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he walked slightly stoop-shouldered most of the time, seemed to become more erect each time he strode off
     the mound.
    “Let’s change those eyeballs to numbers,” said Coach Tarbell, referring to the zeroes decorating the scoreboard. “What do
     you say, Ollie?”
    Ollie seemed not to have heard him as he rummaged around the bat rack for his favorite home run slugger, found it, and walked
     to the plate. Ollie, who wore glasses and wanted to be a concert pianist when he grew up, slugged the first pitch to short
     for the first out.
    Here we go again,
thought Bobby as he left the on-deck circle and replaced Ollie’s position in the batter’s box. He tried to conceal his nervousness
     by pretending he was Graig Nettles, gripping his bat so hard that his knuckles shone white. Sixty feet away from him, standing
     like a gargantuan on the mound, stood Bert Sweeney, the Finches’ ace right-hander.
    Bert fired two pitches that the ump calledstrikes, getting well ahead of Bobby to be able to waste a couple.
    But the next pitch was in there, too, and Bobby swung.
Crack!
The ball hopped like a rabbit through the hole between third and short, and Bobby was on.
    Glancing at the third-base coach, he got the sign he was hoping for. The steal sign.
    “Hey, Fox! Let’s see what you can do now!” yelled a voice from the first-base bleachers.
    Bobby didn’t have to turn around to see whose voice that was. It belonged to one of the two longhaired kids who had watched
     him practice base stealing. He should have known they would be here today.
    Bert got on the mound, stretched, looked over his shoulder. Bobby, leading off as far as he dared, waited for that right moment,
     that split second that could make the difference between success and failure.
    Swiftly, Bert stepped off the rubber and whipped the ball to first. Bobby got back, hardly a fraction of a second in time.
    “Watch it, Bobby,” warned Snoop Myers, the first-base coach.
    The first basemen tossed the ball back to Bert. Once again Bert got ready to hurl, and Bobby got ready to run. This time Bert
     fired his pitch in, and Bobby took off. Dirt sprayed from the heels of his shoes as he sprinted for his target, second base.
     He lost his cap and helmet as he slid into the bag, hooking it with his foot long before the second baseman tagged him with
     the ball.
    “Yay! Thataboy, Fox!” yelled the long-haired kid, as other fans joined in with a chorus of cheers.
    Bobby rose to his feet, brushed himself off, and looked toward the third-base coach, Hank Spencer. Hank was looking toward
     the bench, getting the sign from Coach Tarbell. In a moment his attention was back to Bobby. He went through some crazy signs
     that meant nothing, indicating that Bobby was to play it safe.
    Eddie Boyce, batting, slammed a two-one pitch over second, and Bobby raced to third and then home as if a dozen bears were
     on his tail.
    Billy Trollop grounded out, but Andy Sanders kept the spark alive by blasting a double to deep left. The Finches’ left fielder
     rifled the ball in to third as Eddie touched the bag and headed for home.
    “Hey, get back, you idiot!” Hank yelled at him. “Get back here!”

7
    T he third baseman whipped the ball home just as Eddie slid on his posterior in a valiant effort to bring himself to a stop.
     Reversing direction, he half ran, half crawled back to the bag. With a last gallant effort he stretched out his hand and touched
     the bag a fraction of a second before the Finches’ third-sacker caught the ball and tagged him.
    “Safe!” roared the base umpire.
    The third-sacker stared at the ump. “What?” he shouted, started to argue, then seemed to have second thoughts about it and
     turned away.
    “You goon,” said Hank to Eddie, who had risen to his feet and was brushing the dirt off his pants. “Didn’t you see me signaling
     you to stop?”
    “I thought you were signaling me to keep going,” said Eddie.
    “Oh, man,” Hank moaned, striking his