by David Teague
“Sometimes it seems like you know more about baseball than I do,” said Oscar.
“I’ve been around a long time,” said Miss Ellington. “I’ve picked up a few things.”
“You picked up a lot about baseball,” observed Oscar.
She was quiet for a bit. Then she said slowly, “I used to play baseball, Oscar.”
“Really? Why didn’t you ever say?” asked Oscar.
“It’s not something I think about that much,” Miss Ellington said sadly.
“I wish I could have seen you play!” said Oscar. “Was this your glove?”
“Yes. My grandfather gave it to me,” said Miss Ellington. “He loved baseball. He showed me how to oil it so it would never wear out.”
“And now you’re showing me. Thank you,” said Oscar.
Miss Ellington was quiet for a while, looking at the glove. “Just remember, when life confuses you, or people disappoint you—” She paused to glance out the window at his driveway next door, and Oscar knew she had watched his whole conversation with his dad. “It helps to do something simple,” concluded Miss Ellington.
“Like oil a glove?” said Oscar.
“Or water the garden,” said Miss Ellington.
“Or write a letter,” said Oscar, “and mail it.”
“Or write a letter and mail it,” affirmed Miss Ellington quietly.
“Thank you, Miss Ellington,” said Oscar. “Even if I never use it in a game, even if I just warm up with it and shag flies in practice and toss pitches off the backstop and catch them on my own, this glove is perfect.”
“Good luck tonight,” said Miss Ellington.
Oscar left feeling hopeful—he might have destroyed the universe and lost the most powerful object known to man, but his new mitt filled him with optimism.
You’re Starting Tonight
Oscar arrived early for the game at Mt. Etna Diamond. Before he ran onto the field to warm up, he stood outside its looming walls and briefly contemplated their old-fashioned grandeur.
Mt. Etna Diamond was the league championship park, with parapets of cement and arches of stone, like a real, old-fashioned baseball stadium. Back in the day, the minor league Mt. Etna Mountaineers used to play here, from 1934 to 1977. And though the Mountaineers were long gone, their stately stadium remained. Now the Wildcats were playing in it to earn their place in history.
The light seemed strange. Glaring and harsh. Somewhere up there, Oscar mused as he scanned the sky, a second sun was hurtling through space, closing in, soon to take its place next to the bona fide sun. And before too long, people would notice.
“Indigo!” hollered Coach Ron. “Stop lollygagging around and get on the field! Have you seen Mangubat?”
“She’ll be here, Coach,” said Oscar. As crazy as the day had been, Oscar knew Lourdes wouldn’t let the team down.
“She’d better!” exclaimed the coach. “’Cause without her, this team’s got approximately the same chance as a snowball in Guatemala!”
Oscar glanced at Bobby Farouk, who was tightening the thumb strap on his mitt. Bobby glanced back at Oscar quizzically. Neither of them had ever heard Coach Ron make such a brutally accurate assessment of the Wildcats. Usually, he just told them winning wasn’t everything, and asked if everybody’s shoelaces were tied.
But now he seemed really worried. “Does anybody have the child’s handle?” asked the coach about Lourdes. “Can somebody Snapchat her mom?”
“Nobody knows how to get in touch with Lourdes, Coach,” said Bobby. “Nobody even knows where she lives.”
And it dawned on Oscar that he actually did know where Lourdes lived, since he’d been in the car when she gave Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt directions to her house and they’d dropped her off. Which made him the only person on the team with this knowledge. He didn’t know if he should reveal it. And he really didn’t know if he should volunteer to go find her, since he wasn’t too sure she’d be glad to see him after the s’mores conversation.
Luckily, at that moment, he heard footsteps approaching from behind the dugout. Lourdes herself. Much improved after Mr. Llimb’s miracle cure.
Lourdes saw Oscar, and her gaze went right through him as she contemplated the invisible sights that only she and a few Greek heroes and maybe Mets all-star pitcher Jacob deGrom could see. It was like Oscar wasn’t there at all. Very different from a few hours ago, Oscar reflected. He’d really blown it.
And then, as if to drive that thought home, a flock of Carolina parakeets swarmed across the diamond. Oscar eyed them apprehensively. These birds, he’d learned in science class, had been extinct in the wild for over one hundred years. He counted to nineteen seconds. They promptly disappeared. This was bad.
Once the parakeets were out of sight, Oscar turned to Lourdes. He wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. And he wasn’t sure if it was all that helpful when Vern and Suzy began voicing their opinions in his mind:
The thing is, Suzy, the window inside which you apologize to a new acquaintance isn’t very big.
And it closes fast, Vern. Young Indigo had better say something quick.
Oscar glanced around. They sounded like they were sitting in their broadcast booth two feet away. But of course they weren’t. Their voices emanated from his imagination. And were kind of distracting.
Already, Oscar has let the silence between himself and his teammate become painfully awkward, Suzy.
Whoever decides to start talking first is going to have to pretend like everything is fine and jump right in, Vern.
Oscar took a deep breath and psyched himself up for maximum inspiration. What if he started by apologizing?
“Sorry about your toe.”
No. Didn’t sound quite right. Besides, he’d already apologized for it once.
“Sorry about the ex-gangsters who took us for a ride.”
Nope. After all, she’d had fun with Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt. They weren’t the problem. The problem was Oscar.
“Lourdes, by the way: I cheated. My home run was fake and of possibly cosmic proportions that could, according to Professor T. Buffington Smiley, lead to the shriveling of our current universe? Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier?”
Uh-uh.
Perhaps it’d be good to start with something simpler: “How are you?”
Sure. He’d ask, and hopefully, Lourdes would answer. And things would progress from there. But as Oscar finally spoke, so did Lourdes, and Oscar said, “How are—” and she said, “Who will—” and he said, “Go ahead!” and she said, “No, you!” and by then, Oscar had forgotten what he wanted to say.
“Mangubat!” shouted Coach Ron. “Ready to play?”
Lourdes turned away from Oscar to nod at Coach Ron.
“Great. Listen up, Wildcats. We win this one, we take home the trophy. So let’s beat those Yankees and show them who’s boss! Since Lourdes pitched last night, Kevin’s on the mound. Lourdes, you’re on second,” continued the coach. “How’s the toe?”
Lourdes gave him a thumbs-up.
“Got in some physical therapy?” asked the coach. “Good!”
Oscar guessed having Mr. Llimb yank on your baby toe while Mr. Skerritt held you counted as physical therapy.
Ron listed the rest of the line-up and field assignments until—“Oscar,” said Coach Ron, “you’re starting tonight in right field.”
“What?” cried Oscar, not believing his ears.
“Get your glove on. Hope it’s oiled up.”
“It is, Coach!” cried Oscar. “It is!” He slipped on the perfect old glove Miss Ellington had given him, silently told her thanks, and pulled his hat on tight.
Despite the problems with missing watches, failed friendships, second suns, not to mention the disintegration of the universe—all of which was his fault—Oscar couldn’t help it. His spirits soared. He’d been waiting his whole life to hear these words from a coach.
You’re.
Starting.
Tonight.
�
��’Cause you hit that homer,” elaborated Coach Ron.
Oscar’s spirits dropped. Because he hadn’t hit that homer. Everything came back to this.
You Haven’t Heard the Last of This
Since this was game two of the series, the Yankees were the home team at Mt. Etna Diamond. Which meant the Wildcats came to bat first. Their pitcher, Robocop Roberts, who was not bad, sat Axel, Bobby, and Steve down in order.
And just like that, the bottom of the first rolled around, and the Wildcats took the field.
Oscar settled into right. Lourdes lined up in front of him at second base. She didn’t look his way, and she didn’t give him a big smile, or any of the stuff ace players do in stories when a rookie hits the field for the first time. But they were on the same team, playing on the same grass, and they were comrades—even if she wouldn’t look at him. Even if he’d destroyed the universe.
In center stood Carlissimo Fong, popping his fist into his glove and inspecting the turf around him for obstructions and gopher holes, just in case. And over in left, Kamran Singh glided into position like a gazelle skimming across the savannah. Until he got his feet tangled, and stumbled, and came within a centimeter of face-planting in the turf. But he regained his balance and slid to a halt, bouncing on his toes, ready for action.
Sure. Oscar was nervous. But he was in the lineup! He knew that, for the first time in his life, he belonged.
The turf was his, all his, the right half of Mt. Etna Diamond, to protect and defend. Every blade of grass, every crumb of dirt, every moth fluttering amid the final rays of the setting sun, every molecule of air.
And sure, the fate of the universe hung in the balance, but now Oscar was on the field, and he knew he’d play a part in the Wildcats’ victory over the Yankees. Or at least he really, really hoped he would.
The Yanks’ third baseman led off: Christopher Connolly. The Wildcats’ pitcher, Kevin Truax, wound up and tossed his best fastball straight down the middle, but Chris kept his eye on the pitch and smoothly sliced it over Lourdes’s head to center field for a single. And then the ball bounced into the seething vines that grew on the outfield fence, which grabbed it and wouldn’t let go until Kamran and Carlissimo both reached in, found the ball, and tore it loose, and by then Chris was on second with a ground rule double.
This must’ve rattled the pitcher’s cage a bit, because he then gave up a single to Robocop.
And so Kevin found himself facing Taser Tompkins, the second-best hitter in the state after Lourdes Mangubat.
Unfortunately, Kevin served up a fat, juicy strike.
Taser smoked it like a meteorite over Oscar’s head. It seemed to make a sizzling sound as it passed. Oscar didn’t even have time to react before the ball ricocheted off the wall straight to Carlissimo, who’d run over to back him up. Carlissimo threw it home before any runners scored. But still. Three batters. Three runners on base. Not a great way to kick off the most important game the Wildcats had ever played.
And then Bif Stroganoff strolled to the plate, swinging his shiny red aluminum bat with menace.
“You got this, Kevin!” called Oscar.
Kevin wound up and threw—a curveball.
The problem with Kevin’s curves was that they didn’t really curve. They floated toward the plate like big, juicy beach balls, ripe to be whacked.
And at the plate stood Bif, wielding a bat large enough to stop a charging Volkswagen.
So Oscar did what he was best at. He hoped. He hoped the curveball would actually curve. He hoped Bif would whiff. Or, if not, he hoped Bif would fall down, or a bug would land in his eye. He hoped that something, anything, would keep him from belting a grand slam in the very first inning of the game, the game upon which the future of the universe, thanks to Oscar, depended.
Bif swung. And smacked the living tar out of poor Kevin’s sad alleged curveball.
A maelstrom whirled in Oscar’s brain. Hope and fear. Optimism and dread. The colors of the night ran together. Edges blurred and sounds muddled. Bif’s shot flew straight at Oscar, and Oscar jabbed his glove in the air. He hoped for the best. And then by some miracle, the ball smacked right into the soft, supple pocket of his baseball mitt. He’d caught it! Bif was out! But as Oscar jubilated, the Yankee on third tagged up and started running toward home.
Oscar drew back and hurled the ball toward the catcher. His throw arrived half an inch ahead of the runner. “Yer out!” cried the ump as Axel nabbed him.
Axel then zipped the ball to third, and Layton Brooks caught it neatly, tagging out the oncoming runner. Three outs. End of the inning.
“Awesome, Oscar!” he heard Kevin Truax cry. “You started a triple play! You saved a run!”
“Wow” was all Coach Ron had to say as Oscar trotted to the dugout.
And Oscar felt like part of everything that had ever gone right on a baseball diamond in the entire history of the game.
It was all he had dreamed of, and more. He scanned the stands. No sign of his mom. And his dad hadn’t made it. But what was that voice, high and strong above all the others, cheering: “Way to wing it, Oscar!”? Miss Ellington! At his game! Oscar couldn’t help it. He grinned from ear to ear and pumped his fist in the air. Miss Ellington pumped her translucent, delicate, liver-spotted fist right back. She’d known he needed somebody there to cheer for him. She’d come.
Mr. Skerritt and Mr. Llimb tipped their hats from high in the third-base stands. Oscar sent a dab their way. He realized he was starting to like those guys.
And he knew he’d tell his mom about the triple play after she got home from work. And he’d tell his dad, too, next time they talked. He’d done something great at the game and hadn’t even cheated! Surely this was a good sign—a step in the right direction.
“Nice play,” said Lourdes, dropping onto the bench beside him.
“Thanks,” said Oscar.
And that was how Oscar Indigo solved the problem of what to say to Lourdes Mangubat. When all else fails, talk about baseball, even if you only exchange three words. At least it’s a start.
Silence descended between them. Oscar stared at his mitt. Then he noticed a set of letters, possibly initials, carved into his glove: EES. Huh. Miss Ellington’s, from when she was young? He wondered idly to himself what Eleanor Ethel Ellington’s last name used to be. Something beginning with S.
When he looked up, the Yankees were taking the field for the top of the second inning. Taser stomped out to the mound to pitch.
When Coach Ron saw Taser, though, he went charging from the dugout. “That’s against the rules! He pitched last night! He’s not allowed back on the mound for two days! You’re just putting him in because he’s your best pitcher!”
The umpire, who was Bobby’s granddad Mr. Farouk again, squinted at Taser. “It seems to me that he did pitch yesterday,” said Mr. Farouk.
“What?” cried Coach Pringle, sprinting out of the Yankees’ dugout. “That’s nuts! This kid didn’t pitch yesterday!”
“Did you pitch yesterday?” Mr. Farouk asked Taser.
“No way,” said Taser, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”
“What’s the problem?” asked Taser’s mom, huffing and puffing her way into the middle of the small crowd on the mound.
“Nothing, Mrs. Tompkins,” said Mr. Farouk. “I have this under control. Please return to the stands.”
“As the president of the Slugger League board of directors,” declared Taser’s mom, “I have a right to know what the problem is.”
“You know what it is,” shot back Coach Ron. “Your coach is trying to pitch your son two games in a row.”
“Prove it,” said Sheila Tompkins.
“Yeah,” said Taser. “Prove it.”
“Wait,” said Mr. Farouk, digging around in the pocket of his giant black umpire jacket. “I still have last night’s lineup card.”
Sheila Tompkins and Coach Pringle exchanged uneasy looks.
“Deli pickup numb
er,” said Mr. Farouk, sorting through a stack of rumpled paper. “Comcast bill. Car wash code. Here it is!” He held a battered card six inches from his nose and squinted. He began to read aloud. “Wildcats vs. Yankees, July 5: Pitching for the Yank—”
“Let me see that!” shrieked Taser’s mom. She snatched it from Mr. Farouk. She looked it over. A rogue gust of wind blasted in from left field. Somehow, the card slipped away from her and fluttered away over the bleachers. “Whoops!” cried Mrs. Tompkins.
“I do not think—” began Mr. Farouk. But the noise and the dust of the wind gust made it impossible to communicate.
And this lasted for almost exactly nineteen seconds, Oscar couldn’t help noticing.
“With no proof,” shouted Mr. Farouk over the dying wind, ruefully gazing in the direction the lineup card had disappeared, “I have no choice but to allow the young man to pitch.”
“That’s not fair!” cried Coach Ron.
“Since I have no evidence, my hands are tied,” said Mr. Farouk.
“I’ll file a protest!” said Coach Ron, though he clearly realized that protests were futile.
“You should. Maybe you’ll win. I would love to be overruled,” said Mr. Farouk. “But Taser’s mother is the president of the league board of directors. I think your chances are slim. Now. Play ball!”
And play ball they did. And surprisingly, despite the Yankees’ pitching shenanigans, the Wildcats had some luck of their own. Lourdes smacked a homer off Taser.
And even though Taser threw his glove in the dirt, Coach Pringle was heard to shout, “It’s OK! Nothing but a lucky shot! She’s no good! She’s just a girl. We’ll score ten runs when we come up to bat!”
As Lourdes passed third, Robocop stuck his foot out to trip her, but pretending not to notice, she scampered home to put the Wildcats ahead.
Wildcats 1, Yankees 0.
And after that, the Wildcats held their lead for the next six innings. Coach Ron was ecstatic, but no one was happier than Oscar. He felt like he was getting somewhere.
The universe, unfortunately, seemed to have other plans.
By the eighth inning, Kevin’s arm had gotten so tired he could barely get the ball to the plate. He let Robocop on base with a walk. Then Taser came to bat and watched two of Kevin’s weakening pitches go by, and grinned and waggled his bat, knowing Kevin’s arm had turned to Jell-O. After that, Taser knocked the next pitch out of the park, driving in Robocop, not to mention himself. He took off around the bases at a leisurely pace, gloating all the way home.
