by David Teague
“The top of the first!” exclaimed Coach Ron, spreading his arms expansively. Either Coach Ron had already forgotten what exactly they stood to lose if this game went wrong, or he was putting on a brave face for the benefit of his players. Which seemed a lot more likely. “The game stretching out before us in all its glory. Like the ocean greeting a sailor. Like the moon welcoming Neil Armstrong. Like Kansas beckoning farmers. Like the shores of Ellis Island promising my great-grandfather Teodascz that the future will be bright.”
“Right, Coach,” said Axel as he watched Lourdes take her warm-up tosses on the mound. “The top of the first is exactly like that . . . except it will all slowly cease to exist anymore if we don’t win today.”
Coach Ron harrumphed. “We’re gonna win,” he said.
The ump called, “Batter up!”
The first Yankee headed to the plate. Taser Tompkins.
Oscar glanced at Coach Ron, who said, “I already talked to the umpire. Last game’s lineup card was destroyed in a mysterious laundry accident. The ump feels terrible. But since there’s no solid proof Taser pitched that game, he’s pitching again.”
“Lourdes and I sort of figured this would happen,” said Oscar. “We even planned on it.” He glanced at Lourdes on the mound. He could tell she was rattled by the stakes. She fidgeted on the pitching rubber, and a voice called, “Mow them down, Lourdes Mangubat!” It was her mother.
“You own this guy, Lourdes!” cried Oscar’s mom, rattling the aluminum bats in their rack with her opera-singer voice. Oscar noticed his dad was nowhere to be seen, but, he realized, he wasn’t surprised. And anyway, there were Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt, off toward right, and behind home plate, T. Buffington Smiley and Mrs. Mangubat. He couldn’t help but think how much things had changed since he’d accidentally busted Lourdes’s toe and started this whole thing. They hadn’t even been friends then, and now they were going to fix the universe together.
“You got this, Lourdes!” Oscar chimed in.
At the plate, Taser glanced nervously at the sky, where two suns were blazing. Then Taser turned his glare at Lourdes, who was set on the mound.
“Come on, Taser! She’s only a girl! Don’t look so scared!” Taser’s mom hollered from the stands.
Oscar saw a confident glimmer in Lourdes’s eyes, instead of her usual distant stare. No doubt Lourdes was thinking about E. E. Smiley and the way she’d beat Babe Ruth. She wound up and delivered her first pitch. Oscar couldn’t believe his eyes. The ball flew straight down the middle and then plummeted toward Taser’s feet. The Drop! Lourdes had picked it up by watching Eleanor Ethel Smiley!
“Steerike one!” cried the umpire.
Taser looked out at the mound and snarled. But it was no use. Lourdes delivered two more pitches like the first and struck him out. And for good measure, she struck out the next two batters, Bif Stroganoff and Robocop.
Lourdes came in from the field, grabbed her bat, and headed out to lead off the bottom of the inning. Taser awaited her on the mound.
Taser stared at Lourdes for ten solid seconds, as if to ice her. Then he wound up and pitched. Lourdes smashed his toss straight toward the left-field fence.
As the ball flew over his head, Taser flung his glove to the ground in disgust. This ball was clearly headed out of the park. But before Lourdes even made it to first, a wind began to blow, pushing Lourdes’s hit into foul territory.
“Wave it back in, Lourdes!” cried Oscar. “Just like Carlton Fisk!” Lourdes waved, but the universe was different now than it had been in Carlton’s day, and the ball kept drifting foul, until it dropped into a thicket of blackberry bramble that writhed ever so quietly at the far end of the third-base bleachers.
Strike one.
Taser picked up his glove, pounded his fist into it triumphantly like this outcome was what he’d been planning on all along, and waited impatiently for the ump to throw him a new ball.
The wind died down.
Taser threw another pitch. This one, Lourdes hit, but not nearly as well. It dropped into the outfield for a single.
But Taser struck out the next three batters in a row, including Oscar.
So much for the first inning.
“That’s OK, guys!” shouted Oscar as the team prepared to take the field. “We’ve got eight more innings to score! Let’s play defense.”
But there actually wasn’t much defense to play. Lourdes took the mound and zeroed in on the strike zone, and she mowed down Yankees as if their butts were grass and she were the lawnmower.
Until the top of the sixth, when Taser got on base with a single and stole second. Dusty committed an error, and Taser scored. Yankees 1, Wildcats 0.
And then, in the top of the seventh, Lourdes gave up a double and a single, allowing one more run before she managed to retire the side. Yankees 2, Wildcats 0. Oscar expected to see her as upset as she’d been when she gave up runs to the opposition in the game before. But Lourdes looked calm and determined. Not at all flustered by what had happened. “Let’s go get ’em, Wildcats!” she shouted as she came back to the dugout.
Her enthusiasm inspired hope in Oscar. “It’s OK, team!” cried Oscar. “We’ve got these guys right where we want them!” He was passing out OscarAde, doing jumping jacks, taking practice swings to stay upbeat. The looks of despair on his teammates’ faces were getting to him, though.
But slowly, the enthusiasm shown by Oscar and Lourdes seemed to take hold of the Wildcats. In the top of the eighth, Steve Brinkley hit an infield single to make it to first. And Taser made a mistake. He ignored his coach’s orders to walk Lourdes. He threw her two curveballs, which she missed by a mile.
And since the first two curveballs had worked so well, he threw one more. And Lourdes was waiting. She put the hurt on it. Her shot cleared the centerfield fence by twenty feet.
Oscar felt his spirits lift. Maybe they could do it—they could actually save the universe. They could beat the Yankees.
But after Steve and Lourdes had rounded the bases, Taser got himself together. He struck out Axel Machado like Axel was wearing a blindfold.
End of the inning. The teams were tied 2–2.
Taser stomped into the dugout, threw his glove at the wall, and came right back out and hit a homer off Lourdes. But after that, Lourdes held it together and got out of the top of the ninth with no more damage. Yankees 3, Wildcats 2.
“This is more runs than I’ve given up in my whole life,” Lourdes told the team. Yet her voice was light, almost cheerful.
“It’s all gonna be OK,” said Coach Ron. “We’re still in the game. It’s the bottom of the ninth inning, but we’ve got this. One chance is all we need!”
“Right!” Lourdes said. “And we’ve kept each other going so far. I know we’ll get the victory. It doesn’t matter how, it just matters that we do!” She smiled and gave Carlissimo Fong a high five. “So we still have a chance. Right, Oscar?”
“Exactly right,” replied Oscar. He tried not to look as nervous as he felt.
From their perch at the top of the stands, Suzy and Vern could be heard broadcasting the action.
The series is tied, Vern.
And the Yankees lead in this, the final game, Suzy.
It’s winner take all, Vern. The Wildcats better put it in gear.
Now that they were actually at the game, truly broadcasting, in their actual voices, Oscar could tell that down deep, despite their attempts to sound neutral, Suzy and Vern really wanted the Wildcats to win. Oscar took that as a good sign.
Oscar handed Lourdes her bat as she headed out to start the bottom of the ninth. “I’ll pass on the OscarAde,” she said. “Just to be safe.” She smiled and Oscar smiled back.
“No matter how this turns out,” said Oscar, “I’ll always be glad we made friends.”
“We’re great teammates, aren’t we?” asked Lourdes.
“The best,” said Oscar.
“Just keep your eyes open when you come up to bat. Remember my backyard. Think
about the toothpicks,” said Lourdes.
“You’re joking about those. I know it,” said Oscar. “But I’ll remember. I’ll keep my eyes open. Good luck out there, Lourdes.”
“Thanks, Oscar,” said Lourdes. She took the long walk to the plate to lead off the bottom of the ninth.
And right away, Lourdes whacked a leadoff single on a wobbly fastball from Taser.
But Taser set down the next two batters, Kamran and Axel. Two outs. One more, and the game was over—no joy, no championship, no future, no universe. A dead silence descended on the diamond.
So came Oscar’s turn to bat. He downed a half-pint of OscarAde, grimaced, made sure his new shoes were on tight, and made his way to the plate. This was it. The Wildcats were behind. They were depending on Oscar to get them out of this. And it wasn’t just the Wildcats. There was also Oscar’s mom, T. Buffington Smiley, Lourdes and her mom, Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt—everyone was depending on him. He’d never hit a homer before—how was he supposed to hit one now?
Taser Tompkins toed the rubber. He eyeballed Oscar. He stepped off the mound. He looked almost casual, like this didn’t matter. Like the game already belonged to the Yankees. He didn’t know that if he won, the whole universe would lose.
But that’s how it had to be. Oscar couldn’t exactly walk out to the mound and say, “Please take it easy on me.” Because the Wildcats had to win fair and square, and that wouldn’t happen if Taser lost the game on purpose, now, would it?
Taser stepped back onto the mound. He watched his catcher, Bif Stroganoff, for the proper signal.
In the meantime, Taser’s lovely mom shouted, “That girl is stealing second base!”
Taser spun and threw. But it was too late. Lourdes was too fast for him. She was too fast for any of them. She cruised into second standing up.
Taser chuckled like he didn’t care. Like it didn’t matter. Like the Yankees were going to win anyway, this game, every game, all the time, forever, the way it had always been, the way it would always be, until the end of the universe.
“It’s OK, Oscar,” shouted Oscar’s mom. “You can do it. I’m sure.”
“One thousand percent definitely! No doubt!” added T. Buffington Smiley.
Which was about nine hundred percent too sure to sound convincing. Oscar knew that T. Buffington Smiley would never make a mathematical miscalculation like this unless he were really, really, nervous.
Oscar stepped to the plate.
The sky bloomed with color from the two suns. This was Oscar’s last chance to hit the homer. His last chance to save the universe.
Taser stared at Lourdes on second, daring her to try to steal third. Lourdes’s eyes went wide in the glare of his stare, and she dropped her gaze timidly to the dirt, edging safely back toward second. Taser sneered at her display of faintheartedness and went into his motion. He delivered.
Oscar chanted to himself keep your eyes open keep your eyes open, but as soon as the pitch was delivered, a roaring began in his ears. He felt the pressure of all the eyes in the stands watching, waiting for him to hit—or strike out. The pitch closed in, the ballpark lights glinted in his eyes, that wicked breeze began to blow, and all of it created one chaotic vortex so bewildering that Oscar couldn’t help it. He closed his eyes. And swung. Whifffff. Strike one.
“Yeahhhhhhhhh!” rose the cheer from the Yankees bleachers.
“It’s OK, Oscar!” his mom yelled.
“Eyes open!” Lourdes called from second base.
Oscar nodded and got back in the box. He had two more shots at this. He could do it.
Taser peered at the pitches Bif was signaling for. He shook his head three times and nodded at the fourth. He smirked like he was thinking about the humiliation and suffering it was about to cause Oscar. He made his move toward home, and as the pitch left his fingertips, Lourdes took off to steal third.
Oscar forced his eyes open and watched the pitch like a hawk. Like a pterodactyl, even. He stood straight and squared his feet, and kept his balance and relaxed and stayed in control of his body and his mind as the ball neared him, and then—nothing. The pressure and panic and the responsibility of saving the universe overwhelmed him and he shut his eyes again. He swung. He missed, of course. Strike two.
But out on the base path, Lourdes had already started her attempt to steal. She flew toward third. Bif Stroganoff leaped up to throw her out, too late. Lourdes slid in headfirst, safe by at least six inches.
Finally, for once in his life, Taser Tompkins had the decency to look rattled. Because, as great players from Jackie Robinson to Melvin Upton have shown, it is possible to steal home. And if Lourdes did that, she’d tie the game. And then it wouldn’t be such a sure bet that the Yankees would win. Not at all.
Taser glared at the plate. His mother’s voice was shrill in the nervous quiet: “Don’t you let them score!”
Oscar dug his heels in. Another voice rose in the night. “It’s not whether you win or lose, Oscar,” his mother called. “It’s how you play the game.”
“Oh, like you would know” came the reply from Mrs. Tompkins. “Loser.”
“What a baseball game this is turning out to be, Suzy. Slugger League Championship Series, Yankees 3, Wildcats 2, bottom of the ninth, two outs, no balls, two strikes, tying run on third, winning run at the plate,” narrated Vern into his microphone.
“Game of a lifetime. Game of a lifetime. Lourdes Mangubat takes her lead off third, daring Taser Tompkins to throw her out. Tompkins goes into his windup. And Oscar Indigo digs in,” said Suzy.
“Lourdes has an excellent jump.”
“Taser delivers. Lourdes fakes the steal and scampers back to third, Vern.”
“And Oscar Indigo watches Taser’s pitch all the way, Suzy. It hums in for a ball.”
“Doesn’t lift his bat off his shoulder, Vern.”
Oscar nodded. He knew it was a ball. This time he’d been able to keep his eyes open long enough to see. By the time he slammed them shut, the pitch had rushed by him well outside the strike zone.
And then Oscar remembered something Lourdes had said. Make Taser mad. Act like you think you can hit his pitch. Act like you think you’re as good as he is. And when he gets angry, he gets careless, and he throws a fastball over the middle of the plate. Oscar knew just the way to do it.
He squared up and acted like he planned to hit a home run. Like he was Taser’s equal. Like he wasn’t the least bit scared. He pointed his bat at the outfield fence like Babe Ruth picking his spot, and squared away to hit.
“You got this, Oscar!” Lourdes cheered.
Taser was so furious he had started to shake. And to make matters worse, as he prepared to deliver, Lourdes took off from third.
“She’s going! She’s attempting a straight steal of home!” cried Suzy.
“She’s off to the races!” shouted Vern.
“The pitcher makes his throw toward the plate.”
“Lourdes Mangubat just might beat it. But she’s stumbled! She’s fallen! She struggles to her feet. Oh, this is terrible, Suzy! She’s a dead duck.”
“She’ll be out by a mile, Vern. She has no chance.”
But she did have a chance. Oscar knew she had a chance. He was her chance. Because he’d gotten the pitch he wanted. While everyone was distracted by Lourdes’s antics in the third baseline, Taser had lost control. He’d thrown a perfect fastball dead in the center of the strike zone. Time seemed to slow down. Oscar could count the seams on the ball. He could read the trademark on the leather. He felt his eyes open wide.
Then confusion began to swirl. The ground beneath his feet seemed to disintegrate, but now, it wasn’t like a black hole sucking everything in. It was like the Big Bang, exploding with a force unimaginable by the ordinary human mind. But this wasn’t like the previous times when he’d shut his eyes in panic. This was different.
“You cannot blow this,” Oscar whispered to himself. “This is your last chance. And Dr. Soul’s and your mom’s and Lourdes’s
and even Miss Ellington’s.” If he missed, his mom would move from job to job and from café to café until finally there would be no more cafés, because the universe would end.
The bees would disappear forever. Two suns would bake the earth.
And Taser and Robocop and the rest of the Yankees would win until there were no more games left to win.
And for the remainder of history, Sheila Tompkins would think she was right about everything.
Focusing with all his might, Oscar snapped his bat around to meet the incoming fastball. He kept his gaze locked onto the pitch, fighting to uphold his promise to himself and to Miss Ellington and to Lourdes and to the rest of the universe. And he saw it. He saw the moment his bat met the smoking ball. The crack rang out across the diamond. And Oscar Indigo saw Taser Tompkins’s wickedest pitch turn into something else: Oscar Indigo’s first honest-to-goodness, bona fide homer flying into the night sky. He’d done it. He’d done it! Oscar savored the cheers from the bleachers.
“Groovy, man!” cried T. Buffington Smiley.
“WAHOOO!” cheered his mom.
“Indigo took quite a cut at the ball, Vern!”
“Chin down. Knees bent. Elbows high. Beautiful swing, Suzy.”
“And Vern, he had his eyes open!”
“He saved the base runner, Suzy.”
“And seems to have knocked the ball over the fence in the process, Vern.”
Oscar noticed that Lourdes had climbed to her feet in the base path, and she stood staring at the ball as it flew higher and higher into the weirdly orange twilit sky.
And then the ball began to drop, much too soon, too far away from the fence. What could have been a homer was turning into a dud before his eyes.
“Did he get enough of the pitch, Suzy?”
“Looks like the wind is blowing the ball back into play, Vern.”
“The Yankees’ outfielder is running to the track, Suzy. I think he’s going to make it. Will the ball clear the fence? Or will it drop into his glove?”
Lourdes and Oscar stood transfixed, watching, like everyone else in the park. “It’s going—going—going—” Lourdes shouted.
“Get out of here!” screamed Oscar’s mom.
