"Easy picking," chanted Tim. "He couldn't hit it with a fence post. Come
on, now."

The second signal was for an in. Don pitched. The batter tightened his
muscles to swing, changed his mind, and allowed his arms to grow limp.
And the ball that looked as though it would be outside the plate,
suddenly broke inward and crossed the corner.

"Strike two!" ruled the umpire.

The batter looked annoyed. And as for Don, a wave of gladness ran through
his veins. His curves were working, and this batter didn't seem to be any
harder to pitch to than some high school players he had faced.

Tim called for pitch-outs on the next two, hoping that the batter would
"bite." The Glenrock player, though, seemed to have become cautious. Then
Don pitched a drop, and the batter hit a bit too high and sent a grounder
toward third base, and was thrown out.

The next batter caught the first ball pitched and hammered it to center
field for a base.

Don's lips twitched. He wondered if the runner would try to steal, and if
he would be too green to hold him close to the bag. Ted motioned him to
play the plate.

Tim signaled for a pitch-out, or waste ball. He pitched.

The catcher had shrewdly judged that Glenrock would try to steal the