by Barbara Park
Okay. Fine. I didn’t know what little game they were playing here, but I could play right along.
Leaving the cereal on the floor, I pulled myself into my chair. I made a big deal of it, grunting and groaning all the way.
“I think I’d like to eat up here,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Could someone please get me my cornflakes and juice?”
My parents glanced down at the bowl on the floor.
“You should have brought it up here with you, son,” said Dad. “Your mother and I are eating right now.”
For the next few seconds, I sat there tapping my fingers on the table. Then, even slower than before, I leaned down until my hands were touching the floor again. The chair flipped over on me as I dropped back down. But Mom and Dad still didn’t react.
This called for drastic action. Something so outrageous they couldn’t ignore it. That’s when I started eating right out of the bowl. Without a spoon, I mean. Like Fluffy.
My mother looked down and dropped a napkin on my head.
That did it!
“Hey! What kind of parents are you, anyway?” I hollered. “Your pathetic little son is lying on the floor, eating like an animal, and all you can do is drop a napkin on his head? Don’t you even want to know what happened to me?”
“We already know,” said my mother.
“You mean you already know that in the middle of the night, Fluffy jumped up on my bed … and the big oaf went to sleep on my legs … and she cut off the circulation to my entire lower body … which is why my feet and legs are asleep and I can’t stand up? You already know all that?”
“No, Alex,” said Mom. “We know that you’re trying to get out of going to your game today. Brian’s parents called this morning and said that most of your class will be there. So we figured you’d be pulling some kind of stunt to get to stay home.”
I rolled over.
“Oh.”
After that, I just lay there. For a really long time, I mean. I just lay there staring up at the ceiling.
Finally, I rolled back on my stomach again and silently pulled myself back out of the kitchen. Sometimes, when you’re caught doing something stupid, it’s less humiliating if you just ease out of it gracefully.
When I got back to my room, I stood up and put on my uniform.
My pants fell down again.
This was going to be the worst day of my life.
chapter nine
LOSERS PLAY BALL … FILM AT ELEVEN
I put on a belt and headed over to the baseball field. The Little League uses the same field as the middle school. It’s not far from my house. But this time, as I turned the corner, I froze dead in my tracks.
The bleachers were packed! And when I say packed, I mean packed solid!
My skin broke out in a cold sweat. No! This couldn’t be happening! Why would all those people show up at a dumb Little League game? It didn’t make sense. Even if my entire class showed up, the bleachers wouldn’t come close to being filled. There had to be a mistake somewhere. The middle school was having some kind of function, I bet.
That’s when it hit me.
Wait! Hold it! It’s June, Alex! June! June, as in Graduation Day!
Of course! The eighth-grade class was graduating. And there had been a mix-up in the schedules. Someone had forgotten to tell the Little League.
I looked up to the sky and folded my hands. “Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you! This is a wonderful thing you’ve done here! A wonderful, Godly, zippy, wonderful thing!”
Relieved, I sat down on the curb to wait for my parents. They’d be coming along soon, and I wanted to be the first one to break the good news.
As I was waiting there, a truck from Channel Six News pulled up and a cameraman got out. He lifted some heavy equipment out of the back door.
“Are you guys going to be filming that graduation ceremony over there?” I asked.
The man didn’t pay much attention to me. “What graduation? That’s a baseball game,” he mumbled.
All of a sudden, the cold sweat was back.
Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. There’s a reasonable explanation here, Alex. Nothing to get excited about.
I swallowed hard. “A baseball game? Like what kind of baseball game? Like the middle school championship game, do you mean? ’Cause that would make sense, because I mean the crowd is huge.”
The cameraman shook his head. “Nope. It’s not a championship. It’s just a regular Saturday morning Little League game. In fact, somebody told me that one of the teams hasn’t won a game all season. What losers, huh?”
I collapsed on the sidewalk. Just flat out collapsed.
The cameraman glanced down. “You okay, kid?”
I opened one eye and stared up at him.
“Okay?” I asked. “Am I okay? No. I am not okay. That’s my team you’re talking about, mister. It’s my team that hasn’t won a game all year. What kind of man are you, anyway? What kind of man would want to embarrass a pathetic Little League team by showing them lose on the six o’clock news?”
“Whoa! Wait a minute, son. Calm down,” he said. “I’m not here to embarrass anyone. It’s the other team we’re interested in. The one with that hotshot pitcher on it.”
I threw down my cap. “T.J.! I knew it! I knew this was his fault! He probably called the station, didn’t he? He probably called the station and invited you here personally!”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know who set it up, kid. The story was headline news in the paper this morning, though. That probably explains all the people. It said this kid has won every single Little League game he’s ever played in. If his team wins today, it will be his 125th straight winning game. That’s quite a string,” he said.
I closed my eyes. “String, schming,” I muttered miserably.
I got to my feet and started walking.
Desperately, I looked into the sky again. “God? Remember a few minutes ago when I was thanking you? Well, it was my understanding that you’d done a little miracle for me or something. But now it turns out you didn’t. And so I think it would be a nice gesture on your part if you could make it up to me.”
I racked my brain for a plan.
“Okay … got it. Just make the people in the bleachers go home. You could do that, couldn’t you, God? Just make everyone think they left the water running in their bathtubs. That would be easy enough, right? It might even be kind of amusing, don’t you think?”
I looked around to see if anyone was leaving. People were still piling into the stands.
“Okay, then how about this?” I bargained. “Just make the cameraman go home. Just that one little man, God. If the cameraman goes home, I will go to Sunday school every single Sunday for the rest of my life without a fight. I promise.”
I turned around. The cameraman was walking behind me, carrying his equipment to the field.
“All right. This is it … my last idea. And this is something right up your alley, God. A lightning bolt. Close enough to scare them … but far enough away not to hurt anyone. Just one tiny little lightning bolt, God, and I promise I will run home this very minute and read my entire book of Bible stories from cover to cover.”
I looked into the sky. It was the sunniest day since my pitching contest.
My shoulders dropped even lower than before. I hung my head. God is not the pushover that some people would like you to believe.
When I finally arrived at the field, my team was already out there warming up. I could see the tension in their faces. It was obvious I wasn’t the only one who was sick about this.
I headed out to right field. My knees were shaking underneath me.
“Hey, Frankovitch! Where in the heck have you been?” shouted my coach. “I thought we were going to have to play without a right fielder! Get out there and warm up! Now hustle!”
I began to trot.
“All right, Alex. Okay. That’s far enough,” hollered my coach again. “I’m going to hit you a couple out there. Now
get ready.”
He hit me a high pop fly. I was nervous as anything. All those eyes in the bleachers. I could actually feel them staring at me. But the ball came so fast, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I’d watched the ball leave the bat, followed it in the air, and caught it.
Perfect! A perfect catch!
My nerves settled a little. Geez. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so tough, after all. Maybe a crowd brought out the best in me or something.
“Okay, Alex. Here comes another one.”
This time it was a grounder. As soon as I saw it coming, I ran up to it, bent down, and scooped it up in my glove.
“Hey! All right out there, Alex!” yelled the coach. “Way to play!”
Man, did he ever sound relieved.
My shoulders relaxed.
I looked up to the sky and smiled.
chapter ten
WHO’S ON SECOND?
The umpire called to the coaches. It was time for the game to begin.
On the sideline, T.J. was being interviewed for the six o’clock news. I tried to get close enough to listen, but they’d already finished. As T.J. walked off, I heard the interviewer say, “Good luck out there today, T.J. We’re all rooting for you.”
I looked into the bleachers and saw Fran and Ethel. They were hard to spot because they didn’t have their mops with them. But the two of them got my attention and gave me a thumbs-up sign. I smiled. Not everyone’s rooting for you, T.J.
T.J.’s team was the home team, so they hustled onto the field. Meanwhile, T.J. started warming up on the mound. Just like in our pitching contest, every warm-up pitch he threw went zinging over the plate at about sixty miles an hour.
“Batter up!” shouted the ump.
Kevin Murphy was the first batter on our team. Kevin can hit the ball a ton when he connects. The trouble is, he mostly doesn’t. Connect, I mean.
As soon as he stepped up to the plate, I could tell he was really nervous. He kept trying to spit, but nothing would come out. Instead, he just kept making this funny sound with his lips … like puh … puh … puh. It was pretty awful.
T.J. grinned. Then he wound up and threw the ball as hard as he could.
“Steeerrriiiikkke one!” yelled the umpire.
Kevin looked confused. “Did we start already?” he asked the ump.
T.J. went into his windup for the second pitch. This time he threw it a little slower. Just as the ball got to the plate, it curved.
Kevin swung with all his might.
“Steeerrriiiikkke two!” yelled the umpire again.
Poor Kevin. I really felt sorry for him. Whenever you swing as hard as you can and miss, you always feel like a fool. He tried acting cool, but it didn’t work. When he knocked the dirt off his shoes, he accidentally hit himself in the ankle.
Embarrassed, he quickly got ready to bat again. Unfortunately, the third pitch that T.J. threw was even better than the first two. Kevin just watched it go whizzing by.
“Strike three! Batter’s out!” called the ump.
Everyone in the stands began to cheer loudly for T.J.
Kevin stood there stunned for a second. Then he walked over and sat down on the bench, bent over so no one could see his face, and began to cry. It wasn’t the kind of crying you could hear. But you could see his back heaving up and down, so you definitely knew he was sobbing.
At first the whole team was pretty embarrassed about it. But as it turned out, Kevin was the best batter of the inning. He was the only one who swung. The second batter, Willy Jenson, just stood there, counted three pitches, and sat down. And the third batter never even took the bat off his shoulder.
Our team was out in the field before we knew it. Everyone was looking totally depressed. It was pretty clear that we needed something to get the old team spirit going.
I called them into a huddle for a pep talk.
“Okay, you guys,” I said. “All we need to do is hold ’em. What do you say? Let’s get them out one-two-three! Three up. Three down!”
Densel Johnson, the first baseman, laughed right in my face. “Are you nuts, Alex? Our team hasn’t made three outs in a row all year.”
“Yeah, Frankovitch. What are you trying to do? Mock us? We’ll be lucky if we make three outs the entire game,” said Willy Jenson.
So much for team spirit.
I didn’t care what those guys said, though. I was still determined to cheer our team on.
Frankie Rogers was our starting pitcher. As I walked to right field, I watched him warm up. Frankie only throws two warm-up pitches per game. He says he doesn’t have that many good pitches in him, and he doesn’t want to risk using them up in practice.
I started chattering from the outfield. “Okay, Frankie, pitch it in there, babe. Right over the plate, Frankie! You can do it! You can do it, Frankie babe.”
Frankie threw the first pitch. It hit the dirt about ten feet in front of the plate.
“Ball one!” shouted the umpire.
“That’s okay, Frankie, don’t worry. You can do it!” I yelled. “Chuck it in there, Frankie! Smoke it in there, guy!”
Just then, Frankie made the time-out sign and began walking toward right field. I figured he wanted to have some sort of strategy session, so I ran up to meet him.
“Would you please shut up, Alex?” he said. “How am I supposed to concentrate with all that noise out there? You’re just adding pressure. That’s all you’re doing.”
“No, Frankie. I’m encouraging you,” I explained. “It’s baseball chatter. I’m supposed to chatter. The whole team is supposed to chatter.”
Frankie rolled his eyes. “Get a clue, Alex. This is not a normal game. And we are not a normal team. And I do not respond well to chatter. So put a sock in it, okay?”
Frankie stomped back to the pitcher’s mound. His next pitch hit the batter on the foot and he took his base. The batter after that got hit in the arm.
The whole thing was totally humiliating. It was bad enough that Frankie was hitting people. But he wasn’t even throwing the ball hard enough for it to hurt anyone. The guys weren’t even blinking.
I shook my head and glanced over to the sidelines. That’s when I saw the cameraman. He had just spotted me in the field. And he was pointing his camera in my direction!
Oh, geez! Oh, no! He said he would only be filming T.J.!
Quickly, I put both my hands over my face so that no one would recognize me on the news.
Unfortunately, just as I covered my eyes, I heard the loud crack of the bat.
Somebody had hit the ball … hard!
I looked up. A kid was running to first base, and all the guys on my team had turned to stare at right field. Right field? Wait … that was me!
A pop fly was headed my way! And I didn’t even know where it was!
Quickly, I looked up into the sky, but the sun was directly in my eyes! I was doomed! I was finished! I was dead meat! Any second a hard ball was going to smack me right in the head, and I had no idea where it was even coming from!
I had to do something to protect myself!
In a flash, I took my glove off my hand and put it on my head.
THUD!
The ball hit my glove! Then it rolled off the top of my head and landed on the ground next to me!
Frankie Rogers started going nuts. “He dropped it! He dropped the stupid ball!” he screamed.
Man, did that make me mad. Frankie Rogers, of all people! Yelling at me for making a mistake!
“I did not!” I shouted back at him. “How can a person drop something when he didn’t even catch it in the first place? Just because something lands on your head does not mean that you caught it!”
“It does too!” shouted Frankie. “You caught it on your head, and then you dropped it!”
Man, was I ticked. I kicked at my glove.
“If a bird poops on your head, you don’t say that you’ve caught it, do you, you jerk?” I yelled.
Unfortunately, I was so busy yelling, I had
totally forgotten about the ball. By the time I threw it in, two runs had scored and the batter was safe at third.
I looked at the sidelines. My coach was waving at me.
Odd, I thought. But just to be polite, I waved back.
“He’s not waving, Frankovitch, you moron!” shouted Ricki Delaney, the center fielder. “He’s shaking his fist!”
I squinted my eyes and looked closer. Yup. That was a fist, all right. The guy was furious. For the first time in my life, I was actually grateful to be out in right field.
It took a few minutes for things to settle back down. But finally, Frankie got ready to face his fourth batter.
Slowly, old T.J. Stoner walked up to the plate and took a few practice swings. Then he spit in his hands, grinned, and pointed at me with his bat.
Panicked, I began backing up. No. Please. No. If I dropped another one, I was done for.
Frankie pitched the ball.
T.J. leaned back and swung it with all his might. It was a hard grounder, and it was screaming my way! It streaked past the first baseman and tore into right field!
Stay calm, Alex! Stay calm! Just do what you did in practice today! You can do it! You can get T.J. Stoner out!
I did everything right. I swear I did. First, I ran up to meet the ball. Then I stooped down to block it. And I didn’t take my eye off it. Not even for a split second!
It’s almost here! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!
But just as the ball was about to roll into my glove, it hit a clump of grass and took a crazy bounce to the right.
“NO!” I screamed.
I made a diving leap, but it was no use. The ball sped away and rolled all the way to the back fence.
The crowd went wild. T.J. was on his way to an inside-the-park home run. And he wasn’t even hurrying. I watched him as he rounded second base. He looked over his shoulder at me and tipped his cap. Man, did he make me sick!
Once again, I had completely forgotten about the ball. It didn’t matter, though. I couldn’t have thrown it all the way home even if I’d wanted to.
Ricki Delaney finally threw it in. But T.J. was already safe.
