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you?”
    Scarcely had the words left Walt’s lips when the bell began to shrill.
    “George! Throw it, will you?”
    Quickly, George reared back and once again fired the ball, aiming at the target Walt was giving him. Breathlessly he watched,
     wondering if the ball was going to repeat its fantastic performance. It was shooting straight as a bullet toward the outside
     of Walt’s glove. Then, suddenly, it cut sharply to the left,curved up, shot to the right exactly as it did before! Walt was a little better in getting a glove on it than Eddie. The
     ball struck his thumb and
then
his chest.
    “You did it again, George!” screamed Walt.
    “What kind of a pitch is it?” asked Eddie excitedly. “What do you call it, George?”
    George’s brows rose as far as they could go. “Kind of pitch?” he asked. “How should I know?” And then he turned and ran toward
     the open door of the school. “Come on! The bell’s rung!” he cried over his shoulder.
    At practice that afternoon it didn’t take Coach Bobo Wilson more than ten seconds to recognize outstanding performance when
     he saw it. He was even satisfied by the brief rejoinder, “I don’t know,” to his question: “Where and how did you learn to
     throw that crazy curve?” The coach even had to teach George how to stand on the rubber when the neophyte pitcher prepared
     to make his delivery. George had never played baseball in his life and didn’t know any of the rules.
    “Just throw that ball over the plate and don’t balk,” said Coach Wilson. “Those are the only rules you have to worry about,
     kid! Keep pitching like that and you’ll break our losing streak!”
    Barton High was Jefferson’s first opponent. The game was on a Tuesday, right after school, and a crowd had assembled even
     before the teams got onto the field. Evidently word of George Maxwell Jones and his crazy curve ball had spread like wildfire.
     The sky was overcast, the air warm, and George’s wrist, although the bump had not changed in shape or size, felt fine.
    The teams had their pregame warm-up, and Jefferson took the field. The coach had procured the biggest mitt he could find for
     Walt to catch George’s throws. George lobbed three pitches with just enough thrust to get them to the catcher. Then Walt pegged
     to second and the umpire shouted: “Play ball!”
    George waited for the batter to step into the box. He was prickling with excitementas he got in position on the mound exactly as Coach Wilson had instructed him. He stood tall as a giant, a proud glimmer
     in his eyes. He remembered dreaming about this.
    Without winding up George reared back, lifted his left leg high, brought his arm around and released the ball with only part
     of his strength. It was silly to throw any harder than he had to, yet.
    The ball shot straight for the plate. Unless it switched plans it would be a perfect strike, or be lambasted for a long hit.
     Then, about two-thirds of the way, it shot into its crazy pattern. The batter, who had prepared to swing at a beautiful straight
     ball, stared.
    “Strike!” said the umpire as the ball corkscrewed over the plate.
    The ball struck the edge of Walt’s mitt and dropped to the ground. Walt picked it up hastily and tossed it back to George.
    “Thataway, George, ol’ boy! Beautiful pitch! Beautiful!”
    George rubbed the ball with satisfaction, stepped on the mound and threw again. Thistime the ball favored the outside corner. Was it actually too far out? It was hard to tell, but it made no difference. The
     batter swung at it for strike two.
    “Time!” yelled the batter, holding up an angry hand at the umpire. “Take a look at the ball, ump! No baseball can do what
     that one’s doing!”
    Walt laughed. “Sure! Here, look at it!”
    The umpire took the ball from Walt, curled it around in his hand, and said, “If it’s a trick ball, I can’t see it. Anyway,
     here’s another one.”
    He took a brand new baseball out of his pocket, handed