Say It Ain't So

by Josh Berk

  On the day of the game I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. I think the butterflies even had butterflies. And those butterflies had butterflies in their stomachs. Basically what we’re talking about here is an infinite loop of butterflies in stomachs in butterfly stomachs. Nervous.

  We had one game to win it all. We could have used Hunter, but still, we had Byron Lucas, who was going to start. And there was Noah Stewart, who had developed into a solid reliever. Plus, there was Henry Hrab and at least one or two other guys they could throw in there if they needed an extra arm. They could bring Mike in to pitch even if his arm would fall off. An armless Mike would probably be better than me. Wait, no, stop it, Lenny! (This is me talking to myself, a device I learned from a video online called How to Psych Yourself Up to the Max. Part of the video was this guy putting his thumb through a block of wood. So I knew he knew what he was talking about.) I was supposed to shout down the negative thoughts with positive ones. The old Lenny would joke about how a one-armed man was a better pitcher than he was. Or a no-armed man. But the new Lenny believed in himself.

  Or at least he tried.

  The game was scheduled on a Saturday afternoon at our home stadium. That way all our friends and family could come. I showed up early at the park and tried to play it cool. Then I warmed up. It was confusing, trying to warm up and play it cool. I might have been overthinking it.

  I watched the crowd start to arrive. The Norbecks were certainly there, looking happy and maybe a little nervous. I was feeling nervous myself. But also happy that they were there, you know? All the stuff with Kyle made me think how lucky I was, even if they were major dork-buckets. (Sorry, I’ve been hanging out with Davis too much.) Plus, I had to admit, Dad’s advice to confront Mike really was the right thing to do. It didn’t seem like it at the time, but it definitely was.

  I saw Maria Bonzer was there, sitting on the Schwenkfelder side. My side. I tipped my cap to her as I walked across the field, getting ready for the game. It felt cool, tipping my cap like that.

  She waved me over. I wasn’t sure if you were allowed to talk to the crowd during practice. But I was pretty sure I’d seen players in the major leagues do it.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “You’ll never guess what I heard in the halls of Griffith Middle School yesterday,” she said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Swedish?”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Swedish.”

  “Well, that explains everything.”

  “Don’t you remember when you said that you thought the ninjas who punched you were speaking Swedish?” she said.

  “Oh yeah!”

  “Well, it’s not actually Swedish. It’s a made-up language.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure Swedish is a real language—”

  “Shut up! I mean, I’m pretty sure what you heard wasn’t Swedish but a made-up language that the Fenner twins have! I heard them talking and I asked some people about it in school. They’ve apparently been doing it their whole lives. Some freaky twin thing, I guess.”

  “Those jerks!” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “If you want to beat them up, I’m available.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I think I’ll beat them on the field.”

  It felt pretty cool saying that. I scanned the crowd and saw more familiar faces. My old babysitter—I mean house sitter—Courtney DeLuca even made the trip in to watch the big game. I had no idea how she knew about the game. Then I remembered that she was the daughter of one of Dad’s work friends. Dad must have been talking about it at work! He was probably telling everyone he knew about how his son solved a couple of crimes and then got a spot on the team. Knowing he was actually proud of me (a rare feeling) made the butterflies acquire more butterflies.

  Finally, it was just about game time. The team was all sitting in the dugout, getting psyched up to the max. I still couldn’t believe I was there. At times I’d look down and see the uniform on my chest and have an out-of-body experience. It was like—I know this is my head, but whose body is it attached to? A baseball player’s? Why? How did this happen?

  Then a familiar face appeared in the dugout. It was Kyle Webb.

  “Pardon me, Coach,” he said. “I know I’m off the team and I don’t deserve to be here. But I just wanted to wish the guys good luck. And maybe fill in for Lenny as the announcer.”

  “Sounds great, Kyle,” Coach Moyer said. “Lenny, show him the ropes.”

  “Don’t I need to be here for the pregame meeting?” I asked. “Go over strategy?”

  “Here’s our strategy,” he said. “Throw strikes. Catch the ball. Hit the ball. Score some runs. If possible, more runs than the other team.” He shrugged and added, “That’s the game called baseball.” I was beginning to see why Moyer never made head coach. I was also beginning to worry, what with this genius at the helm and Other Mike in the assistant’s role. But I did as I was told.

  I walked with Kyle over toward the announcer’s booth. “Listen,” I said, “I really have to apologize for getting you into trouble like that.”

  “You didn’t,” he said. “I mean, yeah, you did. But don’t be sorry. It was my own fault. I had a stupid plan and it went bad and I let someone else get in trouble for it. It really was my own fault. I shouldn’t have let Davis go down for it. I’ve been feeling guilty all season. I mean, yeah, I’m kind of bummed that I’m not out there.…” His voice faded away.

  “There’s always next year,” I said. “Help us repeat as champions.”

  “Knock ’em dead out there,” he said. “I mean, not literally. I heard you’re a little wild on the mound.”

  “They don’t call me ‘the Lunatic’ for nothing,” I said. “By the way, make sure you call me that when you introduce me. You know, if I get into the game.”

  I showed him the rest of the setup—how to use the microphone, how to turn on the CD player for the national anthem—and then it was time to play ball.

  The game began with the visiting Griffins batting. All I could do was watch, of course, and cheer from the dugout. Byron Lucas was our starting pitcher, and he looked good. He didn’t seem fazed at all by the pressure, and came out working fast. He threw hard, and he threw strikes. Davis was behind the plate and Mike was manning first base. The team looked sharp and we retired Griffith easily in the first. Three up, three down.

  In the bottom of the first, Jagdish Sheth pitched just as well for the Griffins. It was a pitchers’ duel, as they say. Nothing–nothing through the fifth inning. It started to look like Byron was going to throw a complete game, so I started to relax. We just needed some runs. All of us guys on the bench turned our hats inside out—the classic “rally cap.” It’s a superstitious baseball thing. I don’t know why. For some reason turning your hat inside out is supposed to help you get a rally and score some runs. Which is kind of dumb because if it worked, wouldn’t you just wear your hat like that all the time? Forget logic. Sometimes you need a rally cap, and this was one of those times.

  The first batter up in the bottom of the fifth for Schwenkfelder was Byron himself. Jagdish’s first pitch hit him! Was Jagdish trying to hurt him? Was that how Griffith thought they’d win this thing? They were a bunch of cheating cheaters who cheat, as I believe I mentioned before, so I wouldn’t put it past them.

  Byron played it cool, though. He knew that if he charged the mound and pounded Jagdish into the ground, he’d get ejected. And he wanted to finish this game. So he just took his place at first base. The next batter was none other than Mike. He wasn’t the team’s strongest hitter, so Coach Moyer gave the bunt sign. It wasn’t a bad move. This would get Byron to second base, where he could score on a single. You hate to give up the out, but sometimes one run is all you need.

  Mike did his duty and squared around for the bunt. Jagdish’s pitch was low, but Mike got the bat on it. The ball squirted out in front of home plate, giving the Griffith catcher just one play. He threw to first and Byron advan
ced to second. When Mike came back into the dugout, everyone gave him major high fives. Bunting a guy over always gets you major props because you’re sacrificing your own chance to hit for the good of the team.

  The next batter up was Nathan Gub. A single could score a run and give us the lead. Gub was a decent hitter and I liked our chances. Instead, he whiffed on three straight pitches. The Schwenkfelder bench let out a disappointed sigh. But up next was Davis Gannett. “Don’t worry, guys,” he said to us as he walked from the on-deck circle toward the plate. “I got this.”

  Davis dug in at the batter’s box. Jagdish threw him a couple of slow ones outside. Then, with the count at two balls and two strikes, he heaved a fastball down the middle. And Davis crushed it. I do believe that that ball might still be traveling to this day. I am pretty sure I saw it in one of those pictures the Curiosity rover is sending back from Mars. It was a no-doubt-about-it home run! Byron crossed the plate first, then Davis strutted across. The score was two to nothing. We didn’t score again, but all Byron had to do was to get six more outs and we were champions.

  It wasn’t going to be that easy.

  Griffith started the top of the sixth with a rally of their own. In fact, the first three batters hit the ball hard. They were only singles, though, loading the bases. The next batter hit a perfect ground ball right up the middle for a double play. Two outs were recorded, but one run came in. That brought the bad guys within one run. The score was two to one. Byron was looking tired. Still, he needed just one out to get to the seventh and final inning. Coach Moyer conferred with Other Mike and they decided to leave him in.

  Byron responded with a sweet series of fastballs to record the strikeout and end the inning. He looked pretty happy as he walked off the mound. But also pretty tired.

  We couldn’t get anything going in the bottom of the sixth. We were heading to the final frame with a one-run lead.

  Coach Moyer, Other Mike, and Byron huddled for a discussion before the top of the seventh. From where I sat at the end of the bench, I couldn’t hear a word. But it was clear: they were taking him out. He was tired. His arm was shot. The Griffins were hitting him hard and the lead was down to one run. I felt a knot in my stomach. They weren’t going to bring me in, were they?

  They were.

  “All right, Len,” Coach Moyer said, walking down toward the end of the bench. “My assistant here says you’re the man for the job, and he’s a heck of a lot smarter than I am. So you’re the man for the job. Get in there and get us some outs.”

  I couldn’t believe it. For a second I thought I was dreaming. But I still had all my teeth, so it couldn’t be a dream. I was really getting into the game. In the last inning. With a one-run lead. For the championship.

  I walked—more like floated—out to the mound. Mike came over and said a few words to me. I had no idea what they were. It was like I knew his mouth was moving, but I could not recognize the words. It was all muh-muh-muh-muh-muh-muh. I nodded, wondering what I had agreed to.

  I took my warm-up pitches and they were terrible. I was announcing my own warm-ups in my head.

  He has less control than a toddler in potty training. He’s firing warm-up tosses like a blind monkey playing darts.

  Finally I got one over the plate and it was time to start the game. I had no idea who the first batter was. He was just a green blur. My eyes could barely focus. Somehow, shockingly, this worked to my advantage. My first pitch was a ball, but the next three were fast ones right down the middle. I struck him out!

  The crowd goes wild as Norbeck strikes out the first batter he faces. He’s on his way to getting a win for his team. He’s totally psyched up to the max.

  The next batter stepped in. I had calmed down a little, which somehow did not work to my advantage. I walked him on four pitches. The next batter I did recognize. It was Robert Fenner. I thought he’d be up there being patient since I just walked a guy with four very wild ones, but he was swinging first pitch. And he laced that first pitch into left-center field. The guy from first made it all the way to third. Uh-oh. It was runners on first and third with just one out. Not an ideal situation. But a double play would get us through the inning.

  Norbeck is going to try to throw some low ones here, to try to get a ground ball and a double play. Of course, if he throws it too low and it’s a wild pitch, a run will score and tie the game. Good thing his personal catcher, the great backstop Mike DiNuzzio, is over there. Newts settles in, and here’s the pitch.… The runner breaks for second! That’s a stolen base. Not even a throw. Newts has had some arm troubles over the years and the Griffins take advantage of it. Now we’re really in a pickle. Runners on second and third with one out. No chance for the double play.

  Coach Moyer stepped out of the dugout, calling time. Was he taking me out of the game already? I gave up one walk and one single! That’s it! Didn’t he see that awesome strikeout? I knew I could find the plate if I had to. Then I saw Other Mike following along behind him.

  “What’s up?” I said. “I’m feeling good. Feeling good.” It was a lie.

  “I don’t know if I agree,” Coach Moyer said. “But my assistant here has an idea.”

  “Yeah,” Other Mike said. He paused. “So, well, we got runners on second and third here with one out. That means that there is no force play and no chance to double them up.”

  I knew all this, of course, but I was shocked to hear Other Mike say it. It was like suddenly finding out that your dog was fluent in French. Usually it’s just barking and licking itself and then all of a sudden it comes out with “Bonjour, madame, je suis un chien.” Focus, Lenny!

  Other Mike continued. “So I say we walk this guy. I’ve scouted the on-deck hitter, Trebor Fenner. He has a severe chop of a swing. He has no patience and he always hits the ball on the ground. Load the bases, pitch to Fenner, get the doubleplay ball, go home champions. Got it?” He slapped me on the butt, just like a big-league manager would do.

  “Other Mike?” I said. “Is that you?”

  “Don’t look at me like I’m a French-speaking dog,” he said. “You don’t spend a few million hours with you dorks and not pick up some baseball. So you gonna do it or not?” By then Mike had joined our conference on the mound, walking up from behind the plate. He lifted his mask.

  “What’s the plan, gentlemen?” he asked. His face was sweating.

  “Let’s walk this guy,” I said. “Load the bases. Load ’em up nice.”

  “You’re the boss,” he said.

  “Hey, Coach,” I yelled at Other Mike as he walked toward the bench. “If we win this thing, I owe it all to you.”

  Mike went back behind the plate and held out his arm to the side, giving the sign for an intentional walk. I heard a gasp from the crowd, but maybe that was just my imagination. Maybe not. Because while Other Mike’s plan did make sense, there was of course a downside. With the bases loaded, there was nowhere to put Trebor. If I walked him, the tying run would score. If I hit him with a pitch, the tying run would score. If I threw a wild pitch, the tying run would score. If he got a hit, the tying run would score. There were so many ways the tying run would score! But no, Lenny. Don’t think negative thoughts. Believe in yourself. Put your thumb through that board!

  This was a dandy little pep talk I was giving myself. The only problem was that I accidentally said the last part out loud. Pretty much everyone looked at me like I was nuts. I decided to just go with it. It was all part of my persona as the Lunatic. I repeated it loudly. “Put your thumb through that board!” I hoped it would catch on. Maybe start a chant. I could hear the crowd. “Put your thumb through that board! Put your thumb through that board!” No such luck. It was quiet. Too quiet.

  And it all came down to me and Trebor. Trebor Fenner. The bases were loaded, with his brother Robert on second base. Everyone on the Griffith side was yelling and cheering and screaming for Trebor. The ninjas! They were the ones who punched me in the face! I wanted to throw the ball through Trebor’s stupid head.
But of course I couldn’t. A hit batter would force in a run and tie the game. Mike’s words echoed through my head: “The way to get back at them,” he had said, “is to do it on the field.”

  I took a deep breath. I went into my windup. I pitched. And it was about fifteen feet outside. Mike caught it, somehow, saving a run. He pointed his glove at me in that catcher’s gesture that means “Settle down.” I wasn’t sure if I could. I took a deep breath and fired another one, this time right across the plate for a strike. Trebor smiled. He apparently wasn’t going to swing. He was going to make me throw strikes. No problem, I thought, and threw another perfect one. Only the stupid blind ump called it a ball! Okay, maybe it was a little high. Still, he could have given it to me.

  It didn’t matter. You can’t dwell on a bad call. You have to throw the next pitch. My heart felt like it was punching me in the face. That doesn’t make sense, but somehow explains it. I was losing it. I took a deep breath and threw this one right down the middle. The count was two balls and two strikes. They always say that’s an “even count,” but it favors the pitcher. I only needed one more strike.

  I wound up and fired, a high fastball. This time Trebor did swing. And he did miss. Strike three! I leapt off the mound, throwing my glove up into the air! I was waiting for my team to rush me, to hug me, to carry me off on their shoulders victorious! I was the Great Imperial Lenny the Lunatic, Destroyer of Worlds! “Yeeeee-hah!” I screamed as my glove soared toward the sky. “We win!”

  It was then that I realized there were only two outs. Everyone was looking at me like I was the proverbial French-speaking dog. I kind of wished I was. I wished I was anyone or anything else at that moment. How embarrassing! To celebrate the victory with just two outs! I felt like such an idiot. My glove fell back to earth with a sad plop.

  “Just kidding!” I said. Good one, Lenny.