The Bashers must have had her pegged as an unreliable hitter, because immediately, their cheerleaders began chanting, “Strike out! Strike out!” which I thought was really mean.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. The next thing I knew, the Pike triplets, dressed impressively in their Little League uniforms, joined Vanessa and Haley and began cheering with them. It was hard to understand what they were shouting, but they drowned out the Bashers’ cheerleaders, and that was really all that mattered.
Unfortunately, it didn’t help.
Margo struck out.
“Three outs!” yelled Bart unnecessarily, and the Krushers gave up their bats and trotted onto the field. I’d thought they’d be devastated, but they looked fine. I even overheard Jackie say to David Michael, “Three runs. Can you believe it?”
They were proud!
The Krushers stationed themselves at their positions, while the Bashers were organized into their batting line-up. Once, while the kids were getting settled, my eyes met Bart’s. We both looked away quickly.
Then I signalled to David Michael, who was already on the pitcher’s mound.
He ran to me. “Yeah?” He looked nervous. But he also looked as if he were saying, with his eyes alone, “If you don’t let me pitch, I’ll kill you.”
“David Michael,” I said to him seriously, “just do your best.”
His face broke into a big smile. “I will, Watson,” he teased me.
I punched him on the arm and sent him back to the pitcher’s mound, grinning.
David Michael’s grin soon turned to gritted teeth. He simply was not as good as the Bashers’ pitcher, and the Bashers kept getting runs. By the end of the inning, the score was Bashers 6, Krushers 3.
The teams changed sides again.
I started the second inning by putting Gabbie in the game for awhile. It was an easy time to do that, before things really got underway, and I ran out to the Bashers’ pitcher with the wiffle ball and told him what was going on. I really should have told Bart, but I just couldn’t face him.
The pitcher looked at the wiffle ball and rolled his eyes.
“She’s only two and a half,” I snapped, “so walk forward. Now.”
The kid obeyed. And to give him credit, I have to say that he tossed the ball very nicely to Gabbie. He didn’t try anything funny.
Gabbie hit the ball. The pitcher was so surprised that he fielded it badly, overthrew the base, and Gabbie was safe at first.
The walking disaster was up next and I caught sight of him near the refreshment stand, testing bats for their weight. He picked one up, swung it, put it down. Then he picked up another, swung it — and suddenly he must have had margarine on his hands again, because the bat slipped out of them and flew into the refreshment tables. Very luckily, it didn’t hurt anyone. But the legs of both tables collapsed and the food began to slide every which way.
“Catch it! Catch it!” yelled Charlie. He and Sam (and Jessi and Dawn, who happened to be standing nearby) dove frantically for the plates of brownies and cookies and cupcakes. They caught most things, but an entire cake went — splat — on a rock, and twelve cups of lemonade slid on top of it.
Absolutely everybody saw the accident. And everybody laughed.
I wanted to die, and I think Jackie felt the same way, but he marched up to bat instead. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself. Besides, if he could hit a home run, then maybe everyone would forget about his disaster.
Jackie gripped the bat. He looked determined, but he must have been totally flustered. The first pitch was wild, but Jackie took a giant swing at it anyway, nearly losing his balance. (A few people in the stands couldn’t help laughing.) The next pitch was right over home plate, and Jackie tried to get away with bunting it. He missed. Strike two. The third pitch was also well-placed. Jackie swung again — and his bat went flying. It nearly hit the pitcher, who gave Jackie a dirty look.
“Strike three, you’re out!” shouted Bart.
Jackie was the picture of humiliation. You could see that his hopes of showing off had been completely dashed. His face started to crumple — and then he sort of stumbled. He sank to the ground, clutching his left ankle. “Oh!” he cried. “Oh, my ankle! I think I twisted it.”
I ran to Jackie. His ankle looked fine to me (and I gave his parents the OK sign, so they wouldn’t have to leave their places in the stands), but Jackie said it was killing him. “I better not play anymore,” he added.
Jackie walked off the field, limping pitifully on his right ankle…. Wait a sec. His right ankle? No, now it was his left.
Aha! I thought. I knew exactly what Jackie was up to.
I let Jackie sit on the sidelines until the first half of the second inning was over. Then I told Bart I needed time out. I didn’t even really look at him. I just trotted by him, calling, “Time out!”
“Okay,” Bart said to my back.
I sat down next to the walking disaster. I didn’t waste any words. “Jackie,” I said, “I’m putting you back in the game.”
Jackie snapped to attention. “But — but I can’t play, Coach!” he exclaimed. “I hurt my ankle.” He began rubbing his right ankle.
“When you fell, you hurt your other ankle,” I pointed out.
“Oops.”
“Jackie, I know you’re embarrassed. I also know you’re a good player. You turned into one of our best hitters. And right now, we need you at first base. It’s either you or Jamie Newton, and you know what’ll happen if a ball comes toward Jamie.”
(Nothing like a little guilt.)
Jackie nodded. But all he said was, “Do I have to play?”
“No,” I answered. “The only thing I ask of you Krushers is that you do your best. If you think this is your best, then okay. Personally, I think your best is over there at first base, not here on the sidelines. We really need you. We want you.”
“You do?” said Jackie.
I nodded.
He sighed. “All right. I’ll play.”
Jackie stood up, and a few people in the stands clapped. (I think they were his parents and his brothers.) Then he ran onto the field.
Two of the Bashers laughed at him, and a third yelled, “Hit any good refreshment stands lately?” but Jackie ignored them.
David Michael (after losing his balance and tripping over absolutely nothing), pitched a fastball to the first Basher at bat. The Basher hit it, and Matt Braddock fielded it and sent it to Jackie, who caught it seconds before the kid touched base.
I took great pride in yelling, “Out!” even though I was not the umpire. But I made the mistake of glancing at Bart then, who looked at me murderously. I didn’t care. Jackie was grinning like a jack-o’-lantern. His confidence had returned. And he, David Michael, Matt, and Myriah (who was our second basewoman) didn’t let the Bashers get a single run during the rest of the inning.
The score was now 6–4. I don’t think anyone was more surprised than the Bashers, even though they were ahead.
And no one was more surprised than I when our cheerleaders got to their feet and yelled, “Way to go! Way to go! The Krushers’ score is sure to grow!” Why was I surprised? Because cheering along with the others was Charlotte — shy Charlotte Johanssen. I guess the Krushers’ playing was just too much for her.
It was Charlotte’s cheering, more than anything else, that suddenly gave me a surge of hope for my team. Maybe they could win after all.
The game continued. It was a warm day and the sun was beating down. The people in the stands put on sunglasses and took off jackets and sweaters. The frosting on the cupcakes and brownies at the refreshment stand began to melt. A few of the Bashers removed their hats because their heads were too hot, then put them back on because the sun was in their eyes.
I stuck a piece of gum in my mouth, chewed it, and followed the game.
In the third inning, Hannie Papadakis hit the ball — hard.
“Oh, my gosh!” she cried disbelievingl
y.
“Run, run!” I shouted to her.
“Oh, yeah!” she said, suddenly remembering — and managed to get around all the bases, beating the throw home. She even sent Margo home before her.
Two more runs for the Krushers.
The Bashers frowned. They gritted their teeth. They concentrated furiously on the game. When Gabbie was up next, I didn’t even have to say anything to the pitcher. He just switched balls and moved forward.
At the end of the inning, the score was 8-6, still in favor of the Bashers.
At the end of the fourth inning, the Bashers were ahead 10-6, and Bart called for a “fourth-inning stretch.” Everyone needed it — players, cheerleaders, fans, and coaches.
I wiped my forehead with the shoulder of my T-shirt (something Mom absolutely hates for me to do), and met up with the other members of the Baby-sitters Club.
“The Krushers are doing great!” cried Claudia.
“We’re losing,” I replied.
“But you’re playing a very tough game,” said Mary Anne, even though she knows next to nothing about sports. “Don’t you see how the Bashers are acting now? You’re giving them a run for their money.”
“Yeah,” agreed Mal. “I bet they thought they’d just walk onto the field, cream you, and leave. But your kids have gotten home runs and everything. Gabbie is amazing with that wiffle ball.”
“Oh, but Jackie and the refreshment stand,” I moaned.
“Everyone’s forgotten about that,” Dawn assured me. “He’s played so well since then. Anyway, just look at him.”
I looked. Jackie was by the stands, talking to his family. He was grinning, and he looked pretty pleased with himself.
As I watched Jackie, I noticed Karen signalling to me. Well, not exactly signalling; more like waving frantically. Karen just cannot be subtle.
“I better go see what she wants,” I said.
I left my friends and trotted over to my family.
“Hi, Coach!” cried Karen. “I am so excited!”
“What a game!” Watson said.
“Yeah, we’re winning,” Andrew exclaimed.
“Wait a sec. No we’re not,” I had to tell him.
“Karen says we are.”
“Karen, the Bashers are ahead of us. You know that,” I said. “They’ve got ten runs and we’ve only got six.”
“Only!” cried Karen. “Six is a lot. If we got six, we’ll get more. I think we’re going to beat the Bashers!”
I looked helplessly at Mom and Watson, but Mom shrugged and Watson said something about “hope springing eternal.”
“What?” I said.
“The optimism of youth,” Watson tried to explain.
I’d been about to ask him for some advice, but I decided not to. Not if he was in this dumb poetic mood.
“I better go check on Sam and Charlie,” I said, and rushed off.
It was a good thing I did, too, because what with the fourth-inning stretch, they were overrun with lemonade requests. I snagged Mary Anne, and she and I helped them out. While we were filling cups, I overheard someone say, awed, “Those Krushers are really something.”
I turned around. It was a Basher!
Ten minutes later, the game began again. An hour and fifteen minutes after that, it was just about over. It was the top of the seventh, the Bashers were still ahead, and the Krushers had two outs. Claire Pike went to bat.
Boy, I thought, trying to send her a mind message, if you’ve ever needed to hit that ball, it’s right now.
Claire struck out.
The Bashers leaped to their feet and threw their hats in the air. The game was over.
The score was 16–11, and the Bashers had won. They had crushed the Krushers. I had seen it coming, of course. The Bashers had been ahead all along.
I guess I’d been hoping for a miracle.
I took off my collie hat and stuffed it in my back pocket. The Krushers were running off the field and the crowd was cheering. The cheerleaders were cheering, too — all of them, even Charlotte. And then I heard a third cheer: “Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate? The Krushers! The Krushers! Yea!”
And an answering cheer: “Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate? The Bashers! The Bashers! Yea!”
The Krushers and the Bashers were slapping five and pounding each other on the backs. The Krushers didn’t look too disappointed, not even Karen.
“Hey, you Krushers!” I yelled.
My team separated from the Bashers and straggled over to me.
“Congratulations, you guys,” I said. “You played a really good game. I mean it.”
“Even though we lost?” Jackie ventured.
“Even though you lost. You were playing against kids who are older and bigger than most of you. And who have been a team longer than the Krushers have. And you got eleven runs. Do you know how terrific that is?”
“Yup,” said Karen. “We do.”
“And the next time we play the Bashers,” said Jackie, “maybe we’ll beat them.”
I grinned. “Okay, you guys. Time to go home. Find your parents or your brothers and sisters. Andrew, Karen, and David Michael, let’s go help Sam and Charlie.”
People began to drift away from the playground. Mary Anne left with Logan. Jessi walked off with Mallory and the Pikes. But Claudia and Dawn stayed and counted the money Sam and Charlie had taken in at the refreshment stand.
“Wow!” said Dawn a few minutes later when the counting was done. “This ought to buy hats for your team.”
“I’ll say,” I agreed. “Thanks, Sam. Thanks, Charlie. The Krushers really appreciate your help.”
“No problem,” said Charlie as he folded up the tables.
I checked to make sure that there were no stray cups or napkins on the ground, and then I turned to walk toward Mom’s station wagon.
“Hey, Kristy!” called a voice.
I would know that voice anywhere. It was Bart’s.
Even though Bart was calling me, I didn’t turn around right away. I stalled just long enough to see all sorts of things happen — Sam and Charlie nudge each other, Dawn and Claudia raise their eyebrows at each other, and Mom and Watson wink at each other.
Oh, brother. Did they all know there was something more (maybe) between Bart and me than just coaching our teams?
“Yeah?” I said, turning around.
Guess what? Bart wanted the two of us to walk home together again. So we did.
“See you later,” I said to my family. Then, “Bye!” I called to Claud and Dawn. “I’ll phone you tonight.”
“You better,” Claud replied mischievously, glancing at Bart. “If you don’t, I’ll call you.”
Bart and I walked off sort of quickly. As soon as we left the playground, Bart said, “Well, congratulations!”
“On what?” I replied.
“On the Krushers’ game, what else?”
“Oh, that,” I said.
“They were great!”
“Some of them.”
“All of them.”
“Jamie Newton still ducks balls, and Claire Pike still has a zero batting average and throws tantrums.”
“Maybe. But I noticed something today. Your team has total dedication.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean that they would do anything for the team or anyone on it. They may not be excellent players, but being part of a team means a lot to them. I could see it in their faces. I saw it every time one of them was at bat, especially kids like Jamie and Claire. I could almost hear them saying to themselves, ‘This time I’m going to get that ball. I’m going to do it for my team. I know I’ve never done it before, but I’m going to do it now.’ I think your kids realize that they couldn’t be on any other team — at least not easily — so they’re, like, really fierce about the Krushers.”
Bart paused. Then he added, “That’s why I got so nervous about them.”
“You got nervous about the Krushers?” I said.
/> “Sure. I’ll admit that I brought my kids by that day just to show them they really didn’t have to worry about the game — that your kids were no threat. But when I saw them play, I got nervous. I could tell they were really going to hang in during the game.”
“Wow,” I said. Maybe I’d been too hard on myself — and on the Krushers. Or maybe I’d just set my expectations in the wrong places. What was so important about winning?
“Anyway, what’s so important about winning?” I said to Bart.
“Yeah….” he answered uncertainly.
Then we laughed.
“I guess we both like to win,” I said.
“I’m pretty competitive,” Bart admitted. “My parents say I’m too competitive.”
“And I like to be in charge, running things,” I told him.
“Well, you can do that when you coach.
“I know. But when I’m in charge of something, I like for it to work out, too. I like to win, just like you…. My friends and I have this club, the Baby-sitters club. It’s really a business. It was my idea, I’m the president, and the club is a big success. We get tons of jobs. If it weren’t a success, though, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Would you quit?”
I shrugged.
“Are you going to quit coaching the Krushers? I mean, since you lost today?”
I thought for a moment — just a moment. “No way!” I cried.
“Then winning probably isn’t as important to you as you think it is,” said Bart.
“You sound like a psychiatrist or something,” I said, laughing.
Bart and I stepped off the curb to cross a street, and a car came zooming around a curve.
“Kristy, look out!” Bart grabbed my hand and pulled me back to the sidewalk. We were safe — but Bart didn’t let go of my hand, even though he certainly could have. Instead, he held on to it until we had crossed the street.
“Nice hat,” Bart commented a few minutes later. (I was wearing my baseball cap again.) “What’s with the collie?”
“Oh, it’s my favorite kind of dog. I wear this in remembrance of Louie. He was our collie. We had to have him put to sleep. We got Shannon after Louie died.”