Free Ray & Me by Dan Gutman

fall. Not enough to hold up the game though.
    The first thing I noticed was the players’ gloves. They were tiny, and there were no laces holding the fingers together. It looked like it would be very hard to catch a ball with one of those things.
    Ronnie stood up and cheered when Carl Mays walked slowly to the mound and started to warm up.

    Carl Mays was a submariner, and he nearly scraped his knuckles against the ground before releasing the ball.
National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY
    I had seen video of other pitchers who threw underhand—Ted Abernathy, Dan Quisenberry. The motion is strange. As he wound up, Mays sort of hid the ball behind him until the last possible moment. Then he swung his arm down and just about scraped his knuckles against the ground as he slingshotted the ball to the plate. I sure wouldn’t want to look at a fastball coming at me from that angle. Mays threw hard, and grunted so loud with each pitch that you could hear it in the stands. Just watching him pitch made me sweat.
    â€œMays is going for his 100th win today,” I said, trying to show Ronnie that I knew a thing or two.
    â€œEverybody knows that,” he replied.
    The crowd stood up while a band played the national anthem. A guy with a megaphone came out and announced that Charlie Jamieson would lead off for the Indians.
    â€œBoo!” Ronnie yelled. “Indians stink!”
    Jamieson came out of the Cleveland dugout and strode up to the plate. He didn’t look like he was intimidated by Carl Mays.
    Jamieson swung at the first pitch and fouled it off. Before I knew what was happening, the ball was flying right at me.
    â€œWatch out!” Ronnie yelled.
    For maybe a millisecond, I was frozen. All I could do was think about Hammerin’ Cameron nailing me in the head with a ball.
    At the last possible instant, I unfroze and doveout of the way. The ball slammed into the back of my wooden seat and bounced off. It was rolling around near my feet. I grabbed it and held it in the air for everybody to see.
    I was expecting at least a smattering of polite applause. Nothing. Instead, one of those big security guards hustled over.
    â€œGimme the ball,” he demanded.
    â€œBut…it’s mine,” I protested.
    â€œYou want I should bust your head open?” he asked, holding up his nightstick. “That ball is the property of the New York Yankees.”
    I handed him the ball and sat down, humiliated. He threw the ball back on to the field. It rolled near Carl Mays, and he picked it up.
    â€œYou thought you could keep it?” Ronnie asked, shaking his head. “Ain’t ya never been to a ball game?”
    Slumping down in my seat, I barely noticed when Jamieson singled. I wondered what year they started letting fans keep foul balls.
    â€œNow batting for Cleveland,” the megaphone man boomed, “the shortstop, Ray Chapman!”
    Chapman stepped up to the plate. In the fifth inning, in about an hour, he would be a dead man. I was the only one in the world who knew it. And there was nothing I could do about it.
    â€œHow’s Chapman doing?” I asked Ronnie.
    â€œHe’s batting .303,” he replied, looking at his scorecard, “with three homers and 97 runs scored.”

    Chapman took a few warm-up swings.
National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, NY
    Chapman glanced at the runner on first as he tapped his bat against his spikes. The third baseman moved in three steps, like he was expecting a bunt. Chapman took a couple of warm-up swings, and then he positioned his left foot inches from home plate. His right foot was a few inches back. He held the bat way back and completely motionless. There was no waggle.
    Mays wound up, and Chapman squared around to bunt. With Chapman leaning over the plate like that, it looked like it would actually be possible for Mays to throw a strike and still hit him in the head.
    The pitch was outside, but Chapman