by David Teague
Yanks 2. Wildcats 1.
The top of the ninth rolled around.
It was the final at-bat for the Wildcats. Coach Ron looked nervous.
“Wildcats,” he said in the dugout, “this is it. We’ve got half an inning to put ourselves in the lead. Three outs. Nine strikes. We need this win. Who’s up?” He checked his roster. “Mangubat? Go out there and knock it a mile!”
Lourdes did her best, but all she could manage was a single.
Carlissimo Fong struck out on three straight pitches.
Layton Brooks suffered Carlissimo’s fate, too.
And then . . . it was time. Coach Ron checked the lineup sheet. The entire team held its breath as it waited to hear who was up next, although everybody already knew. “Oscar?” Coach Ron’s voice wavered.
Oscar swallowed. Here he was again. The game resting on his shoulders, and this time, along with it, the universe.
“We could use another homer,” said the coach encouragingly. “We need somebody to drive in two runs. Go out there and bring in Mangubat, and while you’re at it, bring yourself around, too.”
Ice formed along Oscar’s spine. His lungs hardened into stone. His legs refused to move.
“Listen, son,” said the coach. “Whatever your mojo is, you need to unleash it again. Right now.”
“I don’t know if I can unleash my mojo today,” said Oscar.
“Why not?” asked the coach.
“I left it in the bread box,” said Oscar.
“What?” asked Coach Ron.
“I mean, I don’t think I have my mojo with me right now,” said Oscar.
“If you had it with you last night, then you have it with you tonight,” Coach Ron reassured him. “People don’t lose their mojo that fast.”
“Maybe some people do,” said Oscar. “People like me.”
“Listen, Oscar,” said the coach. “We appreciate the high fives and the enthusiastic grins you’ve displayed all these years. We really do. We like the OscarAde. Pretty much. But high fives and ear-to-ear smiles and OscarAde don’t win baseball games. Home runs win baseball games. And I’d really like to win this baseball game.”
“I would, too, Coach,” said Oscar. He missed the old Coach Ron. The nice one. The one who told them things were OK no matter what. But he knew that coach was now going the way of the bees. One more wrong for Oscar to put right.
“Then go out there and smack the ball over the fence just like you did last night!” shouted Coach Ron.
“Right,” gulped Oscar. “Like I did last night.”
“Batter up!” called the umpire.
Oscar made his way to the plate. It was only ten yards from the dugout, but it took him over a hundred and fifty years to get there. Or at least that’s how much he felt like he’d aged during the journey. The crowd had gone silent.
Oscar thought of Lourdes, out there on base, depending on him to get her home. Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt were watching, along with Miss Ellington and half of East Mt. Etna. He stepped up to the plate.
The light of the setting sun seemed strange, and far stronger than usual. For now, Oscar was the only one who knew why: a second sun, intensifying the light of the first.
Taser drew back. He fired straight at Oscar’s ribcage. Oscar danced out of the way. Just in time. The ball whomped off the backstop.
Ball one. Wild pitch. Taser didn’t care. So what if he was now one pitch behind in the count? So what if Lourdes had trotted to second base? It was worth burning a toss, giving up a ball, letting the runner advance, just to show Oscar who was boss.
Now he was going to throw three straight strikes and send Oscar and the rest of the Wildcats home with tears in their little loser eyes.
Taser wound up. He launched a rocket. Steeeerike one.
Indigo has been here before, Vern.
And remember, he delivered a fat, juicy home run, Suzy.
All he needs is one good pitch, Vern.
Taser served up the next toss. The ball came at Oscar like a torpedo zooming down a pipe. Except harder to see. Steeeerike two.
Prospects are looking a little dimmer for Oscar Indigo, Suzy.
The kid is doing his best, Vern. Let’s hope it’s going to be good enough.
Taser came set on the mound. He went into his motion.
Oscar gripped the bat. He locked onto the ball. The lights blazed. The base paths rolled like ocean waves. Panic rose like a tide in his gullet. The pitch seemed to be headed for his ear.
He ducked.
He heard the plink of leather against aluminum. Felt the sting of the bat on his fingers.
He opened his eyes. The ball rolled slowly away from him in front of the plate.
“Fair ball!” called the umpire.
“Run, Oscar! Run!” voices yelled from the Wildcats’ dugout.
“What—” Oscar cried. But he realized in a flash what’d happened. Taser had been trying to pitch close to his head. And when he ducked, his bat poked straight up in the air behind him. Accidentally, he’d hit the ball. At least seven whole feet.
So he started running.
Lourdes was already halfway to third.
Oscar sprinted for first.
The Yankees catcher Bif Stroganoff scrambled to pick up the ball and hurl it toward first.
Oscar closed in on the bag. He galloped like he’d just robbed a bank. By the look in the first baseman’s eyes, Oscar could tell that Bif was about to make the throw. Would he get to first base in time? Oscar gave it more gas. He stretched his stride out and pumped his arms and ignored the burning in his thighs.
His foot hit the base.
The ball hit the first baseman’s glove.
“Safe!” he heard the ump yell.
But as he crossed the bag, he could tell the play wasn’t over. A chorus of cheers exploded from the bleachers.
“Home! Home! Home!” cried the Yankees infield.
Oscar saw Lourdes rounding third and pushing for home.
Oscar could only watch helplessly as the Yankees’ first baseman fired to Bif Stroganoff, who was guarding home plate. Lourdes dove, but she was too late. Bif blocked her way like a midsize dump truck, clutching the ball in his mitt.
The ump cried, “Yer out!”
A stunned silence fell. Lourdes climbed to her knees but couldn’t seem to stand. A look of horror crossed her face. She’d just made the biggest error of the series—of the season—and the Yankees had won the game.
Suzy and Vern let their opinions be known.
Young Indigo did his best, Vern.
Mangubat just got too ambitious, Suzy.
There’s where you’re right, Vern. Sometimes, the tale doesn’t end “happily ever after.”
Of course, the Yankees flooded the field, and Yankee jubilation ruled.
Wise people say: There’s nothing worse than a sore loser.
Wiser people add: except a sore winner.
The Yankees were not wise people.
“Lourdes, did you bring your lunch money?” cried Taser, dancing around the infield.
“’Cause we just took you to school!” added Robocop. “Bwaahaahaahaahaa!”
“Do the Robot, boys!” cried Taser’s mother.
Which was the cue for Taser and Robocop to demonstrate how Robocop had earned his nickname. Taser pretended to turn a giant key on Robocop’s back. Once he’d wound Robo up all the way, Robocop transformed into an automated fist-bumping machine. A life-size Rock’em Sock’em Robot. He bumped all the Yankees players once, twice, three times.
Then he roboted himself over to the Wildcats’ dugout and began bumping fists with them. Which was not a whole lot of fun for the Wildcats, since if they ignored him, they seemed like bad sports, and if they bumped him back, he laughed.
People say Robocop Roberts thought that routine up himself, Suzy.
When he was five, Vern.
It never gets old, Suzy.
Well, it kind of does, Vern.
When Robocop got to Lourdes
, she tried to ignore him, but he scooted himself in front of her no matter which way she turned. “Lourdes,” he said in a flat, robot voice, “you played a very nice game. For a girl.” And even though his voice was machinelike, his eyes shone with malice. He turned and bumped Taser, who was standing beside him.
Lourdes trembled with anger.
“Why are you mad?” demanded Taser, watching her closely. “He was being nice!”
“Shut up!” cried Lourdes.
“You did your best,” said Taser. “The problem is, you rot. So your best wasn’t good enough!”
“Leave her alone!” Oscar cried, stepping in between the bullies and Lourdes.
“Who’s gonna make us?” sneered Taser.
“You?” jeered Robocop. “Ha!”
“How about if I make you stop?” came a voice from behind Oscar.
“Let me know if you need help,” chimed in a second.
Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt.
Taser glanced up and saw the two men. He tried not to look scared, but Oscar saw the color leave his face.
“Whatever. I’m out of here. See you losers next game,” said Taser, backing away. He scuttled after Robocop, who was already halfway across the parking lot. Clearly, Robocop remembered their last meeting.
“Lourdes,” called Oscar, but she was already stalking toward the gate, head down. “It’s OK to make a mistake once in a while,” he told her.
She stiffened and turned back to face him.
“It’s not OK! I lost the game!” snapped Lourdes. “People are making fun of me! I’m a complete failure.”
“But it’s just one game—” said Oscar. He did his best to sound upbeat.
“Stop being so positive all the time!” yelled Lourdes. “It’s exasperating!”
She crossed the street to the bus stop just as the bus pulled up. When it roared away, she was gone.
In the silence, Oscar said to Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt, “She’s right. I shouldn’t be so positive. I haven’t found the watch. I have no idea how to put the nineteen seconds back, and we didn’t beat the Yankees. And now Lourdes is mad at me.”
“Professor Smiley told us to tell you that all adds up to a huge problem,” said Mr. Llimb. “But he said if we’re lucky, things may hold together until tomorrow’s game. And if they do, you have one last chance to win.”
“Plus we’ve got one more thing to tell you,” added Mr. Skerritt. “Something’s going on in the Mt. Etna stadium. There’s this fellow wearing an old-fashioned Boston Braves uniform. I would think he’s another one of those nineteen-second flibbertigibbets, but he’s been sticking around a lot longer than that.”
“Really?” asked Oscar. “Where is he?”
“Just kind of hovering by himself at the end of the bleacher seats,” said Mr. Llimb. “Like a ghost.”
“I’m going to talk to him,” said Oscar. “Even if he’s a ghost. I want to see why Boston Braves are shadowing me and find out what he knows.” He shivered slightly.
“You need our help?” asked Mr. Llimb.
“No, thanks,” said Oscar. “I’ve got this. But I appreciate the offer.”
The Mt. Etna Mountaineers
As he climbed the deserted stadium steps under the eerie light of the second sun, fully visible now that the first had set, Oscar shuddered. He didn’t feel any braver about ghosts than the next guy, but he had to save the universe, so acting like a fraidycat was not a luxury he could afford.
Besides, up close, this ghost didn’t seem all that scary. He seemed more like a gum-chewing shortstop than an unquiet spirit.
“Hello?” Oscar asked tentatively as he sat down in the top row of the bleachers. “Can you hear me?”
“Of course,” said the ballplayer, who, upon closer inspection, appeared to be chewing tobacco, not gum. “But ain’t you afraid of ghosts?”
“A little,” admitted Oscar. “I probably wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t need to ask you something really badly.”
“Shoot,” said the old Brave.
Somehow Oscar’s mind went blank. What do you ask a specter? Then a question popped into his mind, one that must’ve been floating around in there since he’d visited the Veeder-Klamm Museum.
“Did a kid ever strike out Babe Ruth? In this ballpark? A twelve-year-old? When he played for the Boston Braves?” asked Oscar. “I’m only asking because you’re a Boston Brave, so maybe you know?”
“Funny you should mention that,” said the player, eyeing Oscar closely. “I played in that game. I’ll tell you what I remember. And by the way, my name is Pinky Whitney.”
“I’m Oscar Indigo,” said Oscar. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Whitney.” Oscar grinned. He couldn’t help it. Braving a conversation with this Brave had turned out to be the right thing to do.
“We were barnstorming,” said Pinky Whitney. “You know, playing preseason games in small towns and out-of-the-way cities against local teams for publicity, and to make a few extra bucks. . . .”
The Story of The Drop, as told by Pinky Whitney
April 11, 1935
By the time the game started, there were five thousand spectators in the stands. Word spread fast. The Babe stepped to the plate, and a few people cheered for him, but most of those five thousand fans were cheering for the Mountaineers’ pitcher. See, this game and this town were special. They had a twelve-year-old phenom named E. E. Smiley.
Babe didn’t know it, but Smiley had a special pitch. It had its own nickname: The Drop.
People said the Mountaineers’ manager, a son-of-a-gun named Razor Tompkins, had only signed the sixth grader to pitch as a publicity stunt. But no one told this to E. E. Smiley. And that The Drop wasn’t any publicity stunt. It was the real deal.
So, the Babe’s at bat. Smiley winds up and delivers the first pitch. It sails over the plate for a strike.
The Babe shrugs like that isn’t a big deal and gets ready for the next pitch.
E. E. Smiley winds up again like a coffee grinder and lets The Drop fly. And drop it does. Down below Babe Ruth’s knees. The Sultan of Swat takes a staggering cut. But he misses.
Strike two.
The hometown crowd is going wild at this point. Smiley’s giving old Babe a run for his money. And Smiley’s only twelve!
Babe Ruth shrugs. And he smiles a little. But not much—he’s shaken up!
So E. E. Smiley lobs what looks like an easy floater. The pitch dances through the air on butterfly wings. The Babe’s eyes zero in on it. But he never moves. He seems frozen by the deceptiveness of that pitch. And the ball sails over the plate and into the catcher’s mitt.
“Steeeeee-rike three! Yer out!”
The Babe struck out looking. Very strange. You don’t see that every day.
As I remember, he said something to the pitcher, which made her look real upset. Then Ruth broke his bat over his knee, threw the pieces on the ground, and stalked to his dugout. Hard to hear what he said over the hometown cheering, though.
E. E. Smiley pitched the rest of the inning, notching a fly out and another strikeout. But she didn’t come out of the dugout for the second inning, and she never played another game for the Mountaineers as far as I know. Or for any other team. I always figured I’d hear about her later, but she disappeared from baseball history.
And Babe Ruth retired two months later.
“Wait,” said Oscar when Whitney had finished. “E. E. Smiley was a sixth-grade girl?”
“Didn’t I mention that?” asked Pinky.
“No,” said Oscar.
“Don’t know if it matters or not, ’cause she struck out the Bambino, and that’s what counts, right?”
But while Pinky Whitney was answering, Oscar remembered the initials EES inscribed on Miss Ellington’s mitt. “Mr. Whitney?” asked Oscar. “Do you know what ‘E. E.’ stood for?”
But Pinky Whitney had faded away, leaving Oscar alone in the empty stadium.
“That’s OK,” said Oscar into the silence. “I’ll put it
on the list of things I need to ask Miss Ellington when I see her again. Miss Eleanor Ethel Ellington.”
Outside the ballpark gates, the Corolla came rattling around the corner. Oscar ran to meet it. Maybe it was just as well the second sun refused to set. Both of his mother’s headlights appeared to be broken now.
“Is everything OK?” asked Oscar’s mom when she saw him.
“Sure,” said Oscar, though his mind raced with the story Pinky Whitney had just told him.
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” said his mother.
“No, of course I didn’t, why did you say that—oh—good one, Mom,” replied Oscar, finally realizing she was joking.
“The game is over?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s been over for a while now,” said Oscar.
“Just my luck,” said his mother. “If I had to get fired, why couldn’t I get fired in time to make it to your game?”
“That is rotten luck,” said Oscar. “Wait. You got fired?” The news chilled him. First, it’s never good when your mom gets fired. Second, it was another of the signs T. Buffington Smiley had mentioned: Good people will fail . . . friends and loved ones will experience disappointment and defeat.
“Yes,” said his mother. “But it wasn’t a totally terrible night, because you won your game.”
“Actually, we lost,” said Oscar.
“Oh. A last-second score?” His mother sounded defeated. Oscar wished he had better news.
“Something like that,” said Oscar.
“That’s OK, though. One game doesn’t make any difference in the overall, gigantic, cosmic, grand scheme of things. Right?” said his mother.
“This one kind of did, Mom,” said Oscar. “It really did.” He wished he could talk to her about the mess he was in. But he couldn’t, especially when she’d just lost her job. “I’m sorry you got fired.”
“It was the craziest thing,” she replied. “I’d just steamed the most perfect Mochalino Supremo in history, but when I turned around to pour it, the cup I’d set on the counter was gone! The Mochalino splattered all over the counter and into the lap of the lady who ordered it. Mr. Parker fired me on the spot.”
