Free Wild Pitch by Matt Christopher Page A

Larry, or Paul, or any of the other guys in there, but I don’t want this game turned into a circus.
     The Bruins are good, and you’re the only one I’ve got who can pitch against them and make this a ball game. Okay?”
    Eddie shrugged. He wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t believe in questioning a coach’s decision, even if he disagreed with it.
     Anyway, he knew he couldn’t have changed the coach’s mind, so why argue?
    “What have you heard about Phyllis Monahan?” Coach Inger asked him.
    “She’s coming along okay.”
    “Good. Have you been up to see her?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m going up tonight,” said the coach. “Okay, Eddie. Try to keep the ball in there. Don’t throw too hard, just try to concentrate
     on the plate.” He grinned placidly. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
    Oh, sure. Don’t worry about a thing. Why did coaches say that when worry was part of the game? Eddie shrugged, then dismissed
     the thought.
    The Bruins had first bats, and Eddie walked up to the mound as if he were a stranger to it. His palms were sweaty. He scooped
     up a handful of soft dirt, rubbed it over his palms, then dropped it at his feet.
    The ump handed a new ball to Tip, and Tip tossed it to him. Eddie threw in a half dozen pitches, trying to hit Tip’s target
     with each one, and succeeded four out of six times.
    “Play ball!” said the ump, then turned his back to Eddie and wiped off the plate with a whisk broom.
    The Bruins’ leadoff batter stepped to the plate, and Eddie sized him up. He was short, heavy, and held his bat high over his
     right shoulder.
    “Nothing too good, Eddie, boy!” Larry called from third.
    “No sticker! No sticker, Eddie!” Puffy’s voice boomed from short.
    From Tony in right field: “Juice it by ’im, Eddie! Juice it by ’im!”
    Somebody from the stands yelled, “Don’t hit him, Eddie!”
    Somebody else yelled, “This one’s a he, Eddie! Be good to him!”
    Laughter followed the yells.
    Eddie reddened as he toed the rubber and looked at the ball, turning it so that his first two fingers crossed the laces. He
     pretended he wasn’t listening to the needling remarks, but the voices were so clear coming from behind third base he couldn’t
     miss them.
    He walked the man on five pitches, then tried to take it easier on the second batter, expecting him to bunt. Instead, the
     batter laced the ball out to right center for two bases, and a run scored.
    Tip and Puffy came in toward the mound and tried to settle him down.
    “Don’t listen to those monkeys in the stands,” said Puffy. “They don’t know any better.”
    “This next batter’s big, but he swings like an old, rusty gate,” said Tip, spitting into his mitt. “Throw ’em fast and you’ll
     whiff ’im.”
    Eddie wasn’t worried about throwing them fast; he was worried about hitting a batter. His second pitch almost nicked the big
     kid’s belt, but he hit the corners on the next two, then struck the kid out.
    “There you go, Eddie!” Tip yelled, laughing.
    A pop fly to Puffy and a grounder to Paul at second base ended the top of the first inning.
    Eddie walked off the mound amid a chorus of cheers from Lancer fans.
    “See, Eddie? You did all right,” Coach Inger said, tapping him on the back. “Your control looks pretty good.”
    Eddie shrugged. Must be that my nervousness wasn’t showing, he thought.
    The Lancers picked up two runs on Larry’s walk, Lynn’s double to left center, and Tip’s single over first.
    The Bruins scored in the top of the second on a walk and two singles. One of Eddie’s pitches soared over Tip’s leaping reach,
     and another moved the batter back six inches, drawing jeers from the fans.
    “Keep them
away
from the batter,” Tip advised him as they walked off the field together. “Most of your pitches seem to be on the batter’s
     side. No wonder the crowd thinks you’re trying to brush him off sometimes.”
    “I don’t. I never do.”
    “I know that,”