by Paul Haven
It was fantastic! Danny stumbled toward the refrigerator, unable to take his eyes off the newspaper. He had never seen his name in print before, and it made the back of his neck tingle. There must have been tens of thousands of copies of the Daily Bugler that day, and each one had his name in it.
“Good morning, my famous son!” Danny's father said, his arms raised above his head.
Harold Gurkin was standing at the kitchen door with a grin on his face.
“Can you believe it?” Danny asked. “Did you hear me on television?”
“Of course we heard you,” Harold Gurkin said. “Even the mayor heard you. I was very proud, especially when you told Wally Mandelberg to finish his hot dog! I can't believe you said that. We got about a dozen phone calls.”
Danny laughed.
“Listen, I have to run, but good luck with Mrs. Sherman,” his father said. He turned to go, then stopped.
“You know, Danny, I know I haven't been around much this summer, and I'm really sorry about that. I would have liked to have taken you to a few ball games and stuff like that,” Danny's father said, his eyes focused on his hands. “After the campaign there'll be a lot more time.”
“I understand,” Danny said, even though he didn't really.
“You're a big star!” Harold Gurkin said, and a moment later he was out the door.
Danny sat at the table and read the article one more time. There was a paper-bag lunch on the table that his mother had prepared: one egg salad sandwich, a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, and two mushy bananas.
Danny grabbed his lunch and headed for the door. There was no putting off school any longer. As he walked out of the kitchen, a bleary-eyed Max stumbled in, in his boxer shorts and a ratty old T-shirt, clearly unconcerned by the fact he was going to be late.
“Good luck with Mrs. Sherman today,” Max said. “And don't worry, she usually only eats one student on the first day, and you're too scrawny.”
Danny thought about the newspaper article during the nine-block walk to school. He was still flying high when he reached the low brick box that was John J. Barnibus. The school was two stories high and about half a block long, with metal gratings over the first-floor windows and a concrete playground on the side with basketball hoops and a painted baseball diamond.
Crowds of children stood around at the front entrance. Danny scanned the crowd for Molly and Lucas, but before he could spot them somebody grabbed his arm.
“Danny! Hey, man, how was your summer?” It was Briny Anderson, a seventh grader who was the best athlete at school. Briny was almost six feet tall, with blond hair and sunglasses. He had maybe said seven words to Danny in the three years they had been aware of each other's existence, and at least four of those words had been “huh.”
“It was great, Briny,” Danny replied. “Er … how was yours?”
“Great. Great. Great,” Briny said quickly. “Listen, I was wondering if you'd consider trying out for the baseball, basketball, and tennis teams this year? Have you thought about it? We could really use you.”
“Me?” Danny asked.
“Yeah,” Briny continued. “You just let me know and I'll talk to the coaches and get you on the teams.”
“Gosh, thanks,” Danny said.
“Don't mention it,” Briny said. “Anything for a friend.”
Danny walked off in a daze. He'd never even thought Briny knew his name, let alone considered him a friend. He'd certainly never thought he was good enough to go out for the basketball, baseball, or tennis teams.
Danny spotted Molly and Lucas leaning against the wall near the main door. He started to walk over to them but only got about three feet before he felt an arm around his shoulder.
“Daniel Gurkin!” said a raspy voice above him. It was Principal Spinkle, the second-most-feared person at John J. Barnibus after Mrs. Sherman!
Principal Spinkle had been in charge of the school for more than forty years, and his face was marked by a deep wrinkle for each one of them, like the rings in a tree trunk.
Danny gulped.
What did the Wrinkled Spinkle want with him? Could he already be in trouble, even before a single class?
“Daniel, don't run away. I've got someone I'd like you to meet,” Principal Spinkle gushed, his jowly cheeks shaking like Jell-O.
“Yes, sir,” Danny said. “Sorry, sir.”
Principal Spinkle had certainly never put his arm around Danny's shoulder before, and he'd never called him Daniel.
“This here is Councilman Bixby,” the principal said. “He's come here to talk to us today about the importance of studying.”
“Hello, Councilman Bixby,” Danny said, shaking the man's hand.
“Here he is, the boy himself,” Principal Spinkle said to Councilman Bixby, holding Danny by both shoulders. “You know, the one I was telling you about.”
“Ohhh, right, right,” said Councilman Bixby. “Well, it's an honor to meet you, son.”
“Thanks,” said Danny.
“We're expecting great things from Danny this year, aren't we, young man?” Principal Spinkle said, tightening his grip on Danny's shoulders.
“I guess so,” said Danny.
Out of the corner of his eye, Danny could see that Molly and Lucas were staring at him, along with about half of the sixth-grade class.
“Danny, I'm sure you are aware how important it is for the students at John J. Barnibus to do well on the state aptitude exam this year,” Councilman Bixby said, leaning down so that his face was level with Danny's. “There's a lot at stake—state funding, new computers— yes indeed, a lot at stake.”
“I think what the councilman is saying, Danny, is that we could use all the help we can get,” Principal Spinkle interjected. “Well … kind of like the Sluggers, see? We need the same kind of help as the Sluggers, if you catch my drift.”
It was then that Danny noticed that both men were chewing bubble gum.
“Danny, I wonder if you wouldn't mind signing my Daily Bugler,” Councilman Bixby said, thrusting out a pen and a copy of the newspaper. “It's for my kid, you understand.”
Danny signed his name.
“Well, Danny, thanks again,” Principal Spinkle said, patting Danny on the shoulder. Danny could swear Principal Spinkle was trying to avoid stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk as he backed up.
“Oh, and go, Sluggers!” Principal Spinkle added, punching his fist weakly in the air.
“Yes, go, Sluggers,” said Councilman Bixby.
Diamond Bob Honeysuckle IV
Diamond Bob Honeysuckle IV loved his name. He loved the power it gave him and the fear it instilled in those around him. His great-granddaddy, the original Diamond Bob, had put it to him best when he was just a small boy, knee-high to a scorpion.
“To be liked is nice,” his great-granddaddy had said, slapping him lovingly across the cheek to make sure he was listening. “But it ain't worth a hill of beans.”
Fear was much better for business, and business was the only thing that mattered to Diamond Bob Honeysuckle IV, the owner of the Texas Tornadoes and the master of just about everything else he laid his eyes on.
At this instant, Diamond Bob's eyes were focused on twelve exceedingly nervous men and women in business suits sitting around a long wooden table in a darkened room in the bowels of Tornado Stadium.
What little light there was in the room glinted off the forty-seven-carat pinkie ring on Diamond Bob's right hand, which he had just slammed down on the table with the full force of a bank account that ended in ten zeroes. Underneath his hand was a copy of the Daily Bugler, and it was opened to the sports section.
“Who is this brat?” Diamond Bob demanded, pointing to the article about Danny. “And what are you people going to do about him?”
“Mr. Honeysuckle, he's just a superstitious kid who thinks he can affect the outcome of games,” said one of the braver Tornado executives at the table. “He's not worth worrying about.”
Diamond Bob spun
around to face the man, his ten-gallon hat nearly flying off his head and a low growl emanating from his lips.
“What did you say, Bill?” he said to the man. “I must have heard you incorrectly. You couldn't possibly have said that he's not worth worrying about!”
“No, sir,” said the man.
“It's my business to worry about everything, and don't you forget it,” Diamond Bob went on. “That's why I'm the billionaire, and you're all sitting in those chairs.”
“Yes, sir,” the executives said in unison.
“Now, I want to keep an eye on this Gurkin kid. I want to know everything he does. What he eats for breakfast, where he goes to school, who his friends are,” Diamond Bob said, wagging his finger in the air. “Andin the meantime, you fellas go out and find me our own lucky kid.”
“Our own lucky kid?” the executive named Bill asked.
“Yes! If the Sluggers can have a lucky kid, then the Tornadoes have to have an even luckier kid,” Diamond Bob shouted, a stream of spittle shooting out of his mouth.
“But, Diamond Bob, it's all made up. This Gurkin boy is just a ploy to sell newspapers,” said Bill. “I mean, hot dogs and bubble gum and pencils under his nose? It's just a coincidence.”
Diamond Bob stood up and slowly placed his enormous hat on the table in front of him. He would have to get some new executives, he thought, not these lily-livered college types who had no idea how the world worked.
“Gentlemen, let's get one thing clear,” Diamond Bob said, pressing his knuckles down on the table until they were white. “There's no such thing as coincidence. And anything, anything at all, that makes those Sluggers believe they have a chance of beating my Tornadoes is worth worrying about, even if it is a load of hooey!”
“Yes, sir.” The executives nodded.
“Now find that kid!” Diamond Bob said. “Oh, ah, and, Bill … you're fired.”
The Snowed-Out Summer of 1934
By the time Seymour Sycamore moved into the Boddle-brooks mansion in the summer of 1934, the place had been home to three previous caretakers, men hired by Skidmore to keep an eye on the rambling estate but who had little enthusiasm for its unusual charm.
All ended up leaving in a huff, unable to cope with the mountain of rules that Manchester had laid out in his will. No going into the study. No cleaning up the popped popcorn kernels. No flying the hot-air balloon in the backyard.
Fear that the Curse of the Poisoned Pretzel might rub off on them was enough to keep the caretakers in line. But the final man couldn't resist breaking the last rule, untying the enormous bubble-shaped balloon in the dead of night and taking it out for a joyride. He floated up over West Bubble, waking the surprised residents with a terrifying laugh, then soared out over Ball Four Sound and finally drifted into the moonlit night over the Atlantic Ocean, never to be heard from again.
It had been hard to find a replacement after that, and the house lay empty for many months before Seymour Sycamore knocked on Skidmore's door.
Skidmore didn't like the new man, but he had to admit he was taking good care of the place, and just in time too.
After decades of ineptitude, the Sluggers were suddenly playing well again. All the excitement surrounding the team's sudden rise in fortune might even make it easier to sell the ugly mansion, Skidmore thought. He might get a good price for it.
On a brilliant August morning, Skidmore's mustard yellow Rolls-Royce again pulled up outside the mansion's enormous front door. Behind him in a smaller mustard yellow car were three lawyers, two real estate agents, and the first-ever prospective buyer of the fifty-two-bedroom mansion, a chain-smoking young businessman named Erckle C. Windhammer.
The group brushed past Seymour Sycamore when he opened the hot-dog doors and immediately began sizing up the place, taking measurements of the walls, stomping on the floor to make sure it was solid, flicking the lights on and off.
“You're absolutely right, Mr. Boddlebrooks,” the businessman said once they reached the grand ballroom. “It really is hideous. It'll be perfect.”
“I know, I know,” Skidmore chuckled. “It's a match made in heaven.”
Erckle C. Windhammer was just twenty-three years old, but he had already made a fortune investing in roller coasters. He was looking for a gimmicky site to put up the world's biggest theme park, and he figured no place would be more gimmicky than Manchester Boddlebrooks's enormous bubble-gum estate.
Mr. Windhammer envisioned a mile-long roller coaster in the backyard, which he had tentatively decided to name the Monster of Manchester, and a parachute ride he was thinking of calling the Big Bad Bubble Plunge, which would be so tall it would feel like jumping out of an airplane.
The only problem was the mansion itself.
“I hope you don't mind, but I'll probably need to knock most of the building down,” said Mr. Windhammer, putting out a cigarette on the floor with his shoe, then immediately reaching into his pocket for another one. “We'd just keep the facade, and maybe the ballroom, and then we'd build a haunted-house ride around it.”
“Mind?” said Skidmore. “Why would I mind? That sounds like the best possible thing to do.”
“I'll tell you what it sounds like,” said a voice behind the two businessmen. “It sounds like a heap of baloney!”
It was Seymour Sycamore, and he was furious.
“What kind of a brother are you, sir?” said Sycamore, his good eye focused on Skidmore's nose, the other glaring straight at Windhammer, who stumbled back with fright before he recovered his composure.
The old man was chomping angrily on a piece of gum, his lips smacking together loudly.
“Don't worry, old fella,” Windhammer said, sticking his finger in his neck collar to loosen it up and trying not to look Sycamore in the eye. “You can stay on and work at the haunted house. You would fit in perfectly.”
“And let me remind you, Mr. Sycamore, that you aren't even really the caretaker here,” Skidmore added. “This technically isn't any of your business.
“In any case,” Skidmore went on, “my dear brother has been gone for more than thirty years, and there comes a time to look to the future.”
“Hear, hear,” said Windhammer. “Well said.”
“You're making a big mistake, the both of you,” warned Sycamore. “A terrible mistake.”
But the theme-park entrepreneur ignored him.
“Boddlebrooks, old chap, it looks like we have a deal,” he said. “Assuming, of course, that your team wins the World Series.”
“Come again?” Skidmore said. “What could winning the World Series possibly have to do with it?”
“Well,” Mr. Windhammer explained. “People would gladly pay to come to Manchester World Theme Park, former home of Manchester Boddlebrooks, founder of the World Champion Sluggers. But who is going to shell out for a three-hundred-pound dead guy whose team has fallen short yet again?”
“Hmm, I see your point,” Skidmore said. “Well, I wouldn't worry, Mr. Windhammer. That championship is all but ours. Nothing can stand in our way now except an act of nature.”
Seymour Sycamore turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, leaving Skidmore and Mr. Windhammer to stare after him. At the doorway, Sycamore paused and turned slowly toward a silver wastepaper basket. With a flourish of disgust, he spat a piece of bright red gum into the container, then slammed the door behind him.
Skidmore chuckled and patted Mr. Windhammer on the back.
“Don't mind that old fool,” he said. “Business is business.”
Mr. Windhammer nodded vacantly, but his eyes were fixed on the darkening clouds in the window behind Skidmore. He pulled his light jacket up tight against the cold.
“Looks like quite a storm's coming,” he said.
The Two Sides of Fame
It was hard to get used to being so popular. Bobby Shrop, the brainiest guy in sixth grade, cornered Danny in science and made him swear to be his partner. Leila Markowitz and Jenny Tapanade almost knocked each other over
trying to sit next to him in English class. Then Mr. Uribe pulled Danny aside at the end of Spanish.
“Un momento, por favor,” Mr. Uribe said nervously. “Danny, I've been a Sluggers fan ever since my family came to this country from Peru when I was nine years old, and I don't think I can take another year of disappointment. I just wanted to let you know we're all pulling for you and hoping you'll make the difference. TÚ eres la única esperanza.”
“Gracias, Señor Uribe,” Danny replied, though he wasn't entirely sure what Mr. Uribe had said. “I'll do my best.”
“Imagine if they knew about the Kosmic Kran-berry,” Danny thought.
There was only one person who seemed to have a bad reaction to Danny's sudden fame, and it was the one person Danny was really hoping would be on his side.
“Let me make one thing crystal clear,” Mrs. Sherman barked at the beginning of history class, staring straight at Danny through thick black glasses but pretending to make her remarks to the whole room. “You can eat a million hot dogs and chew a million sticks of bubble gum, but it isn't going to help you get through American history.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Danny, Molly, Lucas, and the rest of the class responded in unison.
“America wasn't built by avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk!” Mrs. Sherman went on, pacing in front of her desk with her hands clasped behind her like a general. She was even wearing all green.
“I don't like baseball, and I don't like the Sluggers. What I like is hard work. Sacrifice. Commitment. In fact, I'd like a two-page essay from each of you on what hard work and sacrifice mean and how they have contributed to the history of America. I want that by tomorrow.”
“Oh, man!” Danny heard himself saying.
“What's that, Mr. Gurkin?” Mrs. Sherman huffed. “Too busy talking to newspapermen to do your history homework?”
“No, ma'am,” Danny said, slouching down in his chair.
