches and earned a base on balls. Right off, Marv Goldstein,
coaching at third, gave him the steal sign.

Taking a good lead, Bobby got set. He waited for Lefty to pass that limbo position, that point in his act when Bobby was sure
that Lefty was going to throw either to first, or to home.

Standing on the mound like a tall mannequin
with his arms and head moving in slow motion, Lefty glanced over at Bobby. Then he looked back at the batter, quickly raised
his leg, and started his delivery. Bobby took off.

About six feet from second base, as he saw the baseman nab the ball thrown to him by the catcher, Bobby slid. The baseman
tagged him on the foot.

“You’re out!” yelled the ump.

Bobby stared up at him, his heart pounding. But the man in blue had his face and forefinger pointed in another direction.

“Too bad, Fox!” one of the long-haired kids remarked as Bobby ran off the field.

“Can’t win ’em all!” added the other.

More sympathetic remarks came from the guys on the bench. But sympathy wasn’t what he needed, nor looked for. There was something
he was not doing right. Perhaps he could have taken a bigger lead. Another foot might have made a difference. You can’t be
a Joe Morgan if you don’t get the jump on the pitcher.

Bobby felt worse when Eddie tagged a pitch
through an infield hole for a single. If he had been safe at second, he could have scored.

Hank poled a long fly to center that looked as if it were going over the fence. Instead, Tommy Elders, the Swifts’ center
fielder, got back in time, leaped and made a one-handed stabbing catch.

Then Andy started the ball rolling with a triple, followed by a walk by Billy, and a single by Snoop Myers. When the merry-go-round
was over, the Sunbirds had garnered two runs and were back in the lead.

Sunbirds 4, Swifts 2.

In the bottom of the third, B.J. held the Swifts down to a single and no runs. In the fourth, Sherm’s single and B.J.’s walk
looked as if another scoring inning were in the works. But Bobby flied out, Eddie grounded out, and Hank went down for his
first strikeout.

The score was still unchanged as Bobby stepped to the plate in the top of the sixth. There was one out, B.J.’s pop-up to first.

Lefty breezed in a straight ball that was too good to be true. Bobby laid into it, smashing it
hard down to third. Dropping his bat, he bolted for first, while out on the hot corner Steve Malloy missed the handle of the
fast hop and let the ball streak through his legs.

Steve let his feelings go public by taking off his glove and throwing it against the ground, puffing up a cloud of dust.

As for Bobby, he’d take first base regardless of how he got it. Glancing toward third, he saw the steal sign coming at him
again.
Thanks, Marv,
he wanted to say.
That’s what I’m looking for.

This time he took a slightly extra lead and, as Lefty began his delivery, he took off.

He was there with time to spare.

“Hey, Fox! You did it, man!” someone shouted. It was one of his long-haired fans.

Eddie, a strike on him, let another pitch go by. “Ball!” cried the ump.

Bobby glanced at Marv, and couldn’t believe his eyes. Marv was giving him the steal sign again! What? With one out? What was
Coach Tarbell thinking of? Well, so what? Stealing bases was his cup of tea. His
business.

He took a long lead, got back quickly when Lefty tried to pick him off.

He resumed his position when Lefty got back on the mound, then took off like an Olympics hopeful as Lefty delivered.

Eddie let the pitch go by. The catcher caught it, whipped it hard to third, and the third baseman put it on Bobby.

“Out!” yelled the ump, loud enough for every person in the stands to hear him.

Bobby was sick. Rising gloomily to his feet, he trotted back to the dugout.

“Chin up,” said the coach as Bobby plunked himself down on the bench near him. “I wanted to see if you could do it. I figured,
too, that if you got on third, an infield hit — no matter if it went through or not — would score you.”

“Sorry it didn’t work,” said Bobby disappointedly.

“That’s okay. Forget it.”

Eddie flied out, ending the half inning.

The Swifts weren’t able to bunch enough hits together during their next two trips to the plate, so lost to the Sunbirds 4–2.

After the hoopla was over — the Sunbirds praising the victory to each other — and the teams began to leave the field, Bobby
heard his name called, and his heart soared to his throat. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Dad!” he exclaimed as he saw his father coming toward him.

Someone was with him. A woman. She looked familiar.

Suddenly Bobby recalled where he had seen her before. It was at the ballpark. She was the one who had driven up in a car,
the one his father had gone to talk to.

There was a third person directly behind her.

Walter Wilson.

B
obby, this is Mrs. Wilson,” said his father. “Mrs. Norma Wilson. And I guess you know Walter.”

“Yes, I know him.”

Bobby’s eyes shifted to Walter, who was in his baseball uniform, and then to Mrs. Wilson. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks.
Crazy thoughts rattled like rocks in his head. He didn’t need it in writing to see that his father had found himself another
woman. And that she was Walter’s mother.

She put out her hand. He took it, reluctantly.

“Hello, Bobby. I’m glad to meet you. Your father has told me so much about you. Walter must bring you over to our house sometime.
We can have lunch together. Or even dinner. Would you like that?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

She had a slight build and brown hair, and wasn’t bad-looking, much as he hated to admit it. Walter, whose hair and eyes resembled
hers, seemed like a giant beside her.

Her fingers relaxed; their handshake, thank goodness, was over.

“We just got here,” explained his father. “Saw the last half of the inning. Congratulations.”

So he didn’t see me running the bases,
Bobby thought.
He didn’t see me getting out sliding into third.

“How did you guys make out?” he asked Walter in an attempt at conversation.

“We won.”

“Who did you play?”

“The Swallows.”

It was like dragging the answers out of him.

“How many hits did you get?” Walter suddenly asked him.

The question came as a surprise, and Bobby found himself staring at Walter.

“Two,” he said.

“Pretty good.”

Walter seemed tense, and met Bobby’s eyes for only a moment at a time.
He’s nervous,
thought Bobby.
Maybe he’s going through the same kind of strain that I am, because we’re living under similar conditions. Both of us have
only a mother living with us.

But I see my father once in a while. Walter never gets to see his. His father’s dead.

“We better go,” said Bobby’s father. “See you again, Bobby.”

“I must hurry home to make supper,” murmured Mrs. Wilson, smiling jovially. “It was so nice to meet you, Bobby. And don’t
forget my invitation, will you?”

“No, I won’t, Mrs. Wilson. It was nice meeting you, too.”

He watched them leave.
That Walter,
Bobby reflected. The kid certainly would never be known as a big talker.

He looked for Billy Trollop, found him, and rode home with him and his family.

After supper that night the doorbell rang. Bobby went to answer it. A woman stood there, a tall,
pretty woman in a pink blouse and white slacks. She was carrying a cardboard box.

“Hello. I’m Mrs. Thorne,” she said pleasantly. “Is your mother in?”

Almost automatically his eyes were drawn to the car at the curb. A shiny white car with chrome trim.

A wisp of a smile curved his lips. So she was the one to whom the car belonged.

“Yes,” he said, and, turning, called to his mother. “Mom! Someone here to see you!”

“Be right there!” replied his mother from another part of the house.

Bobby invited the woman in, and closed the door behind her. She wasn’t smoking, but she could be carrying a pack of cigarettes
in that huge white purse of hers. He took notice of her mouth, too. It was generously covered with lipstick, the same color
that he had seen on one of the cigarette butts in the living room ashtray.

There was a hurried shuffling of sandals on the stairs, an overture announcing his mother’s arrival. “Oh, hi, Jane,” said
Joyce Canfield, loose strands of hair dangling along the sides of her
face. “You must forgive me. I’m cleaning, can you believe it? Seven-thirty in the evening, when most people are relaxing,
I’m cleaning!”

Mrs. Thorne smiled. “The woes of keeping house,” she said.

“You said it!” said Bobby’s mother, brushing back her hair. Her eyes fell upon the box Mrs. Thorne was carrying. “You have
my order? So soon?”

“The cosmetics have already been manufactured,” said Mrs. Thorne. “All the company had to do was pack it and ship it.”

“Fun-ny,” replied Bobby’s mother. She suddenly seemed to remember that Bobby was there, and officially introduced him. Bobby
and Mrs. Thorne shook hands.

“He’s a handsome boy, Joyce. And about the age of my own son. How old are you, Bobby?”

“Twelve.”

“My David’s thirteen. You should know him. He pitches for the Swifts.”

“Oh! You mean Lefty? Sure, I know Lefty. Everybody does. We beat his team today.”