No Arm in Left Field (5 page)

“I wish Tony was like that,” Terry said. “We’d have a real good baseball team if he was.”

Harry laughed. “Yes, I suppose you would. I’ve seen how he plays his position when a ball is hit to you. Oh, he’ll come
around to seeing things differently someday. I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so,” Terry said, but he thought,
I don’t know. I’ve heard that song before.

They reached the outskirts of Forest Lake, crossed an abandoned railroad track, and started past a dirt road when Mick shouted,
“Hey, Harry! Motorcycle Hill is to our left! Ever climb it?”

“With this dune buggy?” Harry smiled.

“Yeah!” said Mick, a mischievous grin spreading over his face.

“No. But we can try it.” Harry looked at Terry. “Okay with you, Terry? Motorcycle Hill is pretty steep. It’s where cycle nuts
try their luck. Some make it, some don’t.”

Terry shrugged. He couldn’t say no. He and Mick were Harry’s guests. Whatever
Harry wanted to do was all right with him.

“Okay by me,” he said.

“Fine,” said Harry. “It’s been something I’ve wanted to do with this dunie bug ever since I got her.”

He pulled into a driveway, backed out and returned to the dirt road. He sped over it, gravel banging up against the fenders,
till they reached a high, barren hill several hundred yards to their right. He geared down the motor and turned onto the wide
road that led to the hill. The slope was about two hundred feet high and gouged from where hundreds of angry motorcycle wheels
had struggled to climb to its top.

“Still game?” Harry asked.

“It’s your dunie bug,” Terry replied.

Harry shifted gears and started for the hill. When they reached it, the nose of the dune buggy rose as the little four-wheeler
began to climb. Up, up it went, the motor roaring, the wheels spinning, kicking back dirt and gravel.

Laughter shrilled from behind Terry, and he turned to see Mick hanging onto the guard bar, his hair flying in the wind.

“Go, buggy, go!” Mick shouted gleefully.

They reached the halfway point and were still climbing. The dune buggy bounced, slid sideways, bucked like a bronco. Higher
and higher it climbed, while Mick’s laughter rang louder and louder. The hill got steeper. Terry felt an excitement mixed
with an equal dose of fear.

He had trust in Harry Casterline, though. He was sure that nothing could happen.

But something did.

The dune buggy struck a rock that jolted its front end. The wheels twisted to the right, jerking the steering wheel out of
Harry’s hands. Horror-stricken, Terry felt the vehicle begin to careen over.

“Mick, jump out!” Harry shouted. “Terry, unbuckle your seat belt and jump!”

Fingers trembling, Terry unbuckled his seat belt and jumped.

T
ERRY STRUCK
the ground, fell to his knees, got up, and scrambled out of the way of the overturning dune buggy. The vehicle missed him
by a foot as it rolled over.

On the other side, safely out of its way, were Mick and Harry, watching the dune buggy start to roll down the steep hill.
Each time the guard bar hit, the vehicle bounced high into the air, spun halfway around, struck the ground with its wheels,
then bounced again.

They watched in shocked silence until
the dune buggy stopped rolling at the bottom of the hill. It shuddered and lay on its side like a dead animal.

Harry and the boys scrambled down to it. Its two free wheels were still turning.

“Boys,” Harry said sadly, “fm sorry. I — I’m just glad that both of you got out of it safely.”

“I’m glad that you did, too,” Terry said, still trembling.

Harry walked round to the side of the vehicle, lifted it a little, and looked at the boys. “Think we can do it?” he said.

“We can try,” Mick answered.

The three of them, with Harry in the middle, combined their strength to lift the vehicle and gradually succeeded in getting
it right-side up.

“We did it!” Mick exclaimed triumphantly.

“Well,” Harry observed, breathing a tired sigh, “the key’s still in it.”

He hopped in and turned the key.
Whir! whir!
The motor burst to life. “Well, guys, that much is okay,” he said. “Hop on!”

The boys hopped on, and Harry put the dune buggy in gear, stepped on the gas, and turned the wheel. “Oh, oh,” he said. “The
steering wheel’s damaged.”

With some effort he made the turn, however, and drove to the main road that led into town. There was a
bumpetybump
in the ride that hadn’t been there before, just as there were dents in the fenders and hood that weren’t there before.

They drew amused glances from pedestrians and drivers on their way, and eventually pulled into a garage. Harry talked
to a mechanic, then said to the boys, “Well it’s the hospital for the dunie bug for the next week or two. My house is a couple
of blocks away. Let’s clean up, then I’ll drive you home in my father’s car.”

At the house Terry met Tony and Tony’s mother and father. All three of them looked wide-eyed with astonishment as Harry explained
what had happened. Terry sensed the hostility in Mr. Caster-line’s eyes, and remembered what Harry had said about his parents.
All they knew about black people was what they had read and heard, he’d said. Terry felt that he was being scrutinized as
he returned from the bathroom.

“Well, you look better,” Mr. Casterline said, smiling. “You didn’t get hurt?”

“No.”

“Not even a scratch?”

“No. I was lucky.”

“How about you, Mick”

Mick grinned. “Just got dirty when we hopped off the dune buggy,” he said, cheerfully.

“You were all lucky,” Mr. Casterline admitted.

Terry hoped that the man would talk more to him; that talking would start him to realize that he was a human being first and
black second, just as he himself was a human being first and white second.

Terry remembered what Tony had said about his father’s having played in the big leagues, and suddenly he felt happy because,
for the first time in his life, he was in the presence of a former big league baseball player.

Maybe if I said something about his
major league career he would talk a little more and forget some of those prejudices he’s had against black people,
Terry thought. Harry had gone into the bathroom to wash up and would be out in a minute.

Terry’s heart pounded, and he forced a smile. “Mr. Casterline, I heard that you used to play in the big leagues,” he said.
He paused, still overwhelmed by the thought of it. Mr. Casterline was a big man — at least six foot three — and probably had
knocked a lot of home runs.

A curious look entered the big man’s eyes. “Who told you that?” he asked.

“Tony,” Terry said.

Mr. Casterline frowned and stared at his son. “When did I ever tell you that, Tony?” he inquired.

Tony blushed. “Well, you were with
the Minnesota Twins, weren’t you?” he said.

“No. I was with their farm team,” Mr. Casterline replied emphatically.

“What’s the difference?” Tony turned and headed for the outside door, but not before Terry had seen the color of his ears.
They were pure red.

“Come back here,” Mr. Casterline ordered.

Tony came back. His father’s eyes were hard as he gazed at him. “There’s a lot of difference,” he said sharply. “You shouldn’t
have said that. You gave Terry the wrong impression.” He smiled at Terry. “No, I never played in the big leagues, Terry. I
was close, but never close enough.”

T
HE FOREST LAKERS
played the Thunderheads on Tuesday, July 6, with the Lakers having last raps. The day was cloudy, and radio reports indicated
that there was a forty percent possibility of rain.

Mick Jordan, on the mound for the Forest Lakers, kept the Thunderheads hitless during the top of the first inning. The Lakers
did better. Jeff led off with a walk, going to third on a double by Tony, which put the home team in excellent scoring position.

Terry stepped into the box and watched Ted Joseph, the tall pitcher for the Thunderheads, turn and squeeze the ball as if
he were trying to squash it. Ted wore thick glasses, threw with a side-arm delivery, and had good control.

“Strike!” yelled the ump as the first pitch grooved the plate.

Another pitch, high and outside. The kind Terry liked. He swung — and missed. “Strike two!”

“Get ’em down, Terry!” Tony yelled from second base.

Terry stepped nervously out of the box, leaned over and rubbed his sweating hands in the dust.
Why couldn’t he powder those high, outside pitches?
he wondered.
Why did they always look easy to hit?

He brushed the dust off his hands,
grabbed the bat and returned to the box. Two men on. A good opportunity to score a couple of runs and make Tony back off his
high horse.

Ted Joseph breezed in the pitch. Terry watched it anxiously. It looked good. He swung.

“Strike three!” shouted the ump.

“Oh, no!” Tony’s voice boomed from second.

Head bowed, Terry returned to the dugout. He dropped his bat and sat down, shaking his head.

“You still go after those high, outside pitches, Terry,” Coach Harper said. “Ted Joseph knows it, and he’s got pretty good
control.”

“I guess I’m a real sucker for ’em,” Terry admitted.

Mick, sitting beside him, socked him
gently on the knee. “Don’t worry, Terry. One of these days you’ll get that pitch out of your system and knock that ball all
over the lot.”

Terry grinned. “Oh, sure. And be another Hank Aaron. Right?”

Crack!
Terry looked up and saw Rich Muldoon high-tailing it for first base. Then he saw the ball arcing toward left center field.
A roar broke from the Forest Lakers’ fans as Jeff Roberts crossed the plate, Tony Casterline at his heels.

Terry clapped and tried to avoid Tony’s eyes as the shortstop trotted in to the dugout behind Jeff.

“Coach,” Tony said, breathing hard, “did you tell Terry that he’s still swinging at those high, outside pitches?”

“I reminded him,” Coach said. “And he
knows it. Quit harping on it. You’re not the coach here, you know.”

Terry’s eyes locked with Tony’s. He couldn’t mistake the frigid look that told him more than a hundred words.

He remembered the day at Tony’s house when he had asked Mr. Casterline about his major league baseball career, and Mr. Casterline
said that he had never been in the majors. He remembered the look Tony had given him then — a look mixed with embarrassment
and resentment. Tony, Terry felt sure, wouldn’t forget that moment for a long time to come.

Bud Philips smacked a clothesline drive directly at the third baseman, who stepped on the bag before Rich could tag up. A
double play. Three outs.

Cheers exploded from the Thunderhead
fans as the teams exchanged sides.

Mick lowered the boom on the first batter. The next socked a low pitch to left center for a neat double. Mick then walked
two men in succession to fill the bases, and Stu called time.

The catcher trotted to the mound to talk to Mick. So did Jeff, Bud and Ed. Tony remained at deep short. Terry thought that
he had never seen Tony act this way before. Tony was usually one of the first to run in to the pitcher, to help him settle
down, to tell him that the situation wasn’t as dark as it seemed.

This time, for some reason, Tony was staying out of it. Did the coach’s remark have something to do with it? Terry wondered.

The guys returned to their positions.
The ump called time in, and the game resumed.

Crack!
A single to right! A run scored. The second runner tried to score too, but a hard throw from Jeff to Stu, after Caesar Valquez
had pegged the ball in from the outfield, threw out the runner. A pop fly to Ed Caliel ended the threatening rally.

Ted Joseph’s side-arm delivery worked effectively during the bottom half of the second inning, holding the Lakers scoreless.
Then the Thunderheads threatened again. This time their bats thundered loudly and produced results.

Two consecutive hits to deep left had Terry scrambling madly for the ball and pegging it to third. Both times the ball had
dropped far too short and two runs scored easily. Both times Ed Caliel had run out to get the ball and relay it home.
But his throws had fallen short, too. It would have taken a mighty arm to throw out a runner from where Ed had thrown it.