Mystery Coach by Matt Christopher Page B

here earlier than usual.
     He probably hadn’t slept a wink all night, thinking about that phone call.
    “Yes, he’s up,” said Mom. “He’s having breakfast. Have you had yours?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    Chris leaned over and peered through the dining room doorway. “Hi, Tex.”
    Tex’s real name was Sherman. The kids called him Tex because he hailed from Texas.
    “Hi,” he said.
    “Tex got a phone call from some guy last night,” he said to his mother. “He called to tell Tex what he wasn’t doing right
     at third base.”
    “Oh?” Mom’s eyebrows lifted. “Who was he?”
    “He wouldn’t tell me,” replied Tex.
    “That’s funny,” she said.
    “Sure is,” said Chris. He wiped his mouth, left the table and headed for the door. “We’re just going outside, Mom.”
    “I rode my bike,” said Tex. “Get yours and let’s ride awhile.”
    As if the word “bike” was a signal, Chris’s dog, Patches, began barking excitedly. Hewas tied to his house near the fence dividing the Richardses from their neighbors.
    Chris grinned. “Okay if he comes along?”
    “Why not?” said Tex. “He always does, doesn’t he?” He laughed, and Chris went to unsnap the chain from Patches’ collar. Patches,
     a small, lean dog chock-full of energy, leaped up and licked Chris’s face, then followed Chris to the bike leaning against
     the garage wall.
    “Wish I had his energy,” said Tex. “Maybe I’d do better at third base.”
    “Get a collar and I’ll chain you to Patches’ house for a day,” replied Chris.
    They rode along the side of the street, turning carefully into the line of traffic only when a parked car was in their way.
     Patches trailed behind them like a faithful rear guard.
    “I wonder how that guy knew you weren’t playing your position right,” said Chris. “Ididn’t see anybody watching us practice yesterday, did you?”
    “No. That’s what gets me.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said I should bend my knees more on grounders and should hold my glove closer to my body instead of reaching out for the
     ball,” replied Tex.
    Chris looked at him. “Did his voice sound familiar to you?”
    “Not a bit. Anyway, he didn’t talk long. He probably realized I was nervous talking with a stranger, because I didn’t do more
     than mumble a couple of times.”
    “He give his name?”
    “No. I mentioned it to my father. He said if the guy calls again to hang up unless he gives his name.”
    “I wonder if he called any of the other guys, too,” said Chris.
    “Maybe. But how would he know who they were? That’s what gets me.”
    “Yeah. Gets me, too,” admitted Chris.
    They rode to Chris’s father’s gas station, and told him about the call. He was under a car on the lift, giving it a lubrication
     job.
    “You’re sure there was no one sitting under a tree in the outfield?” he asked. He was a tall, strapping man with oil smudges
     on his face. “Somebody had to be watching you fellows practice.”
    Chris thought hard, but couldn’t remember seeing anybody sitting or standing in the outfield. “Could be,” he said. “But I’m
     sure there was nobody out there, Dad.”
    “Well, you’ve probably heard the last of it, anyway,” said Dad.
    The boys returned home and started to play pitch and catch, and to talk about the phone call, when Steve Herrick and KenLane came around the corner of the house. The sight of them started Chris’s heart pounding.
    “Just throwing won’t help you on ground balls, Richards,” said Steve. “I don’t think hitting you grounders would help, either.”
    Then he laughed and headed for Chris’s bike, parked against the garage. He pulled it away, got on it, and rode it out of the
     driveway.
    “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” cried Chris.
    “Cool it,” grunted Steve. “I’m not going to steal it.”
    He rode out, pumping hard. Just then Patches began barking furiously. Ordinarily Chris would have yelled “Patches,” but he