“So the Varmints …”
“That’s right. The Varmints have not had a base runner through five innings,” the Bear whispered. “Fifteen up, fifteen down.”
“It’s a p—” I started.
“Don’t say it again!” said Teddy. “Don’t make things worse.” He glanced at the other end of the dugout. Lance sipped from the mug of coffee in his left hand. His right arm—his pitching arm—was wrapped up in a warm towel to keep the muscles loose.
I wanted to cry. I couldn’t breathe. I plopped down, nearly landing in Grumps’s lap. Grumps nudged me out of the way so he could see what was happening on the field. He shot me a look that was worse than if he had yelled at me for two straight hours.
I finally inhaled. I didn’t say it, but I thought it: Lance was more than halfway to … a perfect game. A perfect game was when a pitcher didn’t let a single player reach base in the entire game: no hits, no walks, no errors, no nothing. Only twenty pitchers had ever done that in all of major league history. I didn’t know how many perfect games there had been in Single-A minor league baseball. But I did know this: there had never been one in our Prairie League!
A perfect game in any league is practically impossible, even against a team in a slump. Even five straight perfect innings is something. On the sports channel, they break into other games if a pitcher has a perfect game going through five innings. It’s a really big deal.
I looked at the hot-air balloon floating over the right field wall. I suddenly wished I were in it, so I could untie the line and float far, far away and never be seen again in Pine City Park. Because besides knowing how amazing and rare perfect games are, I knew two other things.
One: you never, ever, talk about a perfect game when it’s in progress. You don’t say anything like “Wow, it’s a perfect game so far!” You just watch the game quietly or you jinx it.
Two: you don’t talk to the pitcher when he’s having a great game. You just leave him alone.
I had broken both rules in two seconds. It didn’t even matter that I wasn’t talking about the game. I’d blabbed Wally’s secrets lately and also hurt Abby’s feelings, but this was the worst mess my mouth had gotten me into yet. I might have ruined Lance Pantaño’s chance at making history!
• • •
The Porcupines now had five runs, but no amount of runs would make me feel better if Lance didn’t stay perfect. I think the whole team felt the same way.
It was the quietest the Pines’ dugout had ever been. Nobody talked to anybody else. Even Wayne Zane took his bat without cracking a single joke. He went up to the plate and hit a fly ball to right field, came back, and handed me the bat without a word. I expected him to say that the hot-air balloon got in his eyes or that he was afraid of hitting the ball too hard and knocking the balloon down, but he just muttered a thank-you and told me to bring him his catcher’s gear. Teddy Larrabee batted next, and he was the same way. The Bear usually tugs my hat brim down over my eyes, but this time he didn’t. He just took his bat and went to the plate.
Teddy grounded out to first, and the inning was over. I passed Lance as I was taking Teddy’s bat to the rack. He stood up, unwrapped the towel from his arm, handed it to me, and headed for the mound. His shoulders slumped, and he moved slowly, like a man walking to his own doom.
The perfect game was about to end—and it was all my fault.
ance’s first pitch in the top of the sixth inning nearly ended everything. The Varmints’ batter swung and connected, sending the ball high and deep to center field. The crowd groaned. It looked like the perfect game, the no-hitter, and the shutout were all about to fly over the fence with that ball.
But Myung Young saved the day, running practically straight up the fence to snag the ball just before it sailed out of the park for a home run. The crowd sighed in relief, then cheered. Lance pointed at Myung to show how much he appreciated the catch.
Pantaño struck the next batter out on three pitches, but the third pitch glanced off Wayne’s glove and rolled away. The batter took off. There’s this crazy rule that if the catcher drops the third strike, the batter can try to reach first base before the ball gets there. Wayne scrambled after the ball, picked it up, and made a sideways throw from his knees. The ball reached Teddy at first base just in time to get the runner out.
The crowd cheered again.
The perfect game was still intact.
The third batter hammered the ball into the grass. It bounced way, way, way into the air, over the pitcher’s head. That’s called a chopper, and it’s kind of a lousy trick, especially when you’re using it to break up a perfect game.
Mike Stammer leaped into the air. It looked like Mike didn’t even catch the ball before throwing it. It looked like he just swatted the ball over to first base, using the scoop of his glove like a lacrosse stick. The ball got to Teddy Larrabee—but was it there in time?
The umpire squinted and made sure Teddy had the ball. He looked at the first base bag and mulled it over. Finally, he gave the sign: thumb over the shoulder. Out!
The Varmints’ batter shook his head in disbelief while the crowd went crazy.
Lance came back to the dugout, sat down at the far end, away from everyone else, and hung his head. Zeke, the pitching coach, rewrapped Lance’s arm, but they didn’t say one word to each other. You’d never know Lance had just pitched another perfect inning. He looked like someone who’d given up thirty-seven runs. He’d only gotten through the inning because of three great plays. He hadn’t pitched that well.
The Porcupines’ dugout was still tense, and that made everyone crabby. Danny O’Brien batted first and scolded me for bringing him Brian Daniels’s bat by mistake. A couple of batters later, George Lincoln, the second baseman, muttered something at the umpire. Grumps had to go out there and calm “the President” down before he got thrown out of the game. Tommy Harris, who was almost always smiling, wasn’t smiling. He took a couple of swings in the on-deck circle, but he didn’t get a chance to bat because George was rung up on strikes for the third out.
Lance stood up and shook his head. He dropped the towel and headed back to the mound. His knees looked wobbly. But he needed only nine more outs, I realized.
The first batter took five straight pitches before he swung the bat. The next pitch was probably out of the strike zone. It would have meant a walk, and the end to the perfect game, but the batter swung at it and missed. Lance got lucky again.
The next batter hit a line drive to right field. Danny had to really hurry. He caught the ball, and the crowd cheered. His catch wasn’t as good as Myung Young’s catch from the last inning, but it was still a really good catch. And it was another out.
Two down, seven to go.
The third batter had an average of over .350. Of all the Varmint batters, he scared me the most.
Lance asked for a time-out to catch his breath. The brief pause felt like forever, but I didn’t want it to end. Everything right now was still perfect. One pitch from now, it might not be.
Lance asked for a new ball, got it, and threw a fastball. The batter swung and hit the ball hard, sending it to deep right field. It looked like a goner, and it would have been, but the wind carried it into the seats. Foul ball! I looked up and saw the little shadows in the balloon basket jumping up and down.
The batter swung at the next pitch and bounced the ball back to Lance. He threw to first and headed for the dugout. “Saved by the wind,” he muttered as he took his spot on the bench. “But I can’t count on the wind every time.”
The fans burst into “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I’d forgotten it was the seventh inning stretch. I heard Ernie Hecker’s tuneless booming over the rest of the crowd, and then a second voice, way out of key with the first, booming just as loudly: Uncle Rick.
Uncle Rick! He’d only had one chance in his whole life to see a no-hitter, and he missed that game because of me—he had to leave in the middle of the game because I was being born. If Lance stayed perfect, t
hen Uncle Rick would finally get another chance to see a whole no-hitter from start to finish. A perfect game is a no-hitter, only better.
When I sat down, I felt something in my pocket. I took it out and looked at it. It was the Joe Torre card. Fat lot of good it had done me, since Joe Torre knew better than to jinx a pitcher’s perfect game. Joe looked back at me. His face was grim and seemed to say: “Chad, do something.”
I owed it to Lance to fix this, and I owed it to my uncle.
The way to fix it was right there in my hand too. I needed a card, and it had to be one from the red binder. The question was, which card? I had cards for four perfect game pitchers in my red binder: Roy Halladay, Randy Johnson, Mark Buehrle, and Dallas Braden. Which one should I give to Lance? Did it matter? Perfect was perfect; there was no way for one to be more perfect than another. Did any of those pitchers have a batboy try to ruin it for them?
Uncle Rick would know! He knew more about baseball than anyone. I just needed to get over there and explain things to him.
But there were three problems.
One: The Porcupines would be coming up to bat any minute. I was needed here.
Two: Even if I got away and talked to Uncle Rick, my red binder was at home, not here at the ballpark.
Three: The hot-air balloon was crashing down onto the playing field over in right field.
he hot-air balloon didn’t pop and fly around the way that toy balloons do. It just drifted down until the basket bounced on the ground. Then it rose a few feet and dropped again. It all happened softly and slowly, so I didn’t think anybody in the basket was hurt. It actually looked like fun. A crashing hot-air balloon could be an awesome carnival ride.
The next time the balloon touched the ground, it tipped over sideways. The Varmints’ right fielder raced to get out of its path. Too late! He was swallowed up by yards of balloon cloth. Security guards and staff ran to help. The crowd was buzzing. Victor Snapp, the announcer, told everyone to be calm. Several people held the basket steady and helped the passengers climb out. Two other guards helped the right fielder burrow out from under the cloth. The balloon rose up again, lifting and dragging all its parts. It headed toward the seats. People in the front rows scurried out of the way.
I glanced up and down the Pines’ dugout. Everybody was watching the balloon with open mouths and wide eyes. Everybody, that is, except Lance Pantaño. He stared down at his shoes. He didn’t even seem to notice what was going on.
This was my big chance! I hurried out of the dugout. A guard stopped me. He thought I was heading to the hot-air balloon.
“Thanks, kid, but we have all the help we need. Better stay away.”
“All right,” I told him. I went the long way around instead. I passed through the locker room and circled the concourse. It was deserted. People were glued to their seats, watching the slow-speed balloon crash.
I tried to make my way to Uncle Rick, but so many people were standing on the steps that I couldn’t get through. So I went to the visitors’ dugout to find Dylan. The Varmints were crowded around the right fielder, who’d been helped off the field. He seemed to be shaken up but OK.
“It just kept coming after me,” he said. “It was like this horror movie I saw once about a giant blob—only this blob could fly.”
Dylan was kneeling, listening along with everyone else.
“Psst. Dylan.”
“Huh?” He looked back, saw me, and came over. “What’s up?”
“I need you to help me save Lance Pantaño’s—” I nearly jinxed it again, right then, but I stopped myself. “I need a baseball card from home, but I don’t know which one.”
“I can’t leave!” Dylan said. “I’m working. Besides, I don’t know anything about baseball cards.”
“I know, but my uncle Rick does. He’s the guy who talked to you earlier. He’s sitting next to Ernie.” I explained as best I could—Uncle Rick would know the perfect card to choose, and he had a cell phone, so he could call my dad and tell him to bring it.
“How will your dad get in?” asked Dylan. “The game is sold out.”
“Ugh!” It was just one problem after another. As ballpark staff, we could ask for guest passes, but we had to ask for them in advance. “Tell my uncle Rick to tell my dad to tell the guys at the gate that he’s a hot-air balloon expert,” I said.
It took a second for Dylan to make sense of that sentence. “Is your dad a hot-air balloon expert?” he asked.
“He has a book about balloons. He can just tuck it under his arm and carry a toolbox.”
“I don’t think it’ll work, Chad.”
“It doesn’t hurt to try,” I said. Could it? Could Dad be arrested for impersonating a hot-air balloon repairman? “We need to do something, Dylan, or else … Well, I can’t say what else.”
“Does this have something to do with Lance’s perfect game?”
“Gabbagah!” I shouted.
“What?”
“You never talk about a perfect game while it’s in progress,” I told him. “But … wait, do you even know what a perfect game is?”
“It’s one where the pitcher doesn’t let anyone get on base,” Dylan explained. “Lance hasn’t so far today. He got lucky a few times, especially when the wind blew that home run ball into foul territory. There was also Myung’s catch, and some other great plays on defense, and the Varmints swung at some bad pitches. But none of that matters. Perfect is perfect.”
“This means that you do know something about the game, and that you’ve been paying attention. You care! That means you’re a fan, Dylan!”
“I guess so,” he admitted.
“But you must not jinx a perfect game,” I told him. “That’s serious, Dylan. Never do it.” I didn’t tell him I’d nearly done the same thing. In fact, we might be doing it right now. We had just said “perfect” six times.
“Sorry,” Dylan said.
“It’s OK. You can help me fix it. I need to convince Lance that he isn’t jinxed. My uncle will know which baseball card can do that. My dad can put the card in the red binder and tell the guy at the gate he’s an emergency hot-air balloon repairman. That’s why I need you to talk to Uncle Rick.”
“I’m on it,” he said. “Wait—why does the card need to be in the red binder?”
“Because that’s what makes the cards magic.” I started back for the Porcupines’ dugout.
ance was fidgeting, jiggling his leg, and drumming his fingers on the bench. “I just want to get back out there,” he said to Zeke. “I want to pitch.”
“It won’t be much longer,” the pitching coach promised him.
Some of the guards and the field crew had pulled the balloon out of the seats and into the middle of the field. Now it was a game of tug-of-war, as the wind kept pulling on the partly inflated balloon. One of the men working on the balloon looked kind of like Wally. I shook my head.
The guy was pretty far away, but he sure looked like Wally.
He looked even more like Wally when he stood up and walked over to the dugout.
“Everyone’s OK,” Wally said. “But it’ll be a while before we get that thing off the field.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” asked Sammy.
“Is this how you spend your vacation?” Wayne asked. “Going to baseball games?”
“Sometimes,” said Wally, “but not today. I was up in that balloon. I’m the pilot.”
We all stared at him. Nobody said a word.
Wally was a hot-air balloon pilot?
“Well, they couldn’t find anyone else to fly it,” said Wally. “Somebody found out I had a hot-air-balloon pilot’s license, and one thing led to another.”
“How long have you had a balloon pilot’s license?” Sammy asked.
“Thirty-odd years,” said Wally. “I do have a life outside of the locker room, you know.”
“But I thought you were scared of balloons,” I said. “You were jumping every time a balloon popped.”
�
�Hmm,” said Wally. “I get a little edgy just before a flight. When a toy balloon pops, it reminds me what might happen. But once I’m in the basket, I feel fine.”
“I’m the same way before a game,” said Tommy.
“Me too,” said Teddy.
Several other players nodded in agreement.
“Wally, can I ride with you sometime?” Sammy asked. “I’ve always wanted to go up in a hot-air balloon.”
“I think you’re going to need a bigger balloon,” Wayne told Wally. He patted Sammy’s big stomach.
“Hey!” said Sammy.
“I’ll get a bigger balloon, but the burner will never blow enough hot air to keep it up,” said Wally. “So, Wayne, you’re coming too.”
All the guys laughed.
“Just sayin’,” said Wally, heading into the locker room.
Before Wayne could get another word in, my dad showed up. It wasn’t hard to recognize him: he was wearing a fake-looking nose and funny glasses with big eyebrows. They were left over from a Halloween party we had a few years ago.
“Hello. I’m with Lighter-Than-Air Vehicle Refurbishment and Repair,” he announced. “I heard there was a situation? Aha, there it is. I’ll go right over. Young man, please follow me.” Dad shoved his toolbox at me, and I took it. He trotted purposefully onto the field, and I hustled after him.
“Dad, this is ridiculous.”
“I’ve been to the locker room before,” he reminded me. “I had to disguise myself. By the way, I’ve got your cards.”
We got to the “situation.” Dad introduced himself and then eyed the balloon and clucked a couple of times. “Looks like a breach in one of the gore panels,” he said. “What do you want to do, repair the breach and re-inflate? Or exhaust the balloon and pack it up?”
I didn’t know if any of that was real balloon talk, but it sure sounded right.
“We just want to get on with the game,” said the head groundskeeper. “What’s quicker?”
Zip It! Page 3
