Free Baseball Flyhawk by Matt Christopher

1
    T he score was tied, 4-4, as the Royals came to bat in the top of the fourth inning.
    “Buddy! Chico! Dale!” Coach Pete Day named off the first three batters. “Come on! Let’s get a man on! Let’s break this tie!”
    Buddy Temple picked up a yellow bat and walked to the plate. Chico Romez selected his favorite brown one, put on a helmet,
     and knelt in the on-deck circle. Sweat shone on his face. It was a hot day for the opening game.
    But it wasn’t the heat that bothered Chico. He could take the heat. He had beenborn in Puerto Rico and had lived there eight years before moving to the United States. And it was always hot in Puerto Rico.
    No, it was the way he played baseball that bothered him.
    The best way to make people like you, he figured, was to do something that would please them. Chico thought that by playing
     good baseball he would make a lot of friends. But so far in this game, he had done nothing to please anybody. Not even himself.
    Buddy took a called strike. Then he blasted a single through the pitcher’s box.
    The Royals fans cheered and whistled.
    “Okay, Chico,” said Coach Day as he rubbed the front of his shirt.
    Chico recognized the bunt signal.
    Chico stood at the plate, the bat held over his shoulder. He was short and not too husky. But he was fast. If he laid one
     down, he might make it to first.
    The Braves’ pitcher toed the rubber and hurled in the ball. It was low, slightly inside. Chico put out his bat.
    Tick!
The ball fouled to the backstop screen.
    The next pitch was high. Again Chico tried to bunt.
    “Foul! Strike two!”
    “Hit away, Chico!” said the coach.
    Chico rubbed his toes in the dirt and held his hands close to the knob of the bat. He had failed to bunt. Now he just had
     to hit.
    The tall Braves pitcher stepped on the rubber, looked at Buddy on first, then delivered.
    The pitch was high. Chico let it go by.
    “Ball!”
    The next one was in there. Chico swung. A drive over short! Chico dropped his bat and sped to first. Buddy crossed second
     base and headed for third.
    Chico touched first, then continued on toward second. The ball was bouncing out to left field. He was sure he could make it.
     His legs were a blur as he ran.
    “Chico!” yelled the first-base coach. “Get back!”
    But Chico thought that he had gone too far to turn back now.
    The left fielder picked up the ball and pegged it to second. The throw was straight as a string. The second baseman caught
     it, put it down quickly in front of the bag, and Chico slid into it.
    “Out!” snapped the base umpire.
    Chico shook his head, then rose and trotted to the dugout, slapping the dust off his pants.
    “One base was enough on that hit, Chico,” said Coach Day. “Shouldn’t have tried to stretch it.”
    “I’m sorry,” murmured Chico.
    “’Sorry’!” echoed somebody on the bench. “A lot of good that’ll do.”
    That was String Becker. Everybody called him String because he was tall and thin. He was the Royals’ first baseman, the most
     popular player on the team.
    Chico blushed and sat down at the end of the dugout. Making a stupid out like that sure wasn’t going to win him any friends.

2
    C hico looked at Buddy on third. Well, if he had bunted, he might have got out anyway. And Buddy would now be on second instead
     of third.
    Catcher Dale Hunt stepped to the plate. He popped to third for the second out.
    Frankie Darsi, the Royals’ southpaw pitcher and one of the best in the Grasshopper League, came up and drew a walk. Now the
     head of the batting order was up again, shortstop Ray Ward. Ray was small. He couldn’t hit very well. But his first time up,he had drawn a walk. The second time up, he’d struck out. This time everybody hoped he would walk again.
    The Braves’ pitcher threw in two perfect pitches, putting little Ray on the spot. He hit the next one directly at the pitcher,
     who threw easily to first for the third out.
    “Tough luck, Ray,” said Coach Day.
    The sad