The Fox Steals Home (9 page)

“I’ll get the insurance money,” she replied, gazing at him from behind amber sunglasses. “But I’ll have to think about getting
another boat. After what happened, I’m not sure I will. Anyway, I’ve already thought about it. I think it’s only fair that
you should have half of it.”

“No. I don’t need it,” he said. “You can have all of it. That’s not important to me.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. I want to say, too, that it wasn’t Bobby’s fault that the boat blew up. I should have had that leaky line repaired
a long time ago. I’m to blame for it.” He paused. “Just the same, I’ve got a thing or two to say to that Walter.” He turned
to Bobby. “How come you gave him a ride in the boat in the first place?”

“Because he asked me to. He said that you told him it was all right for me to give him a ride.”

Roger’s mouth pursed. “I didn’t tell him that at all. I guess I’ll have to speak to him about that.”

“Dad, I think that Walter is a pretty lonely kid who’s looking for a friend or something,” said
Bobby. “Every time he says or does something, he’s awkward about it. The more I’m near him, the more I’ve noticed it.”

Roger frowned. “I’ve wondered about that, Bobby,” he said. He was quiet a moment or two, then he cleared his throat. “Well,
I’ll go now. Unless something happens, I’ll see you on Saturday morning. Good-bye, Joyce.”

“Good-bye, Roger.”

He put on his yellow cap and walked out. Bobby walked out with him. “Dad,” he said, thoughtfully, “whatever happened to Walter’s
father?”

“He got killed a couple of years ago in an automobile accident. Why?”

Bobby shrugged. “Just wondered.”

Not until his father had entered his car and driven off did Bobby go back into the house and close the door.

He wasn’t ripe for the game against the Swallows. He didn’t feel like playing baseball any more than he felt like flying to
the moon. And it wasn’t the bruises that made him feel like that. What few there were wouldn’t slow him up a bit.

It was the loss of the boat, and the almost certain fact that his mother would not purchase another one to take its place.

Somehow, even though he hadn’t used it much, the boat had been the one tangible thread that kept him close to his father during
the weekdays. The weekends took care of themselves. The two were together then.

Nevertheless, he went to the game. He felt he had an obligation. Billy Trollop’s father picked him up as usual in his big
sedan.

The Sunbirds were up first and Bobby stepped to the plate, the bat feeling as if it weighed a ton. Red Burke, a tall right-hander
with red, bushy eyebrows, was pitching for the Swallows. He had trouble finding the plate with his first three throws, and
just like that the count was three and nothing.

Bobby stood at the plate, leaving the bat on his shoulder.

Red came back and placed his next two pitches directly over the heart of the plate, and then it was three and two.

Bobby stepped out of the box and killed a little time by rubbing his sweaty palms against his pants, and then rubbing the
thin handle of his bat between his legs. The act wasn’t only to dry the palms and the handle of the bat. It also provided
a few seconds for some strong concentration.

But the few seconds didn’t help Bobby. Red Burke breezed the next one in, just cutting the inside corner, and Bobby swung
and missed.

He went back to the bench, embarrassed. It was the first time he had struck out while leading off.

“You can’t steal bases if you don’t get on, Fox,” said Sherm, smiling at him.

“Glad you told me that,” said Bobby.

Hank Spencer got the only hit during that half inning, a single through short.

B. J. Hendricks threw enough pitches to get out six men before he was able to vanquish the necessary three. And without allowing
a run, at that.

In the top of the second inning Snoop Myers, the utility infielder, singled after Billy Trollop had flied out, and Jake Shakespeare
walked. Then
Sherm was given a free ticket, too, loading the bases.

“Let’s send up a designated hitter,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, why don’t we?” replied Hank enthusiastically.

“Because we don’t have one, for one thing,” said Bobby, who had gotten over most of his strikeout pain. “For another thing,
it ain’t in the rules.”

Red Burke rifled in two strike pitches, and was about to go for his possible third, when B.J. stepped out of the box. The
ump called time.

“Three men on, B.J.!” yelled Eddie. “Knock ’em in!”

B.J. stepped back into the box, bold, courageous, eager, and slammed a hot grounder to short. It was one of the quickest double
plays in the league’s history. Three outs.

The Swallows came up and began where they had left off, banging out three hits in a row, including a long triple by their
long-ball hitter, Tom Bootree. Two runs crossed the plate.

Top of the third. Bobby led off again, fouling
the first two pitches, then forcing Red to throw four more before getting his well-earned walk.

On first base he looked for a sign from the third-base coach.
Play it safe.
He did, while Eddie took a strike call.

Then he got the sign he had somehow expected, even with the Sunbirds trailing by two runs.
Steal.

He beat the throw by a mile.

“Thataway, Fox!” yelled a fan as Bobby stood on the bag, his hands on his hips.

Eddie flied out to right on the next pitch. Bobby, tagging up, had no trouble making it to third.

Hank reached out after an outside pitch and laid it over first base, bringing in Bobby. Then Andy tripled, scoring Hank. But
that was it as Billy and Snoop got out on a pop-up and a grounder, respectively.

“Your father must have been pretty sore when he heard about the boat,” said Billy, as he sat next to Bobby on the bench.

“Don’t think he wasn’t,” said Bobby. “On top of
the accident, Walter told him that
I
was the cause of the fire. That
I
lit the cigarette.”

“Wow. Your father didn’t believe that bull, did he?”

“Not really. That was why he came over to talk with me about it. Anyway, I don’t think it’s all Walter’s fault, and I told
my father that.”

Billy looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Do you know that Walter’s father is dead? That he was killed in an accident?”

“No.”

“Well, he was,” said Bobby. “I think that has a lot to do with the way Walter behaves. He tries to pretend he’s cool, except
that he makes a fool of himself and doesn’t know it.”

Suddenly the thought occurred to him:
Have I been acting that way, too? Oh, man!

The Swallows picked up one run during their turn at bat. But the Sunbirds came through for two more in the top of the fourth,
during which Bobby chalked up his second stolen base of the game after belting out a liner over the second-base bag.

Horse collars went up on the scoreboard until
the bottom of the fifth when the Swallows drove in two runs, then held the Sunbirds scoreless the last two innings.

It was 5–4, in the Swallows’ favor, when the game ended.

R
oger Canfield arrived at ten minutes of nine Saturday morning, picked up Bobby, and drove to Meadow Park.

“I see that they’re calling you the Fox,” he said as they drove slowly and quietly through the streets of Lyncook. “That’s
quite a tag.”

“You wouldn’t believe who stuck it on me,” exclaimed Bobby.

“Oh, yes, I would,” replied his father, chuckling. “I was there when those two kids watching you practice base stealing called
you Fox. Remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Bobby, now recalling the day vividly. “I remember.” He laughed. “I can think of worse names than
that!”

“Right. The only thing about Fox is, you’ll have to keep working hard to live up to it. And I think you will. You’re doing
fine.”

Bobby locked at his father. “Were you at the game Thursday, Dad?”

“No. I’m not always free in the afternoons. I read about you in last night’s paper. There wasn’t much, but it’s usually the
winning team that gets most of the publicity, anyway.”

Not always free in the afternoons? Where was he? Visiting Mrs. Wilson?

No sooner had the thought popped into Bobby’s mind than he felt ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t have thought that of his
father. What his father did was his business. Anyway, what was so bad about his visiting Mrs. Wilson? He was divorced. And
she was a widow.

Darn!
he thought.
What am I doing? Getting on my father because I love him so? Should I close my eyes to all the things he does, and open them
only when I’m with him? Doing things with him? What is the right thing to do?

He didn’t know. But deep in his heart he
wished that his father would not see another woman. Not ever.

They reached the park. Roger Canfield parked the car and locked it, taking no chance even though the car was six years old.

They got out and walked toward the picnic pavilion, beyond which was the sandy beach. For a while they talked about baseball,
and Bobby’s growing experience as a hitter and a base stealer. Being both was extraordinary, according to his father, for
all good hitters were not base stealers. Dave Kingman, Mike Schmidt, Greg Luzinski, a few of the names that rolled off his
tongue, were good with the stick, but once on base — unless they drove the ball out of the park — they usually left it up
to the next batters to move them along.

Base stealing was an extra talent inherent in one whose body had a natural development for speed and coordination. It wasn’t
everyone who was blessed with those physical attributes. Bobby had them. All he had to do was to keep working on them, and
not to let them get dormant. Roger Canfield talked as if he enjoyed saying what he was saying. He knew baseball from top to
bottom
and sideways, having played in the minors for five years after graduating from high school.

Somehow Bobby had the feeling that his father was sorry he had quit at so early an age, but his father had never said so.

They found an empty bench on the beach and sat down. Neither said a word for several minutes. They just watched the waves
lapping up on shore, people swimming, and sailboats leaning against the wind.

Then his father said something that gave Bobby a start. Not sure he had heard right, Bobby looked closely at his father. “What
did you say, Dad?”

“I said that I’m taking a job on a freighter,” repeated Roger Canfield. “I’ve always wanted to take a trip around the world.
This time I’m going to do it.”

Bobby stared at him. The thought that he wouldn’t see his father for many months frightened him to the bone. “You’re going
to quit your job?”

“I’ll have to.”

For a long minute Bobby was silent. “How — how long will you be gone, Dad?” he asked finally.

“Could be a year. It depends. If I like it, I might stay with it.”

Bobby felt an ache in his throat. He hated to ask the next question, but he had to. “You going to take anybody with you, Dad?”

“No. I’m going alone.”

That meant he wouldn’t be taking Mrs. Wilson. He had no intention of marrying her, then. That thought made Bobby feel slightly
better, anyway.

“Can I go with you?”

The question was crazy to ask. He knew that, but there was always that one-in-a-million chance that the answer would be “yes.”

“You know you can’t, Bobby,” said his father, pricking his son’s dream balloon. “It’s just impossible. No, I’m going alone.
I’ll miss you very much, but I’ve got to get away from here for a while. It’s — it’s hard to explain.”

“That’s okay, Dad. You don’t have to explain.”

Restless,
that was the word in a nutshell. His mother had mentioned it dozens of times. Roger Canfield was the most restless man on
earth. He couldn’t stay put in one place for any length of time. He couldn’t hold onto a job for any length
of time. There was something in his blood, she said, that egged him on to other places, to do other things. That she had lived
with him as long as she had was a miracle.

“I got the truth out of Walter about that smoking business,” his father said, changing the subject. “He admitted he had lied.”

Bobby met his father’s eyes. “I bet he had a tough time admitting it.”

“Yes, he did.”

“You won’t ever marry Mrs. Wilson, will you, Dad?” said Bobby earnestly.

His father’s eyes shone. “No. And that’s a promise. As a matter of fact, I’ve stopped seeing her.” He paused. “Talking about
the Wilsons, when is your team going to play Walter’s again? I don’t want to miss it.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe next week.”

“Okay. I’ll keep my eye on the papers.”

At Municipal Park that afternoon they watched the Lyncook Giants beat the Valley Bobcats. The next day Roger Canfield borrowed
a 12-foot boat from a friend of his, and, using fishing poles that he still kept in the beach house, spent the whole
day fishing with his son. It was, Bobby thought, like having a good-bye supper with his father.

He had a so-so day against the Redlegs on Tuesday, getting one walk and no hits. But he had one stolen base, and the Sunbirds
had taken the game, 8–6.

It was on Thursday that they played the Cowbirds. A big crowd attended. Among them were the two long-haired fans whose names
Bobby still did not know.

“Hi ya, Fox. How you doin’?” one of them asked, grinning.

“Okay,” he said. “How about you?”

“Just great,” came the response.

His father was among the first to come, as if to make sure of his seat near the third-base sack. He smiled and waved, saying
a lot just in those silent gestures.

His father’s words rang again in Bobby’s ears, tolling in the back of his mind.
I’ve always wanted to take a trip around the world. This time I’m going to do it.
He tried to concentrate on the game. How could he play a good game of baseball if he
kept thinking all the time of his father and what his father was going to do?

Grandpa Alex was there, too, wearing a hat to cover his bald head, and dark glasses to shield his eyes from the glaring sun.