by Josh Berk
“Jeez,” I whispered to Other Mike. “Way to make me look bad, kid.”
“You’re still the best,” he said.
The whole crowd stayed quiet. And then there was a recognizable squeak over the loudspeaker. Well, it was recognizable to me. It was the noise that the microphone made when you bumped into it or dropped it or something. I looked up at the booth. There, joining the short guy with the amazing singing voice, was someone in a Schwenkfelder uniform! I saw the maroon hat and jersey, but I couldn’t tell who it was. The microphone clicked.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is the Great Imperial Ashwell speaking.” I looked over to the Schwenkfelder dugout and saw Coach Zo shaking his head. He was also turning bright red and his eyes were bugging out of his skull. “I see an enormous number of you have come today to see the Great Imperial Ashwell pitch. How would you like to have me go to the mound and strike out every batter I face?”
If he was expecting applause, he didn’t get it. A few people from the Griffith side booed. A few people laughed. Mostly people looked uncomfortable. Even Hunter’s own team looked embarrassed. I couldn’t tell what Mike was thinking because he had pulled his catcher’s mask on. I imagined that he was rolling his eyes.
“What was that?” Other Mike said. “Great Imperial Ashwell? Sounds awesome.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s really rude to be so cocky, don’t you think?”
“I guess,” Other Mike said. “But I have a job to do.”
“Good luck looking for Truck, Truck,” I said.
“Got it, Truck,” he said.
Other Mike really was a good friend. He was braver than people gave him credit for. And cooler than people gave him credit for. Basically, people didn’t give him credit for anything, but he ruled. “You rule, Other Mike,” I said. He nodded.
And with that, he was off. He started walking really slowly, taking huge steps like he was sneaking up on someone. I rolled my eyes and laughed.
Hunter continued on with his pregame rant. “I’m going to take my time. I have a few things to say and they can’t start the game without me. It’s funny what a few no-hitters can do for a man. They make you feel goood. So good I think I’m going to throw another one here tonight! I’m about to debut a pitch never seen by this generation, or any generation. So please, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy.”
We were the visiting team, so that meant we batted first. Turned out they could start the game without Hunter. The home team took the field. Byron Lucas was hitting leadoff and was all ready to step into the batter’s box. But he was waiting for the go-ahead from Coach Zo, and Coach Zo was nowhere to be seen. I searched the field and found him—of all places—on Griffith’s bench. Well, he wasn’t sitting on the bench, he was leaning up against it, deep in conversation with Coach Fenner of the Griffins. Coach Moyer looked around. The umpire walked over there, apparently to ask if there was a problem. Coach Zo held up a finger like “just a moment,” then finished his conversation.
What was that about? Was Coach Fenner mad because of Hunter? It was hard to read his face. He was one of those guys who always looked mad, like Mr. Webb.
Coach Zo strode back across the field, his hands in his pockets. He never looked mad. He looked as calm and cool as always. Finally, the coaches were in their spots. The pitcher was on the mound. Hunter was back in the dugout. The umpire yelled, “Play ball!” Then he threw the ball to the Griffith pitcher, who I recognized as Jagdish Sheth. If Jagdish was upset by Hunter’s antics, he didn’t show it. He just pulled his hat low over his eyes and started to pitch.
I began announcing in my head.
Jagdish Sheth takes the hill for the Griffith Griffins. They’re looking for revenge after being blanked in the historic perfect game to open the season against their visitors today, the Schwenkfelder Mustangs. Sheth is not a big guy, but he has a decent fastball and good control. We’ve already had some theatrics today, as Hunter Ashwell pulled the unprecedented stunt of announcing his greatness into the microphone before the first pitch was thrown. Should be an interesting one .…
The top half of the first wasn’t that interesting, though. Not really. Our guys managed a hit and a walk against Jagdish, but Nathan Gub lined into a double play and the inning was over. The sides changed and Schwenkfelder headed onto the field. Mike took his customary spot behind the plate and Hunter fired a few warm-up tosses. I thought about his line the other day: “Get in there, brother. I don’t need no warm-ups for you!” Man, that must be really annoying if you’re on the other team. Especially because he could back it up.
Hunter’s pitches looked sharp in warm-ups. He fired one pitch over the inside corner, then another over the outside corner. He mixed the fast ones with the slow ones. He was ready.
The first batter stepped up to the plate and knocked the dirt out of his cleats with his bat. I almost felt bad for him. The odds of getting a hit are never that good, really. Even the best hitter fails to get a hit two out of every three times. And if you were facing a guy who pitched a perfect game against you only a week ago? Let’s just say that the Griffith Griffins could not have been feeling very positive about their chances.
But yet, as that first batter stepped into the batter’s box, I noticed something odd. He wasn’t cowering. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t upset. He had a definite glimmer in his eye, a definite hop to his step. And, unless I was mistaken, he was smiling.
I started to announce in my head.
The Schwenkfelder pitcher Hunter Ashwell is a little man with a big mouth and a bigger right arm. He’s been talking an even bigger game than usual today, but not without reason. He threw a perfect game against Griffith last time and claims he’ll do the same today. His warm-ups are sharp and he looks ready to roll.
Newts gives the sign. Ashwell nods. He rocks into his windup. Here’s the pitch and … Well, the perfect game is over. Johnny Vander Meer, your record is safe. There will be no back-to-back no-hitters here. That ball is gone, long gone over the scoreboard in center field. Hunter Ashwell looks shocked, absolutely shocked. He literally cannot believe what just happened. The first pitch of the game is a home run and a one-to-nothing lead for the Griffith Griffins.
Mike did a good job as catcher and went out to the mound to calm Hunter down. It didn’t seem to work, but that wasn’t Mike’s fault. He did what a catcher is supposed to do. Tell the pitcher to forget about it, get the next guy. Mike went back to his crouch behind the plate. The umpire threw Hunter a new ball. He caught it in his glove and stared at it like he didn’t even know what it was. Like some strange animal had fallen from the sky and taken up residence in his baseball mitt.
“You’ll get this guy,” I yelled from my spot in the stands, trying to offer some encouragement.
I was wrong.
Hunter didn’t get the next guy. Or the next guy. Or the guy after that. The first four hitters absolutely smashed the ball. They hit line drives all over the place. Two more runs scored. It was unbelievable! The score was three to nothing before the first out was even recorded. Both Robert and Trebor Fenner had hits. The fifth batter up, a lefty, hit a hard line drive too. But he hit it right at Kyle Webb, who caught it and stepped on first for a double play. Hunter sighed and settled down to get the sixth batter on a groundout. But it was hit hard. Everything was.
Schwenkfelder scratched out a run in the top of the second, but Griffith came right back swinging. They smacked line drive after line drive, one more of which went for a home run. The score was nine to one here in the bottom of the second inning. Griffith was going to win by the run rule if this kept up. The whoop rule going against us! With Hunter Ashwell on the mound! It was simply unbelievable.
Coach Zo had apparently seen enough. He went out to the mound to tell Hunter to hit the showers. A very surprised Noah Stewart was given the call to the mound. Noah wasn’t a bad player, but he was maybe the fifth-best pitcher on the team. There was no way he thought he’d get into a game Hunter was starting. But there he wa
s, on the mound, trying to salvage one for Schwenkfelder.
While Noah warmed up, Other Mike came back over and sat next to me on the bleachers.
“So what did you find?” I asked. “Any sign of the great Truck Durkin?”
“Not that I could see,” Other Mike said. “And I looked everywhere. Up trees, around the fence. I checked every single car. I don’t think he’s spying from a nearby building.”
“Good deduction,” I said. “Given that there are no nearby buildings.”
“Right,” Other Mike said. It was true. The only building nearby was the school, and it was pretty far away and not really tall enough to get an angle on the field from. “And my helper couldn’t find any signs of Truck either,” he added.
“Your helper?” I said. Other Mike pointed over toward the concession stands. Even from the backs of their heads I could recognize who was in line.
“Davis Gannett?” I said. “What is he doing here?”
“He likes to watch baseball games, I guess,” Other Mike said. “I agree with you, it’s a terribly strange way for a person to entertain themselves. But I suppose there is no accounting for taste.” He flashed that big, goofy Other Mike–ian smile.
“Very funny,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s weird that he keeps showing up? It’s like he’s stalking the team. It’s … creepy.”
“Yeah, Len,” Other Mike said. “Nothing ironic about you saying that.”
“Well, it’s different with me,” I said.
“Different how?”
“He got kicked off the team!”
“You were never on the team!”
“I’m the announcer!”
“Are you announcing today?”
“Just shut up, Other Mike,” I said. “And go back to looking for Truck.”
“He ain’t here,” Other Mike said. “I told you. Me and Davis looked everywhere.”
“Probably a good thing,” I said. “Did you see how Hunter got destroyed out there?”
“No,” Other Mike said. “I did not.”
Noah did okay as the new pitcher. He limited the damage. Schwenkfelder scored a few more runs, so the run rule wasn’t put into effect. Still, we were too far behind to come back. The final score was twelve to five, Griffith. Hunter’s stats for the day were the exact opposite of his first start. He had gone just one and one-third innings. He had given up nine runs on twelve hits. If he hadn’t lucked out on that double play, things could have been much, much worse.
A tough one here in Griffith, sports fans. Sometimes you’re perfect, sometimes you’re far from it .…
After the game, I went over to chat with Mike. Some of the guys were taking the bus back to school, but because his parents were there, he was going straight home with them. There was no celebratory pizza this day. We stood in the grass next to the field, leaning against the chain-link fence.
“Tough one,” I said.
“You got that right,” Mike said. His face was streaked with dirt and his hair was slick with sweat. He was sipping on a cup of water. He looked like he had been through a war. “I just don’t get it. How do you go from being perfect to being perfectly terrible?”
“Just a rough outing,” I said.
“You think?” Mike said.
“Sure,” I said. “Happens to everyone. Happens to the best pitchers in the world. Even could happen to the Great Imperial Ashwell.”
“Can you believe that stunt with the microphone?” Mike asked. “I thought Coach Zo was going to kill him.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t bench him,” I said.
“Me too,” Mike said. “I guess the rules are different for the great ones.”
“Or the formerly great ones,” I said. “Just kidding. He’ll get it back. You’ll get them next time. Just an unlucky break.”
Davis Gannett butted into the conversation. “Hey, you dork-buckets,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“No you’re not,” Mike said.
“Well, listen,” Davis spat. “Ain’t no way the massacre we just witnessed had anything to do with luck.”
Mike and I kept our mouths shut. We just stared at each other, then looked back at Davis.
“You think luck is going to turn a bunch of weak-hitting dork-buckets like the Griffith Griffins into a whole team of Babe Ruths? Luck has nothing to do with it.”
“What, then?” I said. “You can’t really blame Hunter. He’s been nothing but great all year.”
Davis sneered. “Yeah, the Great Imperial Ashwell has been great. He is great. But if and only if they don’t know what’s coming.”
“What are you saying?” Mike asked.
“That he ain’t good if they do know what is coming! Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“You know how to spell?” I said. It was mean.
Davis got right in my face. “You shut up, Lenny. I know a lot of things. And one thing I know for certain: Griffith was stealing your friend’s signs.”
“No way!” Mike said. “We have a secret system!”
“Well, the secret’s out,” Davis said. “You stink.”
For a moment I thought Mike was going to take a swing at Davis. But Coach Zo walked up and yelled, “Let’s go! Team meeting, pronto!”
I didn’t know what pronto meant, but you could tell by the way he said it that he was not joking around.
Other Mike and I got onto our bikes. I didn’t have the heart to make up wacky nicknames. I just glumly snapped on the helmet and started to pedal.
“Hey,” I said as we rode. “Where was Davis when you ran into him?”
“Here,” Other Mike said. “At the game.”
“No,” I said. “Where exactly was he?”
“Out by the fence,” he said. “Way out there.” He pointed toward center field.
“What was he doing out there?” I asked.
Other Mike shrugged. “He said he didn’t like sitting where everyone could see him. Said everyone kept giving him mean looks. I think he’s right. You and Mike are both pretty mean to him. I’m not sure why.”
“You’re not sure why?!” I yelled. “He’s been mean to us our whole lives!”
“Well, he’s different now,” Other Mike said, though Davis’s behavior just a few minutes ago was evidence to the contrary. “I thought you’d think it was a good thing that he was here to support the team or whatever.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed. “Support the team. Ha.”
That night, Mike called me. He wasn’t known for calling very much, so I could tell something was wrong.
“Hey, Newts,” I said.
“Hey, Len,” he said.
“Tough loss,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Knocks us out of first place.”
“Aren’t you tied, though?”
“I guess,” he said. “But we’re almost in last.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” I said. “It’s easy to fall from first place to last when there are only three teams in the league. Even last is only third. Hey, could you be tied for third? You’d be in first and last at the same time! Wait, I’m not sure—”
“Stop making fun of our league,” he said.
“Not making fun!”
There was a pause.
“So do you think there is any chance that Davis is right?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “You are definitely not a dork-bucket.”
“Not that! Do you think that someone is stealing our … stealing our signs?” He sounded like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He sounded ashamed. He sounded guilty.
“Well,” I said, trying to remain upbeat. “It’s certainly possible. I mean, don’t take it the wrong way or anything. It happens to lots of guys. Big-league catchers have it happen to them all the time. Remember how Pap was just talking about it in that interview the other day?”
Davey Pappenheimer was the Phillies manager. He was a little eccentric—which, according to my dad, is just a way of saying a rich person is crazy.
I don’t know if Pap is crazy, but he is pretty entertaining. Sample Pap quote: “Yeah, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. In fact, there’s six. And I’ve done all six. One I’ll never do again and I don’t recommend it and I’ll thank you never to bring it up again.” This was in a discussion regarding the hit-and-run.
I continued. “Pap was saying that the Mets are stealing signs from your boy Famosa. And you know he’s a crafty catcher. If the stupid Mets could steal signs from someone as crafty as Ramon Famosa, it could happen to anyone.”
“But we have a system!” he said. “Hunter and I worked with Coach Zo to make a secret system. It’s the most secret system of all secret systems.”
“As you have mentioned,” I said. He seriously has mentioned it about a million times.
“I won’t even tell you, and you’re my best friend!”
“Thanks,” I said. It was nice to hear. I kind of did wish he would tell me their system, but I wasn’t going to push it.
It was silent for a minute. Neither of us knew what to say.
“I’ll take the case,” I said.
“What?”
“The case,” I said. “I’ll take the case. The case of the stolen signs. Lenny Norbeck: baseball announcer, detective, solid B student. You know, I have a pretty impressive résumé for a middle schooler.”
“Don’t forget to add dork-bucket to the list,” Mike said with a laugh.
I laughed too.
“You really think someone is stealing the signs?”
“They have to be,” I said. “Now that I think about it, there’s no way Hunter all of a sudden became so hittable. It’s like night and day.”
“It can’t be that Griffith suddenly has him figured out,” he said. “They’re, like, the worst team in the league.”
“Third place isn’t that bad,” I joked.
