CHEMICALS FOR AGRICULTURE

June-Julv. 1961 37

By Neal

ISeitzel

IT

noon.

^{HAD BEEN} Even

the^along,sun ^tensewas fading^after- intothe thick whitefluffsof clouds bordering the horizon, as if weary of beaming uponthe baseball ^field.

Long

shadows covered the base paths, and the

shudow

of the scoreboard beyond right field nearlyreachedthebleachers.

Hunched

onthebenchinthe dugout, Bruce Richards stared at the board.

The

championship-deciding

game

be- tween Spencer High and the Rutledge

Highnine wasstill ascorelessdeadlock

after ten innings of play.

Coach Rowan,

his leathery features carefully expressionless, sauntered acrossthe dugoutto stand in front of Bruce.

"How's the

arm

holding up?" he asked quietly.

Brucegrinned easily.

He

winkedat the coach.

"The

old iron

man

doesn't gettired."

oneof Bruce'steammates said proudly.

"Don'tworry aboutBruce,Coach!"

There were twooutsinthetop of the eleventh.

The hometown

fans cheered hoarsely as

Hunk

Davis, the stocky, broad-faced

Spencer High

catcher, chugged safely into third after a sharp single toleftfieldbythethirdbaseman.

The

cheers

became

shrieks andjubilant yells asJohn Turner,thequiet, unspec- tacular center fielder,waited out a full count, then

slammed

out a bounding grounder throuehthe holebetween first

and secondbase!

What

mattered if the next Spencer batter whiffed ingloriously. retiring the side? SpencerHigh was goinginto the bottom halfof the eleventh with a big run showing on the

shadowy

score- board!

"Yea. Iron

Man!"

screamed the brightlv-clad cheerleaders.

"One, two. three!

You

can do it.

Iron

Man!"

shouted the tall, husky young pitcher'scomrades as thev trot- ted confidently into their positions.

Bruce Richards walkedslowlyto the

mound.

For perhaps the first time in his life, he wasn't sure: didn't

know

if

he couldeven

summon

the strength to raise hisright arm,letalone deliver the blistering fast ball or sharply-breaking curve required to quell the next three hitters.

Bruce was proud of his nickname.

He'd earned it on the football field during his sophomore season, and his athletic prowess in the seasons that followed

—

basketball, baseball,track as wellasfootball

—

polished thenickname and

made

him astar.

A

hero!

Hunk

Davis squatted behind the plate, his wide face flushed and dirt- streaked as he grinned out at Bruce, poundinghis mitt. "Justput'emwhere 38

V

Itwasimpossible not to think

how

im- portant each pitch was.

He

leaned into the forward motion and threw.

I call "em!" the big backstop begged.

"Like you always do. Iron

Man!"

Bruce

summoned

hisold familiar easy grin.

Somehow,

it felttwisted, stiffon his lean, good-looking face.

"You

haven't got a no-hitter, yet!"

Steve Benson taunted loudly, scowling atBruce.

The brawny

blond Rutledge hurlerhad been Bruce'srivalever since their first clash on the gridiron two years ago.

He

still hadn't forgotten

how

Bruce had pivoted, then whipped past his clutching fingers during that

game

to score the winning touchdown.

Several other Rutledge players, in- cluding the lank, dark-haired hitter standing at the plate, turned to glare at their teammate. Steve Benson ^ig- noredtheirwarningglances.

He

cupped hishands.

"When

Igetuptotheplate, I'm going to blast the iron

man

into thejunk pile!"he bellowed harshly.

After pitching ten full innings of no-hitball, Brucealreadyfelt readvfor the junk pile.

He knew

that

Coach Rowan

would never take

him

out, though.

The

elderly coach was sitting calmly on the bench. So was rangy sandy-haired

Dave

Pagel, the Spencer Highreliefhurler.

Bruce sighed,

commanding

his right

arm

to return to action as the umpire crouched in back of

Hunk

Davis and yelled, "Play ball!"

The

first pitchwas a high,hard fast ball.

As

it thudded into Hunk's wait- ing mitt,the

ump

called, "Strike one!''

An

approvingcheer was launched by the excited, expectant crowd.

They

would cheer every pitch now, Bruce realized. It was the first no-hit ball

game

most of the local spectators had ever watched. Bruce frowned, trying not tothinkabout

how

close he wasto the peak of glory; tried not to think about the trio of major league scouts

Coach Rowan

had introduced to the team just before the

game

began. Al- though they'd seemed only casuallyin- terested while they talked with Bruce and the other young men. Bruce was aware of the purpose for their visit.

They

were scouting him.

One

of them,thechubby,semi-bald

man named

Mr. Harkness, had talked with

him

earlier inthe season,had hintedvague-

ly about the possibility of a major leaguetry-out aftergraduation.

Now,

here it was.

The

final

game

(Continuedon Page40)

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{Continued from Page 38) of the season for the school

—

^{the last}

game

Bruce Richards and the other seniors would play for Spencer High.

Winning the conference championship as a final tribute totheschooland asa glowing

memory

for retiring

Coach Rowan

tokeep forever; thesewere the other reasons

why

bowing out with a victorious no-hitter meant so much.

It was impossible not to think how- important each pitch was. Bruce frowned, tuggingat the hill of his red cap.

He

rockedback, hisarms locked behind his head.

He

leaned into the forward motionand threw.

The

sizzling pellet smacked into

Hunk's waiting glove as the Rutledge batter

swung

too late. "Strike two!"

bawled the portly umpire. Again the crowdedfield

came

alivewith cheers.

Hunk

Davis lobbed the ball out to Bruce. Toeing the

mound,

the tall, black-haired

young

pitcher willed his numbly-aching right

arm

into motion again.

The

pitch floated in with de- ceptive slowness, but the batter wasn't fooled by the slow-breaking outside curve. "Ball one!" intoned theump.

Briefly, Bruce's dark

brown

eyes

roamed

the stands to the right of the plate.

He

sawthatlovelyGloria Trent

was still sitting with two other

young

women. As

school big wheel, Bruce never had trouble securing attractive companions for skatingsessions, hikes.

RUGGED ^IS