Coach Amos (2 page)

“Well, she did say something about detention hall until I graduate from college. But this seemed better.”

“When are you supposed to start?”

“
We
start tomorrow. Our team’s first game is in a week.”

Dunc pedaled up an incline. “Do you know anything about T-ball?”

“Sure. You put a ball on this thing, and then you hit it and run around the bases. Easy.”

Dunc coasted into his driveway. He stepped off his bike and walked it into the garage. Amos followed, except he dropped his bike on Dunc’s front lawn. It bounced once and rolled backward down across the lawn, tipping two garbage cans where the garbage men had left them. Amos watched the bike and shrugged.

“You haven’t said for definitely sure that you’re going to help me on this yet. You are, aren’t you?” Amos asked.

Dunc sighed. “Amos, how do you manage to get into these things?”

“Well, I heard a phone ring and I thought it was for me, and—”

“Never mind.”

Dunc was trying to read the T-ball handbook and ride his bike at the same time. “It says here that you only play four innings per game.”

“That’s good. The shorter the better.”

“Amos, don’t you think you should study the rules a little before we get there?”

“How hard can it be? We’re talking five- and six-year-olds.”

“They’re going to expect you to know something.”

“Duncan Culpepper. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? In baseball trading card circles, I am known as the king.”

“There’s a slight difference between collecting baseball cards and dealing with little kids.” Dunc slid the book into his pocket and stopped in front of Posey’s Sporting Goods. “It’s nice of Mr. Posey to sponsor our team. He doesn’t even have any kids playing.”

Amos locked his bike. “Advertising. The sponsor provides caps and jerseys with their store’s name on them for advertising.”

“Still, it’s nice.” Dunc headed into the store.

Mr. Posey was a short heavyset man with gray hair. When he moved, he breathed like a freight train. He said it was from emphysema. But Amos thought, because of the way Mr. Posey’s stomach hung over his belt, it was from too many Twinkies.

Mr. Posey was working on a football display. “Can I help you boys?”

“Ms. Fishbeck, from school, said you were sponsoring a T-ball team this year,” Amos said.

Mr. Posey stood up. “As a matter of fact,
I am. Or I was until Coach Sanders resigned.”

Amos smiled proudly. “We’re the new coaches of the team you’re sponsoring. Our first practice is today. Ms. Fishbeck said you had the jerseys and equipment.”

Mr. Posey rubbed his chin and studied the boys. “Have you ever coached T-ball before?”

Amos put his arm around Dunc. “My friend here is a walking encyclopedia of T-ball facts. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Dunc moved out of Amos’s reach. “Mr. Posey, why did Coach Sanders resign?”

“It was a sudden decision. Turns out it was for the best, though. Two days later, he wound up in the hospital. He’ll be laid up for a while.”

Amos looked at his watch. “I guess we’d better go, Mr. Posey. If you could get that equipment for us …”

“Oh, sure, son. Hang on. It’s in the back. Won’t take me a minute.” Mr. Posey headed for the storeroom. The sound of his breathing filled the store.

Amos noticed Dunc staring off into space. He’d seen that look. That was the look that always started something—the one that meant trouble.

“What is it this time?” Amos asked.

Dunc blinked. “What?”

“You know. That inquiring-minds-want-to-know look.”

“Since you asked, it’s Coach Sanders. Why would he resign like that on such short notice? And why has it been so hard to get a replacement?”

“This is so like you. It wouldn’t matter what we were doing, you would find some way to turn it into a big deal. It’s what you live for.”

Dunc shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to check into it.”

Mr. Posey came back carrying a duffel bag. He handed it to Amos. “All the equipment’s in here. I’ll have the jerseys and caps ready by your first game. You boys let me know if you need anything else. Good luck. Oh, I almost forgot—from what I hear, you’ll be needing this.” He handed Amos a chain with a silver whistle on the end.

“I don’t suppose you’d want to take turns carrying this thing?” Amos held the heavy duffel bag on his lap while he tried to pedal. First one knee smashed into it and then the other.

“We’re nearly there, Amos. Ames Elementary School is up one block and around the corner.”

“I know where it is. But in the meantime this thing is making mush out of my knees.”

Dunc swerved to avoid a pothole. “It’s all part of being a coach. You have to be tough.”

“I thought you said you were going to help me with the coaching.”

“I don’t remember saying that. What I said was, how do you get into these things? Anyway, we’re here. And there’s your team.”

Amos looked out on the field. Six little kids were lined up on one side and four on the other. They were throwing rocks and dirt clods at each other as fast as they could pick them up. Somebody’s mom was yelling at them, but they weren’t paying any attention.

Amos dragged the duffel bag onto the field. The kids kept throwing things. The mom that had been doing all the yelling ran over to Dunc and Amos. “Can’t you do something? Someone’s going to get hurt out there! I’m Mrs. Johnson, the team mom for this week. I don’t want anybody hurt on my time.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Amos said. He pulled the whistle out and blew. A rock sailed through the air and hit him right between the eyes. He went down like a lead weight.

“Amos, are you okay?” Dunc was fanning him with one of the mitts.

Amos opened his eyes and rubbed the purple goose egg on his forehead. “What happened?”

The kids and Mrs. Johnson were all hovering over him in a circle.

“Precious hit you with a rock. But she’s real sorry. And the team is sorry—now that I’ve explained things to them.”

“Things?” Amos sat up. “What things?”

“You know. How if they’re good and try real hard, you’re going to buy pizza after every game.”

“What? I never—”

“Thank you, coach. We never had a coach nice as you before. I love pizza. It’s my favoritist thing.” A chubby little girl with a dirty face put her arms around Amos. “Do you forgive me for throwing that rock at you?”

Amos looked at her. “You’re Precious?”

The little girl nodded.

Dunc grinned at him. “What now, coach?”

Amos shrugged and stood up. “I guess I start saving my allowance for pizza. Okay. Let’s play some ball. Who knows how to play T-ball?”

Silence.

“Nobody?” Amos asked. “Didn’t Coach Sanders teach you how to play?”

Mrs. Johnson stepped over. “I don’t think he ever got them to settle down long enough to explain the rules.”

Amos looked at Dunc. “We have less than a week until our first game, and these kids don’t even know how to play?”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Maybe you ought to teach them how to play.”

Amos made a face. “Thanks.” He stepped over to the equipment bag and pulled out the mitts, balls, and the bat. “Okay. Everybody listen up. In this game you hit the ball with this little bat. Then you run as hard as you can to first base. Who wants to try it first?”

Ten hands went up.

Amos pointed at one of the boys—a redhead with freckles covering every inch of him. “What’s your name?”

“My big name is Francis Howard Butler. But you should call me Sparky ’cause if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

Amos stared at him.

Precious pulled on Amos’s sleeve. “That’s what started the rock fight. Tommy Johnson called him Francis. He gets awful mad when you do that.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Amos set up the T and placed the ball on top of it. Slowly, with great reluctance, he handed Sparky the bat. “All right. Give it your best shot.”

Sparky stepped up to the plate, gave a mighty swing—and missed.

Amos scratched his head. “Why don’t you try that again?”

Sparky swung and missed a second time. Dunc was watching him from the pitcher’s mound. “I think it would help a lot if he opened his eyes when he swings.”

Amos knelt down beside him. “Sparky, you have to keep your eyes open when you swing at the ball. And another thing.” Amos whispered something in his ear.

This time Sparky swung and hit a high fly that went almost to the pitcher’s mound. Dunc brought the ball in. “What did you to say to him, Amos? That was great.”

Amos leaned over. “I told him to pretend that the ball was the kid who called him Francis.”

Dunc smiled. “Amos, you may be a born coach. Just one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“You might want to tell him where first base is.”

Amos looked up. Sparky was still running full blast. He had turned at the backstop and run behind the bleachers, off the playing field toward the fence.

“All in all, I think practice went pretty well, don’t you?” Dunc said.

They were in Amos’s room bandaging his thumb. Dunc measured the ointment precisely and cut the three gauze strips into exactly two-point-three-decimeter lengths.

“Let me explain something to you, Dunc. When you get hit between the eyes by a rock, lose your allowance to a bunch of shrimps, and nearly get your thumb bit off, things are not going well.”

“The part about the thumb isn’t too good. But now you know Tommy Johnson doesn’t like anybody to touch him. Next time, you
won’t push him up to the plate. Hold still, or this won’t look neat.”

Amos looked at his swollen thumb. “Only you would be worried about my having a neat-looking thumb. And as for Tommy, he could have told me. He didn’t have to try and bite my thumb off to get his point across. I just hope the kid doesn’t have rabies or something.”

“Well, I think you’ve made a lot of progress. At least your team all knows where first base is. And they know they have to hit the ball before they can run.” Dunc taped the gauze in place. “Except for Sarah. She still likes to run first. But she’ll get the hang of it. I think you’re doing a great job, Amos. I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had it in you.”