Free Shortstop from Tokyo by Matt Christopher Page A

off his mask, scurried across the plate, scooped up the ball and pegged
     it to second. Russ caught it, snapped it to first, and Bob whipped it back to home.
    “All right, now! Get one!”
    Fuzzy fielded the low hopper and made the throw to first. The ball sailed home, back to Bob, then home again.
    “Stogie!”
    Stogie set himself at the edge of the grass, snatched the grass-cutting grounder, and pegged it letter-high to Bob. Sam’s
     turn was next. Stogie backed him up, smiling as he watched the coach hit a soft grounder to the Japanese boy. Sam charged
     the ball, caught it near the ground, snapped it underhand to Bob, then hustled to cover second.
    Bob whipped the ball to him. Sam nabbed it out of the air, spun, and pegged it to third. The ball traveled like a white bullet.
    “Nice going, Sam!” yelled Coach Dirkus.
    Sam looked around and smiled at Stogie. “How do I look?” asked Sam proudly.
    “Good, Sam,” said Stogie. “You look good.”

2
    R USSO! Peters! Crane! Let’s start off with some bingles!”
    It was the next day and the Mohawks’ third game of the season. Coach Bob Dirkus stood in the sun next to the dugout, holding
     a pad. He wore regular pants, but his shirt was part of a baseball uniform he used to wear when he had played with the Westport
     Eagles. His black cap, the letter M on it, was the same as the Mohawk players’.
    Larry Hill, the Copperheads’ tall left-hander, finished throwing his warm-uppitches and Russ stepped to the plate.
    “Look at ’im hug the plate,” observed Fuzzy. “It’s a wonder he doesn’t put his arms around it.”
    “That’s his strategy,” said Dennis Krupa, a sub infielder. “Ten to one he gets on.”
    Larry Hill fired two balls outside of the plate, got one over, then another for a two-and-two count. Russ stepped out of the
     box and rubbed his hands in the soft dirt.
    “His hands get hot quickly,” said Sam Suzuki, laughing. “Maybe should carry towel. Not so dirty.”
    Stogie, standing to the right of the dugout with his bat, heard it all. The guys laughed, but he couldn’t see anything at
     all funny in the remark.
    Crack
! Russ belted a one-hopper to third. The Copperhead third basemansnagged it easily and whipped it to first. “Out!” yelled the base umpire.
    Beak Peters stepped into the box next. He was built like a young tree and had a nose that seemed to be too big for his face.
    He let two pitches go by, both strikes, then stepped back and jiggled his helmet a couple of times. He walked back into the
     box and blasted the next pitch through the pitcher’s box, making Larry Hill jump like a sca l ed cat.
    “Your man, Stogie!” Fuzzy yelled. “Let’s start a merry-go-round!”
    Stogie looked at Coach Dirkus. “If it’s in there, belt it,” said the coach.
    The Copperhead infielders were talking it up, sounding like ten men out there instead of four. The Copperhead catcher was
     talking it up too, sounding like a stuckneedle on a phonograph. “Right in here, Larry! Right in here, boy! Right in here, Larry! Right in here, boy!”
    Boom
! Stogie’s bat connected with the ball and sent it cruising through space toward left center field. Beak streaked to second,
     rounded third, and bolted for home as the third base coach windmilled him on. The left fielder finally got the ball and pegged
     it in to third, forcing Stogie back to second for a neat double.
    Stogie looked across the diamond at Sam Suzuki and saw the Japanese boy clapping thunderously. Somehow Stogie felt he needed
     that hit. He wanted to show Coach Dirkus he was still the best man to play shortstop.
    Jim Albanese, up next, popped the first pitch to short for out number two.
    Bob Sobus came up. A left-handed hitter,he stood at the plate straight as an arrow, his legs spread apart just a little, his bat held inches off his left shoulder.
    Larry Hill slipped a strike past him. Bob swung at the next pitch and missed it for strike two. He swung at the third, and
     this time