Mystery Coach

Books by Matt Christopher

THE LUCKY BASEBALL BAT

BASEBALL PALS

BASKETBALL SPARKPLUG

TWO STRIKES ON JOHNNY

LITTLE LEFTY

TOUCHDOWN FOR TOMMY

LONG STRETCH AT FIRST BASE

BREAK FOR THE BASKET

TALL MAN IN THE PIVOT

CHALLENGE AT SECOND BASE

CRACKERJACK HALFBACK

BASEBALL FLYHAWK

SINK IT, RUSTY

CATCHER WITH A GLASS ARM

WINGMAN ON ICE

TOO HOT TO HANDLE

THE COUNTERFEIT TACKLE

THE RELUCTANT PITCHER

LONG SHOT FOR PAUL

MIRACLE AT THE PLATE

THE TEAM THAT COULDN'T LOSE

THE YEAR MOM WON THE PENNANT

THE BASKET COUNTS

HARD DRIVE TO SHORT

CATCH THAT PASS!

SHORTSTOP FROM TOKYO

LUCKY SEVEN

JOHNNY LONG LEGS

LOOK WHO'S PLAYING FIRST BASE

TOUGH TO TACKLE

THE KID WHO ONLY HIT HOMERS

FACE-OFF

MYSTERY COACH

Copyright

COPYRIGHT © 1973 BY MATTHEW F. CHRISTOPHER

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER, EXCEPT BY A REVIEWER WHO MAY QUOTE BRIEF PASSAGES IN A REVIEW.

Hachette Book Group

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New York, NY 10017

Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

First eBook Edition: December 2009

ISBN: 978-0-316-09578-5

to

Florence Kramer

1

CHRIS RICHARDS stood near second base, wondering if the Blazers were going to have a team or fall apart before the season started.

He lifted his eyeglasses, scratched the bridge of his nose, and let them drop in place again. He didn't feel like practicing any more than he felt like walking across a hot desert. And he wasn't alone. Half of the guys on the team, felt the same way.

"Well — don't just stand there!" yelled Steve Herrick from first base at Jack Davis, the batter. "Swing that club, will you?"

If anybody could get irritable, it was Steve.

Chris looked at Coach Tony Edson, a short, frail-looking man who Chris found hard to believe was a former semipro baseball player. He wore a baseball cap and sweatshirt, and looked like a coach, but he was far from acting like one. You would expect a coach to give the boys instructions once in awhile. How to change their batting stances if they weren't hitting well, for example. Or how to change their fielding habits if they weren't fielding well.

Not him. All he'd done so far was to say, "Scatter out on the field, boys. Two or three of you bat. Hit five and bunt. Lewis, get on the mound." And he hadn't said more than three or four words since.

Coach Edson never said much anyway, but Chris remembered that it was the coach who had helped him on his batting last year. Chris used to stand too far from the plate and kept his bat on his shoulder. "Stand closer to the plate, Chris," Coach Edson had said. "And hold the bat a few inches off your shoulder. Don't just let it rest there."

Something was different about Coach Edson this year. He was quieter than he'd ever been.

Jack Davis finally got his hits, then bunted a pitch down the third-base line. He dropped the bat, pulled his glove out of his hip pocket, and ran out to cover shortstop.

Two boys headed for the plate at the same time, Tex Kinsetta and Spike Dunne.

"I was waiting longer than you," snorted Tex.

"So?" said Spike.

Coach Edson was sitting in the dugout, writing on a pad. He didn't seem to notice what was going on.

"Oh, knock it off, will you?" shouted Steve. "Let's get the show moving!"

Coach Edson looked up. "Stop arguing, boys," he said. "Bat, Tex."

Glumly, Spike moved back, and Tex stepped into the batting box. Chris looked at Steve and saw the tall, dark-haired youth turn and shake his head.

Steve Herrick was the oldest boy on the team and the best player, too. Time and time again his hitting and fielding had helped the Blazers win ball games last year. But it was really Coach Edson who had made the Blazers a well-knit team. It was he who had kept them from going into the dumps when they lost. It was he who had given wise counsel when they were in a tough spot. They couldn't possibly have done well without him.

Why was he so different now? What was wrong? Was he ill? He looked healthy enough.

Tex took his cuts, then dropped his bat, got his glove, and ran out to third base. Chris decided that he'd better take his batting practice now too, before the coach called for infield practice.

He trotted off the field, tossed his glove aside, and went to the pile of bats. He picked out one he liked, slipped a metal "doughnut" over the handle to the fat part of the bat, and swung the club back and forth a few times over his shoulders. When he removed the weight, the bat felt like a feather.

Steve Herrick trotted in, too.

"What's up with Coach?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," answered Chris.

"Maybe he's tired of coaching us."

"Maybe. But he'd say so, wouldn't he?"

"It seems so."

Chris watched the tall first baseman pick up a bat. "This will be your second time at bat, won't it?" he asked.

"Yeah. Why not — if he doesn't say anything?"

"Well, we should have infield practice, too. And outfield."

"He's the coach," grunted Steve, looking briefly in Coach Edson's direction. "Not me. And not you, either."

Chris caught the implication, but carried it no further. He didn't want to put a chip on Steve's shoulder, a thing too easy to do.