by Steve Moore
DEDICATION
To my Mom and Dad
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
My name is Steve, and I am a benchwarmer.
I “sit the pine,” as coaches like to say. But it doesn’t bother me all that much. I figure it’s probably just one of those tough phases that most people go through, like zits or algebra.
Don’t feel all sorry for me when I say this, but no matter the sport, coaches never put me in a game unless it’s garbage time and the score is a hundred to zip.
Mostly I sit on the bench with my friends Carlos and Joey and watch the hotshot athletes run around and sweat like pigs just to impress the girls. You probably already know this, but sweat is a huge chick magnet.
I go to Spiro T. Agnew Middle School, “Home of the Mighty Plumbers.” Yeah, our mascot is a plumber. I guess the image of a guy in overalls holding a pipe wrench is supposed to strike fear in the hearts of our opponents.
Derp!
I’m not a drooling dweeb, okay? I’ve got some important skills. For example, I’m very quick on my feet. That’s really handy in football when a linebacker is trying to grab your head and shove your face into the grass.
I’m also pretty good at passing a basketball. My specialty is tossing the ball back inbounds after someone scores a basket. I hardly ever toss it to the wrong person by accident.
And in baseball I can slide into a bag better than anyone else my age. I slide headfirst or feetfirst. Doesn’t matter. I pretty much rule sliding.
No brag. It’s just a fact.
I use my skills in things other than sports, too.
In school my quick feet help me to dodge through the hallway traffic jam between classes when I desperately need to use the restroom.
My passing skills are crucial in class when I need to throw a bag of Reese’s Pieces to a buddy on the other side of the room.
And my excellent sliding ability?
One time I was running in the cafeteria with my food tray, which is strictly forbidden. I slipped on spilled spaghetti, but I didn’t fall and crack my skull open, because I dropped into sliding position and skidded across the linoleum floor . . .
. . . right into a stack of milk cartons.
Everyone in the cafeteria gave me a standing ovation. It was awesome.
So yeah, I’m a benchwarmer, but don’t feel sorry for me. I actually like sitting the pine.
Benchwarmers like me observe life from just the right angle. I’m not sitting too high up, where I look down on the rest of the world like Jimmy Jimerino.
Jimmy Jimerino is the Spiro T. Agnew BJOC—Big Jock on Campus. Every school’s got one.
Jimmy gets whatever he wants and never gets in trouble no matter how many tests he flunks or rules he breaks. He’s got a hall pass for life simply because he’s great at sports.
Not all the hotshot athletes at my school are like Jimmy, though.
Becky O’Callahan is way better at sports than Jimmy Jimerino, but she doesn’t have the BJOC attitude.
Becky is friendly to everyone, even if they don’t happen to be athletes. And she gets good grades and never gets in trouble.
From my view on the bench I also get to see things that no one else sees, like my baseball coach’s amazing habit.
All game long he digs huge chunks of wax out of his ears with a car key, and then he rolls them up and sticks the wads under the bench like chewing gum. His head is practically a wax factory!
I call him Coach Earwax.
But this book is about more than just earwax or BJOC or plumbers or even Becky O’Callahan.
I’m writing about my very first baseball season at Spiro T. Agnew Middle School, and a really humiliating personal problem that almost ruined it.
No, not that.
I developed Bean-O-Phobia. It’s a crippling fear of getting hit by a pitch.
If you’ve ever had Bean-O-Phobia you know how traumatic life can be. I mean, how can you be a baseball player if you’re afraid of the ball?
You might be wondering why I’d write a book and tell total strangers all about being a benchwarmer and the humiliating phobia that almost ruined my life.
Duh. It’s pretty much a rule that you spill your guts when you write a book about yourself.
If my story helps just one person with Bean-O-Phobia, then it’ll be worth all the humiliation.
And you know what? I don’t even want to be like Jimmy Jimerino.
When you’re a BJOC, you’ve got to win at everything, and who needs that kind of pressure?
Besides, when it comes to sitting on the bench, I’m probably better at it than anyone else my age in the entire city—maybe the entire world.
End of the pine. Middle of the pine. Doesn’t matter. I pretty much rule the bench.
No brag. It’s just a fact.
I’m King of the Bench!
CHAPTER 1
I’ll take you back to when it all began.
I have played sports my whole life, but this year was different. This was the year I tried out for the Spiro T. Agnew Middle School baseball team.
Yeah, that’s right. There was a tryout.
In my town, youth sports are different than school sports. In youth sports, every kid gets on a team and every kid plays and every kid gets a trophy. No losers. Ever! Anyone who walks onto the field with a pulse is guaranteed to get on a team and play.
But once you’re done with youth sports and want to play for a school, there’s only one option:
Try out for the team and risk total rejection.
Just when all those unathletic kids start thinking that maybe they could someday be professional athletes and earn billions of dollars, cruel reality whacks them upside the head.
Team tryouts are a major milestone in life—even bigger than when you get toilet trained.
It’s a game changer. If you can’t run or throw or catch or hit a baseball, then you get cut. It’s survival of the fittest!
Team tryouts are as old as humanity, by the way.
There are Stone Age cave drawings in France that show early humans trying out for teams that hunted woolly mammoths. The competition was intense. Hunters who couldn’t throw spears were humiliated—and they missed out on an excellent feast of barbecued mammoth ribs.
I hoped trying out for the middle school baseball team wouldn’t be quite as brutal, but I was determined to take a risk. And either way, whenever I want to do something with any kind of risk, I need to clear it with the “Power Structure.”
I asked my dad for permission first because I knew he’d be excited about me trying out for the Mighty Plumbers baseball team. Dad was a hotshot athlete before he ruined his knees in college, so he supports any kind of sports activity.
I think he secretly hopes that a miracle will happen and I’ll suddenly blossom into a hotshot athlete, but in the meantime he is really supportive. He always says, “It doesn’t matter if you hardl
y play. What matters is that you play hard.”
Mom was a different story.
I guess she feared that school baseball would be more dangerous than youth baseball. Somehow the game would morph into something deadly.
Part of Mom’s problem is that I’m an only child. And yeah. I already know what you’re thinking: Steve plays the violin or is a spoiled brat. Probably both.
But you’d be wrong. Those are only-child stereotypes.
I’m about as musical as a dirt clod.
And I’m not a spoiled brat, either. I can prove it.
You know how rats always die in the attic and stink up your entire house? It’s really rank. Well, I’m the one in our family who always has to crawl up into the attic to get rid of the body.
How many spoiled brats do you know who will even look at the rotting corpse of a rat?
Mom is overprotective, though, and that’s an only-child stereotype that happens to be true. In fact, Mom is an overprotective turbo-hyper-worrywart, and I’m not even exaggerating.
Here’s an example: when I entered junior high and started walking to school instead of taking the bus, Mom actually wanted me to wear a helmet. A helmet!
I could understand if I was riding a skateboard or a Harley-Davidson. But a helmet? For walking?
Luckily, Dad stepped in and talked her out of it.
Sometimes Mom can be pretty cool about the whole hovering thing, though.
Last year in youth basketball, I didn’t get to play until the final three seconds of a game—even though we were winning by about a hundred points and it was the last game of the season.
I could tell Mom felt bad for me and wanted to hover and be all gooey and mushy right in front of my teammates. But she waited until we were in the car so I wouldn’t be embarrassed, then she gave me a kiss and a mushy hug.
When moms do things like that, you can almost put up with them doing gross things like kissing you on the cheek and then wiping the lipstick off your face with their germy spit.
Anyway, when I told Mom that I wanted to try out for the Spiro T. Agnew Middle School baseball team, she went into her overprotective turbo-hyper-worrywart mode. I don’t understand why. There are far riskier sports than baseball.
She finally agreed to let me try out for baseball, but only if I wore a helmet at all times. Not just while at bat or out in the field.
Derp!
Fortunately, Dad stepped in again and talked Mom out of it.
(You know, I bet football is the only sport where Mom would not be worried, because in that sport you do wear a helmet at all times. Never mind that the whole point of the game is to inflict maximum physical pain on your opponent.)
So I had a green light from the Power Structure. The stage was set. Steve, the ace benchwarmer of the youth leagues, was ready for one of life’s major milestones.
The team tryout!
It was only a few days away. But so was the beginning of my dreaded Bean-O-Phobia.
Quick Time-Out about Phobias
You are not born with a phobia. They don’t just pop up out of nowhere like a wart.
A phobia grabs hold of your brain only after you suffer some kind of a traumatic event.
Here’s a fairly common example:
Let’s say you’re wandering barefoot in the Sahara Desert with a Bedouin tribe and you step on a deathstalker scorpion—pretty much the deadliest scorpion on Earth—and it stings you on the big toe and your entire foot swells up like a basketball and agonizing pain shoots through your body like a lightning bolt.
What if that happens? Well, if you survive, it’s almost certain that you will develop a crippling fear of deathstalker scorpions.
Scorpion-O-Phobia.
You can also develop a phobia if you merely witness someone else suffering a traumatic event.
So if you’re wandering in the Sahara Desert with that Bedouin tribe and you see the chief get stung by a deathstalker scorpion, and his foot swells up like a basketball and agonizing pain shoots through his body like a bolt of lightning?
Doesn’t matter. You can still develop Scorpion-O-Phobia.
And that’s what happened to me. I was a firsthand witness to the infamous Valentine’s Day Schnoz Massacre, a gory incident that happened during the Mighty Plumber baseball tryouts.
There was gushing blood! Horrifying screams! A grown man FAINTED!!!
Sorry . . .
I’m not ready to tell you about the Valentine’s Day Schnoz Massacre yet because—duh. It’s a strict rule when writing a book that you build suspense first and don’t just spill all the cool gory stuff right off the bat.
So “hang on to your jockstraps,” as Coach Earwax likes to say. I’ll get to the bloody gore when the suspense builds to the point where you can’t stand it any longer.
CHAPTER 2
Dad always tells me, “Ninety percent of success is preparation.”
(I have no idea if that number is accurate or if my dad just made it up. But since my dad was once a hotshot athlete, I figure he knows ninety percent more about success than I do.)
In order to be prepared for the baseball tryout, I had to make sure that I had all the right gear. I didn’t want to walk out onto the field and suddenly realize I forgot my glove.
I decided to lay my gear out on my bed and make a list, checking stuff off to make sure I had everything I needed.
Before I could do that, I had to deal with Fido, who was wrapped around my ankle and begging for attention.
Quick Time-Out about My Pets
Remember when I told you that I’m an only child? (I hope so, because it was only a few pages ago, so that would be really pathetic if you already forgot.)
Well, there are a few other members of my family: our pets. They’re not exactly my brothers or sisters, but they can be just as annoying.
Fido is my pet boa constrictor, in case you didn’t figure that out already, and he is very unique. I’ll explain why in a minute.
But first there’s Frenchy, who is probably the most demented poodle you will ever meet in your entire life, and I’m not even exaggerating. He pretty much lives under my bed and growls and barks at any kind of sound or movement. He only comes out from under the bed when it’s absolutely necessary.
I shove Frenchy’s food and water dish under the bed, otherwise he might starve or die of thirst and stink up the house like one of those dead rats in the attic.
Then there’s Cleo, the duck . . .
. . . who thinks she’s a dog.
I bought Cleo when she was a fuzzy duckling with a few bucks I made from selling an NBA player’s dirty socks to a sports memorabilia collector.
Except for that whole “thinks she’s a dog” thing, Cleo is really smart—smarter than a ninth grader. That’s like genius level for a duck and pretty much a major slam to ninth graders.
I also have one of those bug-eyed goldfish who always look like they just cut cheese.
I named him Zoner because he has some kind of sleep disorder called narcolepsy that strikes without warning.
Zoner will be cruising around his bowl like a normal bug-eyed goldfish, then suddenly nod off and float belly up. It looks like he’s dead, but he’s really just sleeping. It’s a life-threatening disorder!
But of all our pets, Fido is my favorite. He is by far the coolest pet in the entire world, and I’m not even exaggerating.
Fido and I bonded the day I brought him home from the pet shop. Mom almost blew a head gasket for several reasons: I forgot to get permission from the Power Structure. She is afraid of snakes. And boa constrictors can grow to be ten feet long.
That’s big enough to swallow a lunatic poodle.
Fido can even do tricks on command. He can roll over and sit up and stick out his tongue—any trick a dog can do, with a few exceptions.
Even though other people might freak out about having a pet boa constrictor, I’m pretty sure that Fido would never do anything crazy like coil himself around my neck and strangle me until my
eyeballs pop out.
But Fido occasionally gets into mischief. One time I left my bedroom door open, and Fido escaped his cage and decided to explore the house. In case you don’t know, snakes are very clean creatures. So Fido decided to slither into a bathroom for a warm soak in a bathtub.
Unfortunately, it was the tub in my parents’ bathroom.
And Mom was in it.
Okay, so what Mom doesn’t understand is that Fido struggles with a major phobia of his own.
Remember those wimpy kids in kindergarten who always threw crying fits and clung to their parents’ legs during morning drop-off?
Teachers called it “separation anxiety.” Fido has the same fear, but it’s not easy to peel a boa constrictor off an ankle. They have the strength of ten kindergarteners!
Which brings me back to my gear checklist. While I was preparing for my baseball tryout, I discovered a major blunder.
Derp!
I didn’t have an athletic protector.
CHAPTER 3
It might sound crazy, but I was embarrassed to buy a cup. It’s a very private piece of athletic gear. I’d rather walk up to a checkout counter and stand in line to buy a tube of hemorrhoid cream. (Not that I’d ever need it!)
I went through my entire youth baseball career without a cup, but I wasn’t going to get away with that at Spiro T. Agnew Middle School. Coach Earwax had a strict rule that everyone on the team must wear a cup.
I picked up Fido and stashed him back in the cage, shut the bedroom door, and made an emergency run to O’Callahan’s Sporting Goods.
On the way to the store (walking, with no helmet) I met up with my two best friends, Joey Linguini and Carlos Diaz. We’re pretty much inseparable.
