He thumped Shorty on the chest with the back of his left hand and said, “Run back to where you belong, little man. And see if you can handle the stuff I’m going to feed that poor innocent batter.”
Shorty gave him a wide-eyed stare, then grinned and trotted back to home.
Johnny turned and stared at the two runners, who immediately shortened their leads off first and second.
“Relax, you guys!” he yelled. “You’re going to die right there.”
Fear was gone and tension was gone because suddenly there was nothing left to be afraid of. The worst that could happen had happened.
The ball felt small and light in his fingers. Neither Shorty nor the bench gave him any signal.
His shoulder and back and arm were as loose and fluid as water.
The left foot came up, slapped down, the arm coming across into the follow-through, all the weight on that left foot, the knuckles of his right hand nearly touching the ground.
The ball was a tiny white marble, whizzing down the middle, suddenly returning to normal size after it rested in the pocket of Shorty’s mitt.
“Steee-rike ONE!”
An incurve that came down, looking wide and wild, breaking back to cut over the outside corner.
“Steee-rike TWO!”
The rhythmic thumping and clapping of hands began to slow down, to die out. The pitch was a floater. The batter nearly broke his back, but the bat had whooshed over the plate before the ball got there.
All of the thumping had stopped and the park was silent.
He fed the next batter two strikes, a ball, and the third strike. And still the silence was unbroken.
Johnny felt twice life size. The two men on base behind him didn’t matter. They weren’t a threat.
He faded a slow-breaking curve across the inside corner, got the second strike on a foul tip of Shorty’s mask, retired the side with a pitch that steamed as it cut the outside corner.
He took an ovation that nearly tore the grass out of the infield. He had suddenly become that darling of American sporting spirit, the underdog who comes back.
His teammates wore wide, foolish grins and slapped him on the back.
“Now we go get those boys,” Charlie said.
Johnny was up, and struck out. The next man hit a clean single. They pushed him all the way around and the fifth inning ended with the score 11-6.
No man reached first in the top half of the sixth. Johnny felt able to throw the ball through the eye of a needle at a hundred feet.
In the bottom half of the sixth the Sailors knocked the second Roamer pitcher off the mound with four healthy base hits that, by heads-up ball, netted three runs.
It stayed 11-9 throughout the seventh.
In the top of the eighth, an error by Hancey at third put a man on first, and a fumbled bunt put two men on base.
Johnny grinned and bore down. He disposed of the next batter in four pitches. The man went down swinging. He forced the next batter to hit an ineffectual pop fly.
With two down the base runner tried to steal third on the pitch. Shorty Gordon flashed one down to Hancey for the third out.
In the bottom of the eighth, the Sailors scored another run. It was scored on a fluke, but it didn’t make the run any less valuable.
With the score 11–10, Johnny Lace fed the first batter one that was a little too good, a shade higher than where he had wanted to place it. His heart was in his mouth and it slowly slid back into position when the left-fielder made an effortless catch looking into the sun.
Alarmed by what might have happened, he tightened down, feeding the next two batters balls that looked just good enough to bite at. They fouled their way into two counts and then went down swinging.
Tige Hancey sat next to Johnny Lace in the dugout. The first Sailor at bat fanned out. The second one slammed a clean base hit into left-center and stretched it to a double, barely beating the throw.
As Hancey stood up, Johnny said, “How about one for the atom kid?”
Hancey walked out in his cocky way, tossed the extra bat aside, braced himself in the box. The Roamer catcher stepped out to the side of the plate. It was smart ball. The tough little third baseman had the second best home-run record.
The pitcher threw the two pitches well outside for two balls. He threw the third one. As it left his hand, Hancey leaned over into the line of the pitch and connected with the ball.
The left-fielder raced back, looking over his shoulder. He went back and back. Then he stopped and put his hands on his hips and watched it soar over the fence.
A wide, heavy-set man of fifty shuffled along with the crowds as the stands emptied. He heard the note of hysteria, of emotional exhaustion in the voices around him. The name of Johnny Lace was on every lip.
Paul Lace smiled. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. In another year or two, Johnny would be back with him. A Johnny who would be whole and sane and sound. A confident and victorious Johnny.
There was little chance that the manager would talk. No, the manager would be glad to be labeled a smart man, a bush-league genius. There was a danger that, if it hadn’t worked out, Johnny might hear of it.
And Johnny would have resented the interference.
Johnny would have been annoyed to learn that his father had convinced the manager of the wisdom of keeping Johnny on the mound — regardless. The manager had gambled and won — and had done Paul Lace a priceless favor. A favor which had given him back his son.
