Coach Amos Read online

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  YEARLING BOOKS/YOUNG YEARLINGS/YEARLING CLASSICS are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor’s degree from Marymount College and a master’s degree in history from St. John’s University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.

  For a complete listing of all Yearling titles,

  write to Dell Readers Service,

  P.O. Box 1045, South Holland, IL 60473.

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1994 by Gary Paulsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-80381-8

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Yearling Books You Will Enjoy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Amos Binder was sitting on a bench in the hall outside the principal’s office. He had chewed off every fingernail on both hands down to the nub.

  His lifetime best friend, Duncan—Dunc—Culpepper was waiting with him. “Don’t worry, Amos. It can’t be that bad.”

  “You didn’t see Ms. Fishbeck after the accident. I’ve never seen anybody so mad. She told her secretary it was too bad public hanging is illegal.”

  “Tell me again how it happened.”

  “I was on my way to Mr. Finsky’s English class. I had plenty of time, so I stopped over there to get a drink.” Amos pointed at a water fountain across from the principal’s office.

  “Then what?”

  “Then I heard the phone. I knew I had to get it on the outside chance it was Melissa calling to tell me why she wasn’t in school today.”

  “Outside would definitely be the word for it all right.”

  Amos’s girlfriend was Melissa Hansen. Only she didn’t know it. In fact, she didn’t know him. To Melissa, Amos sort of blended in with things: the wallpaper, the wall, the scenery.… But he was sure, every time a phone rang, any phone, that Melissa had finally discovered her love for him and had decided to call.

  “Anyway,” Amos continued, “you know how she likes me to get it on that all-important first ring.”

  Dunc nodded. He knew that since Melissa had never called Amos, she couldn’t care less what ring he answered it on. “How much damage did you do this time?”

  “Well, it all depends on how you look at it. I don’t know if the office door counts. That could have happened to anybody. The glass in that door was just waiting to fall out. And I didn’t actually ruin the secretary’s desk. She was pouring toner into the copy machine when I pole-vaulted over the counter with the coat rack. I guess she got a little excited and forgot where she was pouring it. It really did a job on her computer.”

  “Is that it?”

  “The rest wasn’t totally my fault, either. My sights were set on the phone. My jump was classic. Only I forgot about the aquarium on the other side of the counter. I caught it with the toe of my tennis shoe. All fifty gallons tipped over on the brand-new carpeting that the student council just bought. Good carpet—it soaked every bit of that water up in nothing flat.”

  “Did you ever make it to the phone?”

  Amos shook his head. “Mrs. Snipe, the secretary, lost it completely and pulled the phone out of the wall when she went for the principal.”

  Dunc stood up. “Well, I’ll come to your funeral. See ya.”

  “Wait.” Amos grabbed his arm. “I thought you were going to help me get through this.”

  “The way I see it, she’s going to kill you. No way around it. It might be better if I wait for you outside. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Dunc. You always know how to reassure a guy.”

  “Mr. Binder.”

  Amos looked up. A tall woman with beady eyes and glasses that slid halfway down her long thin nose was standing in the door, thumping a ruler into the palm of her hand. It sounded like a guillotine hitting meat.

  “Yes, Ms. Fishbeck. I’m coming.” Amos slowly stood up. He took a step toward the office lobby, turned, and dived for Dunc’s legs. “Please don’t leave me.”

  “Amos, let go. I can’t walk.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Amos.”

  “I’ll never ask you for anything as long as I live—which may not be long—just come in with me. She won’t be able to do anything violent if you’re watching.”

  Dunc sighed. “Oh, all right. But”—he held up one finger—“I’ll sit in the lobby.”

  “Ye-es!” Amos pulled him in the door and whispered, “If you hear anything that sounds the least little bit like child abuse, don’t hesitate to call the police.”

  “I’m waiting, Mr. Binder,” Ms. Fishbeck snapped.

  Amos took a couple of steps toward her office. He turned and gave Dunc his most pitiful look.

  Dunc motioned for him to go on.

  Amos took a deep breath, threw his shoulders back, and marched through the door like a condemned man.

  “Close the door, Mr. Binder.” Ms. Fishbeck’s glasses slipped down her nose, and she watched Amos over the top of them.

  Amos pointed at the door. “This door? This one right here? You don’t want this door closed, Ms. Fishbeck—because—because—of the poor circulation. That’s it. People really should have more incoming fresh air and—”

  “CLOSE THE DOOR!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Amos pushed the door. It slammed shut.

  “Mr. Binder.”

  Amos jumped back. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please have a seat.”

  Amos swiftly moved to the chair in front of her desk and perched on the edge. He started chewing what was left of the tatters of his fingernails.

  Ms. Fishbeck opened a notebook. She studied the contents. “Ummm-huh.” She tapped the ruler on the desk while she read.

  Amos looked out the window. This is it, he thought. I’ll never see blue sky again. She’s thought of some awful punishment. Probably spit-shining the halls with a Q-tip. No, I bet it’s worse—the toilets in the boys’ gym.

  “Mr. Binder, I like to consider myself a fair person. I’ve reviewed your case from every possible angle and still cannot ma
ke sense of what happened here this morning.”

  Amos stood. He put one hand in his jacket and paced the floor, lawyer style. “It’s really very simple, Ms. Fishbeck. You see, I had a personal phone call and was on my way to answer it, when—”

  “SIT DOWN!”

  Amos lunged for the chair.

  “Mr. Binder.” Ms. Fishbeck started the tapping again. “You may not be aware of this, but you have set a record—for the most public property destroyed in the least amount of time.”

  Amos chewed his lip. “That’s not good, is it?”

  “No. It isn’t. The school district frowns on this sort of behavior. It sets a bad example for the rest of the students. I have discussed your case with the school board, and we have agreed on your punishment.”

  Amos backed out of Ms. Fishbeck’s office. “Yes, ma’am. Right away. You can count on me. You won’t be sorry.” He turned, grabbed Dunc’s arm, and pulled him out to the hall.

  “How did it go?” Dunc asked. “I didn’t hear any screaming.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “What did she do to you?”

  “She told me I was a bad example. She wants me to do something for the school district to help pay for the damages and to set a good example for the other students.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it sort of involves you.”

  Dunc stopped. “Wait a minute. I didn’t trash the office. I wasn’t even around.”

  “I know. But I told Ms. Fishbeck that since you were my best friend, I was sure you’d want to help me in this little project. She was thrilled that you would volunteer.”

  “Amos, I didn’t volunteer. I don’t even know what you’re doing. And besides, you said if I went in the office with you, you’d never ask me for anything else—in your whole life.”

  Amos waved his hand. “Details. Here’s the deal. The school board agrees to let me off without paying anything if I—no, I mean we—agree to coach one of the district’s T-ball teams.”

  Dunc stared at him for a few minutes. Then he turned and walked down the hall and out the double doors to the bicycle rack.

  When Amos finally caught up with him, Dunc was halfway home. He pedaled up next to him. “You are going to help me with this, aren’t you?”

  “Amos, T-ball means kids. Little kids. And parents. Big, pushy parents. Didn’t she give you any other choices?”

  “Well, she did say something about detention hall until I graduate from college. But this seemed better.”

  “When are you supposed to start?”

  “We start tomorrow. Our team’s first game is in a week.”

  Dunc pedaled up an incline. “Do you know anything about T-ball?”

  “Sure. You put a ball on this thing, and then you hit it and run around the bases. Easy.”

  Dunc coasted into his driveway. He stepped off his bike and walked it into the garage. Amos followed, except he dropped his bike on Dunc’s front lawn. It bounced once and rolled backward down across the lawn, tipping two garbage cans where the garbage men had left them. Amos watched the bike and shrugged.

  “You haven’t said for definitely sure that you’re going to help me on this yet. You are, aren’t you?” Amos asked.

  Dunc sighed. “Amos, how do you manage to get into these things?”

  “Well, I heard a phone ring and I thought it was for me, and—”

  “Never mind.”

  Dunc was trying to read the T-ball handbook and ride his bike at the same time. “It says here that you only play four innings per game.”

  “That’s good. The shorter the better.”

  “Amos, don’t you think you should study the rules a little before we get there?”

  “How hard can it be? We’re talking five- and six-year-olds.”

  “They’re going to expect you to know something.”

  “Duncan Culpepper. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? In baseball trading card circles, I am known as the king.”

  “There’s a slight difference between collecting baseball cards and dealing with little kids.” Dunc slid the book into his pocket and stopped in front of Posey’s Sporting Goods. “It’s nice of Mr. Posey to sponsor our team. He doesn’t even have any kids playing.”

  Amos locked his bike. “Advertising. The sponsor provides caps and jerseys with their store’s name on them for advertising.”

  “Still, it’s nice.” Dunc headed into the store.

  Mr. Posey was a short heavyset man with gray hair. When he moved, he breathed like a freight train. He said it was from emphysema. But Amos thought, because of the way Mr. Posey’s stomach hung over his belt, it was from too many Twinkies.

  Mr. Posey was working on a football display. “Can I help you boys?”

  “Ms. Fishbeck, from school, said you were sponsoring a T-ball team this year,” Amos said.

  Mr. Posey stood up. “As a matter of fact, I am. Or I was until Coach Sanders resigned.”

  Amos smiled proudly. “We’re the new coaches of the team you’re sponsoring. Our first practice is today. Ms. Fishbeck said you had the jerseys and equipment.”

  Mr. Posey rubbed his chin and studied the boys. “Have you ever coached T-ball before?”

  Amos put his arm around Dunc. “My friend here is a walking encyclopedia of T-ball facts. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Dunc moved out of Amos’s reach. “Mr. Posey, why did Coach Sanders resign?”

  “It was a sudden decision. Turns out it was for the best, though. Two days later, he wound up in the hospital. He’ll be laid up for a while.”

  Amos looked at his watch. “I guess we’d better go, Mr. Posey. If you could get that equipment for us …”

  “Oh, sure, son. Hang on. It’s in the back. Won’t take me a minute.” Mr. Posey headed for the storeroom. The sound of his breathing filled the store.

  Amos noticed Dunc staring off into space. He’d seen that look. That was the look that always started something—the one that meant trouble.

  “What is it this time?” Amos asked.

  Dunc blinked. “What?”

  “You know. That inquiring-minds-want-to-know look.”

  “Since you asked, it’s Coach Sanders. Why would he resign like that on such short notice? And why has it been so hard to get a replacement?”

  “This is so like you. It wouldn’t matter what we were doing, you would find some way to turn it into a big deal. It’s what you live for.”

  Dunc shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to check into it.”

  Mr. Posey came back carrying a duffel bag. He handed it to Amos. “All the equipment’s in here. I’ll have the jerseys and caps ready by your first game. You boys let me know if you need anything else. Good luck. Oh, I almost forgot—from what I hear, you’ll be needing this.” He handed Amos a chain with a silver whistle on the end.

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to take turns carrying this thing?” Amos held the heavy duffel bag on his lap while he tried to pedal. First one knee smashed into it and then the other.

  “We’re nearly there, Amos. Ames Elementary School is up one block and around the corner.”

  “I know where it is. But in the meantime this thing is making mush out of my knees.”

  Dunc swerved to avoid a pothole. “It’s all part of being a coach. You have to be tough.”

  “I thought you said you were going to help me with the coaching.”

  “I don’t remember saying that. What I said was, how do you get into these things? Anyway, we’re here. And there’s your team.”

  Amos looked out on the field. Six little kids were lined up on one side and four on the other. They were throwing rocks and dirt clods at each other as fast as they could pick them up. Somebody’s mom was yelling at them, but they weren’t paying any attention.

  Amos dragged the duffel bag onto the field. The kids kept throwing things. The mom that had been doing all the yelling ran over to Dunc and Amos. “Can’t you do something? Someone’s going to get hurt
out there! I’m Mrs. Johnson, the team mom for this week. I don’t want anybody hurt on my time.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Amos said. He pulled the whistle out and blew. A rock sailed through the air and hit him right between the eyes. He went down like a lead weight.

  “Amos, are you okay?” Dunc was fanning him with one of the mitts.

  Amos opened his eyes and rubbed the purple goose egg on his forehead. “What happened?”

  The kids and Mrs. Johnson were all hovering over him in a circle.

  “Precious hit you with a rock. But she’s real sorry. And the team is sorry—now that I’ve explained things to them.”

  “Things?” Amos sat up. “What things?”

  “You know. How if they’re good and try real hard, you’re going to buy pizza after every game.”

  “What? I never—”

  “Thank you, coach. We never had a coach nice as you before. I love pizza. It’s my favoritist thing.” A chubby little girl with a dirty face put her arms around Amos. “Do you forgive me for throwing that rock at you?”

  Amos looked at her. “You’re Precious?”

  The little girl nodded.

  Dunc grinned at him. “What now, coach?”

  Amos shrugged and stood up. “I guess I start saving my allowance for pizza. Okay. Let’s play some ball. Who knows how to play T-ball?”

  Silence.

  “Nobody?” Amos asked. “Didn’t Coach Sanders teach you how to play?”

  Mrs. Johnson stepped over. “I don’t think he ever got them to settle down long enough to explain the rules.”

  Amos looked at Dunc. “We have less than a week until our first game, and these kids don’t even know how to play?”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Maybe you ought to teach them how to play.”

  Amos made a face. “Thanks.” He stepped over to the equipment bag and pulled out the mitts, balls, and the bat. “Okay. Everybody listen up. In this game you hit the ball with this little bat. Then you run as hard as you can to first base. Who wants to try it first?”

  Ten hands went up.

  Amos pointed at one of the boys—a redhead with freckles covering every inch of him. “What’s your name?”