They’ll pick him, whether I’m there or
not.”
A lump that felt like a golf ball rose in Bobby’s throat. It hurt him to see Kirby feeling like this. “You
must
go, Kirby,” he insisted. “You’re better than Tony. I know you are. They’ll pick you for sure.”
“I said I’m not going and that’s final!” Kirby almost shouted.
Bobby stepped back from the whip-cracking sound of Kirby’s voice. He walked out of the room, Kirby’s harsh words ringing in
his ears.
On Friday, Bobby rode to the game again with Mr. Gessini, Dave, Jim, and Tony. His own father had not come home from work
yet.
Bobby felt very bad. For the first time in his life he was ashamed of his brother Kirby. He had always thought that Kirby
had plenty of nerve to face any kind of situation.
“I wish Kirby had come,” Tony said. “Now those men won’t be able to see him play again. They’ve seen him before and they might
pick him if he was here.”
Bobby looked up at Tony. Tears stung his eyes.
“That’s exactly what I told Kirby,” he said. “But he wouldn’t listen. No matter what I said, he wouldn’t listen to me.”
11
S OME of the Mustangs players were at the field already. Bobby recognized Earl Lowe warming up. Earl was a tall, slender boy
whose fire-red hair stuck out from under his black baseball cap like dried-up straw. He was a southpaw, one of the best pitchers
in the league.
“Oh-oh,” Dave murmured. “You see who’s starting for the Mustangs today?”
“Lowe?” Jim pushed out his lower lip. “Aw, he’s not so hot. A couple of hits and he’ll go to pieces.”
“I hope,” said Tony, and laughed.
Curt Barrows and six or seven Redbirds were playing pitch and catch.
“Where’s Kirby?” asked Mr. Barrows.
“He’s not coming,” said Bobby.
“Why not? Doesn’t he want to play baseball any more?” Mr. Barrows sounded very serious.
Bobby’s heart thumped nervously. “I guess not.”
The coach shook his head disgustedly. “Did he know that a couple of men were going to be here today to look over the players?”
Bobby nodded. “I think so.”
“Is that why he didn’t want to come?”
Bobby’s heart beat harder. “I don’t know.”
Stop asking me questions about Kirby! he wanted to shout. I wanted him to come to the game. He didn’t want to. He’s home.
He’s sitting in the living room, reading orwatching TV. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that he’s afraid to come because it will hurt him if he isn’t picked
on the All-Star team. Well — it’s true. I know that, too. And say it if you want to. Say he hasn’t got what it takes! Because
I know that is true, too!
Kirby
can
play ball, though. He can play first base better than any other player in the league. He doesn’t always hit, but he isn’t
the poorest hitter, either! He’s better than Tony Mandos, or any other first baseman you care to name. He’s the best in the
league! I know those men would pick him if he played today. But
he
doesn’t. He doesn’t think he’s any good at all.
Ask
him
why he didn’t come! Don’t ask me!
Bobby swallowed hard. He picked upa ball and called to Dave Gessini. “Come on, Dave. Let’s play catch.”
After a while the Mustangs had their infield warm-up. When they were finished, the Redbirds had theirs.
Bobby wished that black clouds would come sweeping across the blue sky and pour rain down in bucketfuls. He was sick of baseball.
He was sick of everybody asking questions about Kirby. He would rather be home, watching his ants work in their ant-house,
or catching grasshoppers for Manty, his praying mantis pet. Nobody would bother him then.
At last the field was cleared of players. The two base umpires walked out to their positions behind first and third. The plate
umpire held his mask in one hand and announced the batteries: “Pitching for the Mustangs — Earl Lowe! Catching — BillGoff! For the Redbirds, Cappie Brennan is pitching
not.”
A lump that felt like a golf ball rose in Bobby’s throat. It hurt him to see Kirby feeling like this. “You
must
go, Kirby,” he insisted. “You’re better than Tony. I know you are. They’ll pick you for sure.”
“I said I’m not going and that’s final!” Kirby almost shouted.
Bobby stepped back from the whip-cracking sound of Kirby’s voice. He walked out of the room, Kirby’s harsh words ringing in
his ears.
On Friday, Bobby rode to the game again with Mr. Gessini, Dave, Jim, and Tony. His own father had not come home from work
yet.
Bobby felt very bad. For the first time in his life he was ashamed of his brother Kirby. He had always thought that Kirby
had plenty of nerve to face any kind of situation.
“I wish Kirby had come,” Tony said. “Now those men won’t be able to see him play again. They’ve seen him before and they might
pick him if he was here.”
Bobby looked up at Tony. Tears stung his eyes.
“That’s exactly what I told Kirby,” he said. “But he wouldn’t listen. No matter what I said, he wouldn’t listen to me.”
11
S OME of the Mustangs players were at the field already. Bobby recognized Earl Lowe warming up. Earl was a tall, slender boy
whose fire-red hair stuck out from under his black baseball cap like dried-up straw. He was a southpaw, one of the best pitchers
in the league.
“Oh-oh,” Dave murmured. “You see who’s starting for the Mustangs today?”
“Lowe?” Jim pushed out his lower lip. “Aw, he’s not so hot. A couple of hits and he’ll go to pieces.”
“I hope,” said Tony, and laughed.
Curt Barrows and six or seven Redbirds were playing pitch and catch.
“Where’s Kirby?” asked Mr. Barrows.
“He’s not coming,” said Bobby.
“Why not? Doesn’t he want to play baseball any more?” Mr. Barrows sounded very serious.
Bobby’s heart thumped nervously. “I guess not.”
The coach shook his head disgustedly. “Did he know that a couple of men were going to be here today to look over the players?”
Bobby nodded. “I think so.”
“Is that why he didn’t want to come?”
Bobby’s heart beat harder. “I don’t know.”
Stop asking me questions about Kirby! he wanted to shout. I wanted him to come to the game. He didn’t want to. He’s home.
He’s sitting in the living room, reading orwatching TV. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that he’s afraid to come because it will hurt him if he isn’t picked
on the All-Star team. Well — it’s true. I know that, too. And say it if you want to. Say he hasn’t got what it takes! Because
I know that is true, too!
Kirby
can
play ball, though. He can play first base better than any other player in the league. He doesn’t always hit, but he isn’t
the poorest hitter, either! He’s better than Tony Mandos, or any other first baseman you care to name. He’s the best in the
league! I know those men would pick him if he played today. But
he
doesn’t. He doesn’t think he’s any good at all.
Ask
him
why he didn’t come! Don’t ask me!
Bobby swallowed hard. He picked upa ball and called to Dave Gessini. “Come on, Dave. Let’s play catch.”
After a while the Mustangs had their infield warm-up. When they were finished, the Redbirds had theirs.
Bobby wished that black clouds would come sweeping across the blue sky and pour rain down in bucketfuls. He was sick of baseball.
He was sick of everybody asking questions about Kirby. He would rather be home, watching his ants work in their ant-house,
or catching grasshoppers for Manty, his praying mantis pet. Nobody would bother him then.
At last the field was cleared of players. The two base umpires walked out to their positions behind first and third. The plate
umpire held his mask in one hand and announced the batteries: “Pitching for the Mustangs — Earl Lowe! Catching — BillGoff! For the Redbirds, Cappie Brennan is pitching
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