Say It Ain't So

by Josh Berk

  “Yeah, sounds great,” Mike said. “Put it on a T-shirt. FIGHT FIRE WITH WATER. Can we get back to the point? How is Other Mike not afraid to go climb that billboard for us?”

  “Eh,” Other Mike said. “Their team will be at Highland for that game today, right? Come on, Lenny, let’s go over there.”

  “Me?” I said. “I, um, I have … homework?”

  It was a terrible excuse. But fine, maybe I just didn’t want to get punched in the face again. If Other Mike was suddenly feeling reckless and brave, and he wasn’t going to listen to reason, that was his own problem.

  “I have practice,” Mike said.

  “So I’ll have to do my secret undercover mission to Griffith’s field alone?”

  “You’d do that for us?” Mike asked.

  “Undercover?” I asked. “I’m not sure there’s a need for a disguise.”

  Other Mike wiggled his eyebrows. “Never go disguise-free when you can wear a disguise,” he said. He was quite often trying to get us to go on spy missions. I guess our adventure last summer gave him a taste of it and he liked it. Also, for Christmas he got an amazing espionage kit. It wasn’t just dumb fake mustaches and silly spy stuff; it was, like, remote-control cameras and sweet gear like that. Pretty awesome. What did I get for the holidays? Oh, right, the feeling of pure joy that comes from letting some other kid play a video game I WASN’T EVEN DONE WITH. I was impressed.

  “Sure, sure,” I said. “Disguise the limit.”

  It couldn’t have been easy. It had to be nearly impossible. But he did it. Mike went up to Davis in the cafeteria. He swallowed his pride and put his own dreams of stardom aside. He did it because it would help the team. He did it because it was right. I went with him for moral support and/or to prevent Davis from punching Mike in the face if possible. I wasn’t sure how I would do that. Maybe by creating a distraction or screaming for Mr. Donovan to come help. Of course, Donovan moved slower than a turtle with arthritis. Davis could have us both pummeled into a pulp before Donovan was even halfway across the cafeteria.

  Mike walked up to Davis and tapped him on the shoulder. Davis was sitting at a cafeteria table, engrossed in lunch. Engrossed is the right word because he was pretty gross to watch eat. He turned around and snarled, mustard stains all over his face and everything.

  “What do you want? I’m buying a fleet here,” he said, or at least I thought that’s what he said. It was hard to understand him because of all the food in and around his mouth.

  “You get to the point, Davis,” I said. “That’s what I like about you.”

  Davis stopped chewing and stared.

  “Well,” Mike said. “I have—well, Lenny has—well, me and Lenny have—well, we have some news.”

  “Gonna get matching tattoos that say DORK and BUCKET across your foreheads? Good thinking. I can recommend a guy.”

  “Ha. Well, no, actually … Why don’t you tell it, Lenny?” Mike said.

  “Well,” I began. “As you know, I’m a bit of a detective.”

  “Sure, sure,” Davis said. “The case of the disappearing dork-buckets. I read all about it in Dork-Bucket Weekly.”

  “Seriously, Davis,” I said. “Just zip it. We’re trying to tell you something important. Something that can get you back on the team.”

  Davis stopped chewing. Even more remarkably, he stopped talking. A full five seconds passed without him saying “dork-bucket.” It was truly a modern miracle.

  “Why would you want to do that?” he said to Mike. “I’d take your spot in a heartbeat. The only reason you’re the starting catcher is that I got booted. You know that. You know I’m better.”

  Mike took a deep breath. Then another deep breath. This was not easy for him. Why did Davis have to make it so much harder?

  “Yes,” Mike said. “You are a very good catcher and you can help this team win. That’s part of why I’m telling you this. Coach Zo always says that there is no I in team.”

  “Yeah, but there is a me in team,” I said. “You know, if you pull out the m from the end and the e from the beginning and, like, rearrange them.”

  They both looked at me and rolled their eyes. See? I’m bringing people together. I’m so helpful.

  Mike continued. “Davis, we know you were framed in the theft of the phone. Kyle took his own dad’s phone and panicked. He didn’t want his dad to know, so he stashed it in your shin guard. He let you take the fall.”

  “I’ll kill him!” Davis said, pounding his massive fist on the table. His milk carton leapt up into the air like the laws of gravity suddenly no longer applied.

  “Well,” I said. “He didn’t mean it. He wasn’t trying to frame you. He was just trying to stop his parents from getting a divorce.”

  “Divorce does suck,” Davis agreed. “Maybe I’ll just maim him.”

  “That’s the spirit!” I said.

  “So today after school, Davis, let’s go have a little meeting with Coach Zo before practice, me and you,” Mike said. “We’ll set things right.”

  Just then Other Mike popped up from behind us. He started speaking in a weird high-pitched voice. Possibly a British accent. “And I’ll go to Griffith on a spy mission!” he said. “If those dork-buckets are spying on us, you know we gots to spy on them.”

  “Good thinking, Other Mike,” Davis said seriously. “Fight fire with wire.”

  Mike and I smacked our foreheads and laughed.

  So Mike and Davis were competing for a starting job. Other Mike was on a spy mission. I was at home, just hanging out and thinking about my next case. Flipping through The Semilegal Guide to Cheating at Baseball.

  Then my phone buzzed. It was a text from Mike with an update on the little prepractice meeting with him, Davis, and Coach Zo.

  MIKE: Kyle confessed. Zo sent him packing. Davis is back on the team.

  ME: Sorry.

  MIKE: Nah, it’s cool. Anything to make the team better. Plus, for the first time ever, Davis is being really nice to me.

  ME: I’d still keep my milk covered.

  MIKE: Oh, and I told Coach Zo you were the one who figured it out. He was impressed. Said you were a great detective. A real Hercule Poirot. However you spell that.

  I was flattered. Coach Zo knew a lot about baseball and the detective game. He was always reading those mystery novels.

  ME: Tell him I work cheap if he wants to figure out who is stealing your signs.

  MIKE: You’re already working on that.

  ME: Yeah, and I also don’t work cheap.

  MIKE: Ha-ha. Gotta run. Practice starting.

  Then the doorbell rang. It was Other Mike. “What did you find?” I said excitedly. “Any clues? Please tell me you didn’t get beat up. Run into any ninjas? You look fine, but you can never be quite sure with a ninja attack.”

  He stood there quietly. “Lenny, there’s, um, a, well, a weird thing I can’t of want to say but—”

  “The only weird thing here is you, Other Mike. ‘I can’t of want to say’? That doesn’t even make any sense. Just spit it out. It’s not like you to be at a loss for words.”

  “Yeah, but this is just, you know.” He started nudging me and winking. At least I think that’s what he was doing. He was always twitching all over. Made it hard to read his body language.

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I can’t believe you’re keeping this up.”

  “Keeping what up?”

  “The act, Len. Come on. It’s really quite impressive. I’ve never known you to be much of an actor. Remember when they gave you the part of the tree in, well, every school play ever?”

  “I’m a perfectly fine actor! Trees play to my strengths. I’m a believable Spruce. Of course, I can also go Pine, if need be, and even on occasion if I feel like stretching it out, do a credible Oak.” I paused. “Why are we talking about me being an actor?” I asked. It really didn’t make any sense.

  “You know,” he said, elbowing me, drawing out the words. Yoooooou knoo
ooooow.

  “I really have no idea what you’re talking about, Other Mike,” I said.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “If you’re going to make me spell it out for you, I will. I’m really not comfortable with this, and I don’t know why you just won’t admit it, but fine. When I went to far field out there—”

  “It’s called center field,” I corrected. Sheesh.

  “Really?” he said. “Because you know it’s not in the center of the field, right? Center is more about where the brown hilly thing is.”

  “ ‘The brown hilly thing’? Um, do you mean the pitcher’s mound?”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  “Okay, but there is no such thing as ‘far field’ in baseball. I assure you it’s center field.”

  “Fine, okay, whatever. When I went out into center field, I climbed up that billboard. No small feat, you know. But I did it.”

  “Fenner’s Automobiles!” I said. “I knew it.”

  “Yeah, it is, like, the perfect spot to hide a telescope.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And, well, I found one, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Yeah! I mean, I wasn’t totally sure, but I thought there might be,” I said.

  Other Mike stared at me for a long, long time. I couldn’t read his look. It was almost like he was mad at me, but also like he was just confused. And maybe like he felt sorry for me. Other Mike can pack a lot of look into one look. I think it’s the eyebrows.

  “I guess it makes sense now,” he said. “I can see why you were trying to talk me out of looking. The whole thing about how high it was and how I might get beat up … I guess you even faked the black eye.”

  “Wait, what?” I said. “That black eye was totally real! What are you talking about? I wasn’t trying to talk you out of anything.”

  “Sure, Lenny. Sure,” Other Mike said. “All I know is that you are not surprised that there was a telescope in the Fenner’s Automobiles billboard.”

  “No,” I said.

  “And you wouldn’t be,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean,” he said, “is that the telescope was clearly labeled PROPERTY OF LENNY NORBECK.”

  Other Mike and I stood there in my living room, as still as statues. Well, he was doing his normal Other Mike twitches, but at a reduced pace. For him, that was like a statue. As for me, I might as well have been made out of stone. I was frozen stiff! I couldn’t believe it. When I finally spoke, this is what I said:

  “Dude.”

  “Dude,” Other Mike said back.

  “Dude.”

  “Dude.”

  “Say something else!” I yelled.

  “What do you want me to say? I get it. You didn’t like Mike being on the team. You wanted to sabotage him somehow. You set up a telescope. You stole the signs, gave them to the other team. I get it, Len. And I won’t say anything. I promise. I won’t call the police.”

  “What?” I said. “The police? It’s not like it’s illegal.”

  “Well, you guys sure made a big deal out of it. It seemed like it was worse than murder, to hear you guys talking about it.”

  “Well, it is a big deal! The play-offs are coming up. Hunter is our best pitcher. We’ll have to play at least one game at Griffith. And if we don’t figure this out, they will win the championships and we will lose!”

  Other Mike twisted up his mouth into a look of disbelief. Then he twisted his eyebrows into a look of disbelief. He twisted his whole face into disbelief. His arms were even twisted up.

  “It’s pretty weird that you’re so upset about this, seeing as how you’re the one who was helping Griffith.”

  “I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS!” I was screaming. My face was red and hot, and my voice was becoming a high-pitched wail.

  “Well, it kind of has your name all over it,” he said. “Literally.”

  We stood there for a long time staring at each other.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” he said finally.

  And the truth was, I had nothing at all. “Well, it really wasn’t me,” I said. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “No,” he said. “Just my dad. And Davis. And Mike maybe.”

  “WHAT?” I screamed. Everyone was going to be furious at me! “Why did you tell them?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to do!” he said. “They all said the noble thing was to come talk to you. Oh, and Davis said he wasn’t surprised and he thought it was you all along. Actually, a lot of people thought it was you. I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “What?” I said. “Why didn’t you bring the telescope with you? Where’s your proof? Maybe it was you!” I was getting desperate.

  “It was mounted to the sign. Like with screws and stuff. Good work. I had no idea you were so handy.”

  “It wasn’t me! There has to be a logical explanation,” I said. “Other Mike, you have to believe me.” And then, sports fans, what happened next was this: I started to cry. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth. The tears came slowly at first, then they were racing down my cheeks like a base runner sprinting for home. It suddenly struck me: this is how Mike must have felt when I thought it was him. How could I be such a bad friend? And how could Other Mike be such a bad friend?

  “Okay,” Other Mike said, taking a deep breath. “Okay, okay, okay. I believe you. You really aren’t this good of an actor. Let’s figure this thing out together. Do you have any clues?”

  “Nothing concrete,” I said. “I feel like a dog chasing his tail. Everything winds back onto itself. The only clue I have is this.” I handed Other Mike the checkout slip from the library. “It shows that someone had this book out before me, but I don’t know who.”

  “What’s the other book on there?” Other Mike said. “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd? Someone murdered that actor?”

  “You’re thinking of Dan Aykroyd.”

  “Someone murdered Dan Aykroyd?!”

  “What?” I said. “No. You’re getting off track.”

  “Do you think that if we found out who borrowed this book, we’d know who was stealing the signs?” Other Mike asked.

  “It’s our best shot,” I said.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s see what we can find out about it.”

  He took out his phone and entered the title of the book into a search engine. At first he accidentally did type “Dan Aykroyd,” so it got confusing again. Then he figured it out. He started reading. “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd is a controversial mystery novel by Agatha Christie starring the detective Hercule Por … Por … I don’t know how to say this name.”

  “I believe it’s Poirot,” I said. “You say it like Pwa-roh.” Where had I heard that before?

  And then, like a fly ball softly landing in a center fielder’s glove, the answer to the puzzle fell into my lap.

  I decided to wait until the next game against Griffith to reveal what I knew. I didn’t have to wait very long because of the whole three-team-league thing. It was two weeks later. Probably like in the old days of baseball when there were just two teams. The Reds and the Red Stockings. Like, “Oh, who do we play today? The Red Stockings? And tomorrow? The Red Stockings? And the day after that? Red Stockings? Got it. Perchance I shall sport my blue pantaloons. Look at my fancy mustache.”

  Hunter was scheduled to pitch. It was clear that someone was stealing his signs. Without cheating like a bunch of cheating cheaters, Griffith couldn’t hit him. Schwenkfelder was one game up on Griffith going into the final game of the year. There was just one game left: Griffith versus Schwenkfelder. If we won, we would clinch the championship. If we lost, the season would end in a tie. A tie, the old sports saying goes, is like kissing your sister. I don’t have a sister, but it doesn’t sound very good.

  There was something else on my mind, though. I was doing my duties as the announcer. I pressed Play to start the national anthem. I dutifully announced the starting lineups. The umpire yelled, “Play ball.” And then I made
a subdued announcement. I had been doing some thinking. Deep thinking.

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “This is your PA announcer, Lenny Norbeck. You’re probably wondering why I gathered you all here today.” Hey, it seemed like my only chance to say it. I realized that no one was wondering. Also that I hadn’t technically gathered them. They were just there for a baseball game.

  I waited for some applause. There was no applause. I continued anyway. “Well, sports fans,” I said, “I need to get something off my chest. I need to get the truth out there. Sometimes the truth hurts, but it’s still the truth.” Again I waited for applause. There was none. Coach Zo started his way toward me, so I began to speak quickly. “The batters for the Griffith Griffins are cheating! They know the secret signs. They know what pitch is coming before it arrives. The twins are taking turns sneaking out to center field. They know the signs, so they call the coach—their father—and he flashes a sign to the batter!” I paused. Everyone’s eyes were on me. It was pretty fun. I sure hoped I was right. “I should add that the person who cracked the code is not me. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I did not do it! Even if my name was on the telescope. Not sure what was going on there. But you are correct to look to the Schwenkfelder side to find the culprit,” I continued. “You should look to Coach Zo.”

  Coach Zo stormed into the announcer’s booth. His face was bright red and the veins on his massive arms were popping up. He looked like he might rip my head off.

  “Lenny,” he said through gritted teeth. “Would you shut up?”

  “Are you saying it isn’t true?” I said. “You had the book from the library. You had the discussion with the Griffith coach before the game. You murdered Dan Aykroyd!” I got kind of carried away.

  “I’m just—Turn the microphone off!” he said. The microphone squealed a blast of feedback.

  “Only if you tell everyone that it wasn’t me!” I handed him the microphone.

  “People thought it was you who stole the signs?” He seemed genuinely confused.