by Paul Haven
“Do they have our heart? Do they have our fans?” Bigersley asked. “Do they have a lucky eleven-year-old kid?”
“They got nothing!” yelled Mazoo, slamming his fist into his glove.
“I almost feel sorry for them!” said Biggins.
“I for one am tired of losing to those jerks, especially Barnworthy!” Bigersley shouted, looking around the room into his teammates' eyes.
“Yeah, you said it,” said Chico Medley.
“So I tell you what. We're going to win tonight, and then we're going to win again tomorrow night,” Bigers-ley shouted. “We just might win the World Series while we're at it!”
The Sluggers piled into the center of the room for high fives and cheers, smiles on their faces for the first time in days. Then, one by one, they headed out to the field, some still clutching their hot dogs.
When they were all gone, Danny stood alone in the locker room for a minute and caught his breath. He took the last piece of Kosmic Kranberry out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.
After all this time, he actually liked the taste.
All on the Field
It would be up to Vince Spagu and his remarkable knuckleball to salvage the Sluggers' chances of reaching their first World Series in 108 years.
“It's do or die tonight,” Wally Mandelberg said on the dugout monitor. “This is going to be an epic battle.”
“Either that or a total blowout,” said Bullet Santana.
Spagu took a deep breath and blew on his fingers to keep them warm. He kicked the dirt around the pitching rubber nervously. The crowd rose to its feet as Spagu took the sign from Medley, and Gus Schlays stepped into the box.
“A big night for Vince,” Mandelberg said. “But part of him has got to be wishing he was back stacking groceries on a shelf. A lot less pressure.”
Spagu's first pitch fluttered through the air like a moth and landed softly in the catcher's mitt.
The battle had begun.
Danny sat in the dugout, rubbing his hands together and rocking back and forth to keep warm. A cold mist was creeping over the field, hanging in damp wisps in the white beam of the stadium lights.
If the Tornadoes had expected the Sluggers to roll over for a fourth time in a row, they were getting a nasty surprise. The Sluggers scratched and clawed and scraped through the first four innings, playing as if their lives depended on it.
With the game scoreless and two men on in the second, Bruce Minsky ran down a fly ball to deep left field, catching it with his arms fully extended and his back to home plate. With the bases loaded and Barnworthy up in the third, Chuck Sidewinder dove to snare a shot down the third baseline, grabbing it inches off the ground.
Unfortunately for the Sluggers, the Tornadoes machine was running at full throttle too.
Tornadoes catcher Mungo McBust tumbled headfirst into the Sluggers' dugout to catch a foul pop in the bottom of the fourth, emerging covered in sunflower seeds, with the ball held aloft.
“It might be a cold night, but these teams are hot,” Santana said after the play. “The pitching has been dynamite and the fielding even better.”
The Tornadoes had their second-best pitcher, a lefty named Rod Peckenpaw, on the mound. He had a small head and stocky legs, like a bowling pin with arms, and had once fought as a professional wrestler under the ring name the Executioner.
Every line-out, every strikeout, every pop-up, and every grounder produced a groan from the Sluggers faithful. One wrong move. One pitch left hanging over the plate. A single bobble in the infield and the Sluggers' season could be over.
Baseball is all about short-lived rallies and false buildups, and every inning of game six offered a new opportunity to live and die again. Younger fans covered their eyes and older ones popped antacid pills like peanuts.
As the night wore on, the temperature dropped and the fog grew thicker. By the time the Sluggers came to bat in the bottom of the sixth, the outfielders had almost disappeared in the mist.
“Weird weather, huh?” said Finchley Biggins, peering up the dugout steps.
Danny nodded. He was so nervous he'd barely noticed that his toes had gone completely numb and his fingers were like icicles.
“Okay, Tito, let's get something going,” Biggins croaked as Calagara grabbed his bat and headed out onto the field. Danny started chewing the Kosmic Kran-berry even harder. He hopped up onto one leg as Cala-gara swung.
“Base hit!” Mandelberg yelled as the ball shot into center field.
Spanky Mazoo followed with a shot of his own, and Calagara sprinted all the way to third.
“This is the Sluggers' best chance tonight,” Santana said. “The question is, can Minsky put the bat on the ball.”
“He's got a. 295 batting average against lefties,” Mandelberg said. “That's not too bad.”
Peckenpaw let out a roar of frustration as Minsky dug in at the batter's box.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
“That just might be the longest word Peckenpaw knows,” Mandelberg chuckled.
“Not the sharpest tack on the board, you're right,” Santana agreed. “But he's not paid to think.”
Peckenpaw's first two bullets to Minsky were ninety-eight-mile-per-hour strikes, the first nearly grazing his knuckles, the second painting the outside corner of the plate. Minsky stepped out of the box and shook his head.
“Wow, those pitches were unhittable,” said Santana.
“Minsky doesn't look like he wants to get back into the box any time soon,” added Mandelberg. “Two quick strikes and the boy's in a big hole.”
Peckenpaw held his glove up to his face to hide the ball, then went into his windup with a snarl.
Thump!
The pitch was even faster than the ones before, but it was right in Minsky's wheelhouse.
Winning Streak Stadium erupted as the ball shot down the first baseline and rolled into the corner. The team poured out of the dugout as Calagara and Mazoo raced home.
“Two to nothing! Two to nothing! The Sluggers are on the board!” Mandelberg screamed. “I've got goose bumps, my friend.”
“How about that!” said Santana. “For the first time since they boarded the plane to Texas, the Sluggers look like their heads are in this series and they think they can win it!”
The Tornadoes were furious. Le Swine kicked the watercooler in the visitors' dugout, and Peckenpaw slammed his glove down on the ground.
But his anger seemed to sharpen his concentration. The lefty struck out Star, Slasky, and Sidewinder on nine straight pitches to end the inning.
“The Tornadoes must have thought this was going to be a walkover after the disaster in Texas,” Mandelberg said.
“It's all in Spagu's hands now,” added Santana.
The former supermarket clerk held his ground. He got out of a bases-loaded jam in the seventh inning, and in the eighth he struck out center fielder Reggie Pinkowski, with the tying runs at second and third.
As Spagu took the mound to open the ninth, the crowd rose to its feet.
“Spa-gu! Spa-gu! Spa-gu!” they chanted.
Through the mist, Danny could pick out a banner shaped like a huge lemon: CHECKOUT TIME FOR TEXAS, it read.
“Wally, if the Sluggers can just hang on for one more inning, we may be back here tomorrow for something I know I never thought I'd see.”
“Absolutely, Bullet: a deciding game seven at Winning Streak Stadium.”
“Spagu looks unstoppable,” Santana replied.
But his words were the kiss of death.
In the time it would take to say “Vince, there's a spill in aisle five,” the knuckleballer's touch deserted him.
Gus Schlays led off with a double, and Spagu walked Riesling on four pitches in the dirt as the crowd howled in frustration.
“Looks like maybe you spoke too soon, Bullet,” Mandelberg said. “Rocco Barnworthy is coming to the plate. Nobody out. The tying runs are on base.”
“Biggins has Baxter Orejuela in the bullpe
n. I'd put him in now if I were the manager,” Santana said. “Spagu looks spent.”
“I think he's going to stick with him for one more batter, Bullet.”
Crack!
A gasp rose from Winning Streak Stadium as the ball leapt off Barnworthy's bat. Fans covered their eyes and clutched their heads in despair. The gasp turned to a groan as the ball crashed into a billboard out past the center field wall.
“That's gone!” shouted Mandelberg. “How about that? Schlays, Riesling, and Barnworthy are all coming around to score.”
“There goes the Sluggers' lead. There goes the game. There goes the season,” Santana moaned as Barnworthy jumped on home plate in jubilation. “The Tornadoes are up three to two.”
Spagu stood in the middle of the infield, his eyes glazed over in shock. With a sigh, Finchley Biggins pulled down his cap and trudged out to the mound. Chico Medley trotted out to meet them.
On the dugout monitor, Danny could see the faces of the Sluggers fans, some streaked with tears. A mournful clap echoed through the stadium as Biggins patted Spagu on the back and the pitcher placed the ball in the manager's cupped hand.
“What a rough way to end such a great performance,” Mandelberg said. “Spagu will be replaying that pitch to Barnworthy for the rest of his life.”
“Here comes Baxter Orejuela,” Santana added. “Let's hope he can stop the damage.”
Orejuela did his job, setting down the Tornadoes with a barrage of fireballs.
“Wally, Biggins must be kicking himself for not bringing his closer in earlier.”
“The Sluggers have one last chance to save their season,” Mandelberg said as the bottom of the ninth inning began.
“And what a season it has been,” Santana added. “But we'd need a miracle to save it now.”
Indeed they would.
Standing on the mound, shrouded by fog, was Magnus Ruffian. He was pitching in relief and on just two days' rest, and he wasn't happy about it.
“Ruffian looks even more intimidating in that mist, doesn't he, Bullet?” Mandelberg said.
“Certainly does,” Santana replied. “A brilliant move by Manager Le Swine—Ruffian looks downright insulted to be asked to come in as a relief pitcher, and an insulted Ruffian is not someone you want to face.”
A murmur of gloom spread through the Sluggers' dugout when Ruffian took the mound. This was bad news made much, much worse.
Danny chomped ferociously on the Kosmic Kran-berry as Sam Slasky walked to the plate, shaking his fist nervously and muttering to himself.
“Patience, patience,” Mandelberg urged. “Don't just swing at anything.”
“Oh! That would have been a ball,” Santana moaned as Slasky flung his bat at a pitch at his ankles, grounding it weakly to shortstop for the first out of the ninth.
“That's one nail in the coffin right there,” Mandelberg said. “Two outs to go. Here comes Thelonius Star. ”
Ruffian growled at the diminutive right fielder, and Star growled right back.
“Yikes, Wally! A fastball right at Star's head.”
“Look at the little guy,” Mandelberg said as Star stepped back in the box. “He's not going to let Ruffian rattle him.”
“Let's go already!” Ruffian screamed after Star reached out and nicked a fastball on the outside of the plate, barely staying alive. But Star wasn't going anywhere. The tiny right fielder fouled off eight straight pitches.
“That kid is a fighter. What guts! What heart!” said Santana.
In the Sluggers' dugout, the players stood riveted at the top of the steps, cheering their teammate on. If only Star could get on base, they'd have a chance.
Danny stretched the Kosmic Kranberry over his tongue and blew, making a bubble the size of a baseball.
“Come on, Star! Come on, Star!” he whispered to himself.
Ruffian went into his windup and fired, and this time Star made contact.
The crowd rose at once as the ball took off for center field.
“That one's got a chance,” screamed Mandelberg. “It's way back. Pinkowski's at the wall. The ball is going, going …”
“It's caught,” Santana groaned as Danny's bubble popped. “Pinkowski's hauled it in right up against the wall, and there are two away.”
“That one sucked the air right out of here,” Mandelberg said hopelessly. “The Sluggers are down to their final out. This place is as dead as a morgue.”
The Sluggers faithful were still standing, but most had buried their heads in their hands. They couldn't bear to look.
The only sound in the entire stadium was from the Tornadoes players shouting with glee. They were back in familiar territory, one out from the World Series. Even better, they'd be celebrating on the Sluggers' home field in front of their miserable fans.
Up in his luxury guest box above home plate, Diamond Bob chuckled as he popped open a bottle of champagne. Two hundred more bottles were hastily being put on ice in the visiting clubhouse.
“Hey, look on the bright side,” Santana said sadly. “Spring training is just one hundred seventeen days away.”
P. J. Planter was the last hope.
“All Ruffian has to do is throw it down the middle of the plate,” Mandelberg said. “Planter hardly ever swings at the first pitch.”
But the ruffian in Ruffian got the better of him. The first pitch was a bullet, but straight at Planter's head.
A groan spread through the stadium as the ball crashed into his helmet with a thud, sending Planter sprawling to the ground.
“That was a terrible time to do that,” said Santana. “He's put the tying run on first and brought the winning run to bat.”
“Get up, punk!” yelled Ruffian, stalking toward the plate.
Planter wobbled to one knee, then stood swaying in the batter's box.
The stadium shook as the crowd stomped its feet and Planter staggered to first base.
In the dugout, Boom-Boom Bigersley grabbed his bat.
“One more time, kid,” he said as he passed Danny, holding out his Louisville Slugger for good luck.
Danny waved the Kosmic Kranberry over the bat, and Bigersley turned and winked at him as he climbed the dugout steps.
The fog was so thick now that Bigersley could barely find the batter's box. He waved his bat in front of him like a Spanish explorer hacking a path through a rain forest.
“These are no conditions for baseball,” Mandelberg said. “It's spooky.”
“I keep thinking I'm going to see Sherlock Holmes or Captain Hook walking in from center field,” added Santana.
“Come on!” Ruffian screamed, loud enough for everyone in the stadium to hear. “Let's finish it!”
Danny squeezed his eyes closed.
“It's all on the line,” Mandelberg said. “Can this crowd get any wilder?”
As Ruffian reached back into his windup, the screams turned to silence.
Bigersley swung at the pitch with all his might and shot off toward first base as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Oh no! A pop-up,” Mandelberg groaned. “That's it. It's over.”
“Yeah, but what a pop-up,” Santana replied slowly. “Where has it gone?”
Up, up, up the ball went into the night.
It soared out beyond the upper deck and up past the stadium lights into the thickest part of the clouds. Biger-sley glanced up at the sky as he rounded first and kept running.
All six Tornadoes infielders rushed into the center of the field, waiting for the ball to come down. They pointed and gestured at the sky as Bigersley scampered to second and Planter lurched to third.
“Where's that ball?” Santana yelled. The crowd craned their necks toward the sky. The Sluggers ran out of the dugout and stared upward.
Danny opened his eyes and followed them onto the field.
As Bigersley reached third base, the crowd began to murmur, and when he turned the corner, the murmur became a rumble. Planter crossed home plate, collapsed on the ground, and stared
up into the clouds.
“Run, Boom-Boom!” the crowd shouted. “Run!”
Suddenly, Danny saw a white object whistling out of the mist. It was picking up speed as it shot down toward the Tornadoes players.
“I got it!” screamed McBust.
“It's mine!” shouted Ruffian.
“My ball! My ball!” yelled Riesling as Bigersley shot past him down the line toward home plate, his arms pumping.
Ruffian pushed his teammates away, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and reached his glove up over his head. If he made the catch, the Sluggers' season would be over, but the ball was traveling way too fast for that.
It smashed through the webbing of Ruffian's glove and continued straight through, plunking him on the head and knocking him out cold.
The ball came to rest just a foot in front of home plate as Bigersley slid in.
“I cannot believe what I just saw!” Mandelberg screamed. “We asked for a miracle and we got one!”
“The Sluggers win!” Santana yelled. “Four to three. Hug me, Wally!”
“The Sluggers are still alive. We're going to game seven!” Mandelberg said.
As Bigersley leapt into the arms of Danny and his teammates, the shocked Tornadoes clustered around the unconscious Ruffian.
He was the only person in America who would have no recollection whatsoever of the Magnificent Mist Miracle of Game Six.
The Last Resort
“No way!” Molly said when Danny cornered her and Lucas outside school the next morning.
“Not on your life!” Lucas shook his head emphatically. “I'd do anything for you, man. Except that.”
“But it's the only way!” Danny protested. “And he's not that creepy.”
“Danny, if a nine-thousand-year-old man with bugged-out eyes living in a creaky old mansion isn't creepy, what is?” Molly said. “If you look up ‘creepy' in the dictionary, it says ‘Mr. Sycamore.'”
Danny had to admit he'd had more than one nightmare in the past few weeks that ended with a vision of Mr. Sycamore's wobbly eye staring at him through the closet keyhole, and he shuddered every time he recollected the bang of the old man's cane coming down the corridor outside the study.
