by Steve Moore
We called the stadium announcer on the dugout phone. Carlos used his deep voice and asked the guy to page a spectator named Jacques Strapp.
About a minute later the poor, foolish stadium announcer made the announcement.
The joke was on us, though. After the announcement a student sitting right next to our dugout ran toward the ticket booth. There really was someone named Jacques Strapp at Nike Prep!
Out on the field, the poor Platypuses could not buy a hit in spite of their wealth.
It was a steady stream of strikeouts, ground outs, and pop-ups. And whenever we were up to bat, it was a merry-go-round of hits and runners scoring.
I actually started feeling sorry for the Platypuses. Like, maybe they were all suffering from Bean-O-Phobia?
Amazingly, Nike Prep did not seem to mind that they were getting creamed by the Mighty Plumbers.
Even the students in the stands were upbeat. They stood for the entire game and never stopped their annoying cheers while the Platypus mascot with the poisonous spurs cheerfully ran around and flapped its ducklike bill.
It was strange. The Nike Prep fans acted as if they were beating the pants off us!
All the cheerful noise really bugged Carlos, though, so he dug down deep into his gut and let loose one of his epic belches in order to quiet the crowd.
It was awesome.
The burp echoed across the field and frightened off some pigeons who were roosting on the scoreboard. But the happy-go-lucky Nike Prep fans continued to clap and cheer.
By the eighth inning we were leading the Platypuses, a hundred to zip. It was garbage time. Every benchwarmer’s dream!
Joey, Carlos, and I stared down the bench at Coach Earwax. He finally got the hint and nodded in our direction.
Translation: “Start warming up.”
CHAPTER 18
In the bottom of the eighth we took the field—Carlos in left field, Joey at second base, and me in right field. It was good to get up off the bench, even if it was padded.
But we would have seen more action standing in the Nike Prep parking lot.
Becky was still working her magic. She struck out three Platypus batters with nine pitches. The inning was over before I had a chance to even adjust my athletic protector.
Carlos was happy, though. He sprinted off the field, into the dugout, and onto the padded bench.
Becky sat alone at the end of the bench. She was one inning away from pitching a no-hitter.
In baseball you can never say the word no-hitter before the final out or you will jinx everything. That’s why Becky was sitting by herself. She did not want anyone to ruin her no-hitter accidentally.
Coach Earwax read the batting lineup: Joey at bat. Carlos on deck. Steve in the hole.
Way in the hole. I suddenly had one of those stomach things where it feels like your intestines are crawling out of your belly button.
The video in my mind started replaying the Valentine’s Day Schnoz Massacre.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture something calm and pleasant. Like cheeseburgers or lizards.
All I could see was blood and Dewey’s sideways nose.
Joey got to the plate, and Coach Earwax gave him the “take” sign.
That sly, top-secret sign meant Joey was supposed to just stand there like a garden gnome and let every pitch go by.
Yeah, I know. It sounds kind of dumb.
The whole purpose of going to bat is to hit the ball. But in Joey’s case, because his strike zone is so tiny, there’s an excellent chance that he will get on base with a walk.
Joey let three pitches go by, all balls. There is practically a rule in baseball that you never swing at the next pitch if your count is three balls and no strikes. Joey blew it off.
He bunted a high pitch and popped it up.
The Platypus pitcher and catcher both ran under the ball. That didn’t work out so well.
Meanwhile, speedy Joey ran all the way around the bases and slid into home plate!
Unfortunately, before Joey touched home plate, the ball bounced off the pitcher’s head and landed right in the pitcher’s glove.
Out!
Pure luck.
Joey almost had a bunt homer!
Carlos lumbered up to the plate. The Platypuses were fooled by his big-boned body. The players all moved back in their positions. WAY back. I guess they thought that Carlos would crush the ball over the fence, out of the stadium, and into a far corner of the Earth.
Carlos dug his foot into the dirt in the back of the batter’s box. Then he got into his stance and glared at the pitcher.
Carlos swung at the first pitch and whiffed. Strike one.
Second pitch, strike two.
He swung on the third pitch. Strike three!
Carlos stood in the batter’s box for a moment and glared at his bat.
Carlos waddled back to the dugout and wiggled his butt down into the padded bench. That meant I was batter up.
Before I walked to the plate, Jimmy put an arm around my shoulder as if I was his best bud in the entire world. Jimmy was up to bat after me.
Don’t be fooled. Those were not words of encouragement.
Jimmy wanted another chance to boost his hotshot statistics with another home run.
So I not only had to worry about Bean-O-Phobia; I also had to fear the wrath of Jimmy Jimerino and his posse if I failed to get on base.
Oh, and as I walked toward home plate? Jimmy added one more layer of stress.
At first I thought Jimmy was pulling one of the oldest pranks in the entire universe. Then I looked down, and, sure enough, my pants zipper was wide open.
I was in big trouble. I couldn’t stop and zip it up right there in front of hundreds of Nike Academy spectators. The only thing I could do was keep going and hope that no one would notice.
As soon as I stepped into the batter’s box, the umpire called time-out and told me to step out of the batter’s box. Then, in a loud voice, he told me to ZIP UP MY FLY.
Derp!
I tried to be all nonchalant about it, but it’s pretty much impossible to look cool while zipping up your pants at home plate in front of hundreds of spectators.
The Platypus fans were polite. No one heckled me. Their catcher even turned his head away while I zipped up.
But I could hear Jimmy’s posse cackling in the dugout. I looked over at Coach Earwax, and he scowled at me.
Translation: “Mighty Plumbers do not leave their zippers open!”
The wrath of Jimmy, public humiliation, and Bean-O-Phobia! My knees were shaking. My arms felt like rubber. It was a replay of every time I’d been to bat all season.
The pitcher threw the baseball, but, in my mind, I saw my recurring nightmare.
I hit the dirt.
The pitch was high and way outside, but I must have moved my bat in a forward motion on my way down because the umpire called a strike.
The rest of my time at bat was total darkness—probably because I had my eyes closed when I swung and whiffed on the next two pitches.
I was the last out. Inning over. Jimmy Jimerino never got his chance to hit another home run.
I had just pulled off probably the biggest batter meltdown in the entire history of baseball.
No brag. It’s just a fact. Derp!
The walk back to the dugout seemed like it took forever. The Platypus fans were happy and cheering. The mascot ran around and flapped its duck bill.
My teammates ran back on the field for the Platypuses’ last at bat. On his way out to shortstop, Jimmy made a point of giving me a personal stink eye.
Becky tapped me on the head on her way out to the mound. She looked back at me, and with Nature’s Near-Perfect Smile she said:
“Shake it off, Steve.”
Becky struck out three Platypus batters in a row to end the game. She got her no-hitter, and the Mighty Plumbers were headed for the Big Game: the League Championship.
Jimmy and his jock posse carried Becky off the field
on their shoulders.
At the team bus, Jeeves stood at attention as we boarded for the ride back to Spiro. He greeted us with “Thank you for visiting Nike Preparatory Academy!”
Jeeves must have seen my humiliating meltdown at bat, because when I walked by, he gave me two encouraging words.
I almost said, “Thank you, Jeeves.” But that was a nice thing for him to say, and I didn’t want him to think that I was being a wise guy hotshot athlete like Jimmy Jimerino.
On the way home my friends and I once again got stuck in the front row of the bus. This time I sat next to Coach Earwax.
He yanked nose hairs out of his nostrils all the way back to Spiro.
One more game to go. The Big Game. My last chance to break free of Bean-O-Phobia.
I would either get a hit or get Goosed.
CHAPTER 19
In the week leading up to the League Championship, I tried everything I could think of to break free of the Bean-O-Phobia. I even asked Carlos for advice, which was a waste of time. He told me that a phobia can be cured in three easy steps:
Sleep with a bat underneath my pillow.
Don’t brush my teeth for a week.
Change the part in my hair from the left side to the right side.
Carlos was wrongity, wrong, wrong. I tried all three. Nothing worked, and sleeping with a bat under your pillow is really uncomfortable.
I decided to seek advice from a more reliable source: the Power Structure.
Parents are expert advisers if you’re having a problem with fear. They deal with major phobias on a daily basis:
Mom is a turbo-hyper-worrywart, so I went straight to my dad. I knew he might be able to offer some fear-free advice.
Quick Time-Out about Dad
Dad usually doesn’t go to my games because he’s either traveling on business or golfing, but that’s okay with me. I actually get really nervous when he shows up.
I know I said I like being a benchwarmer, but I feel bad if my dad comes to a game and all I do is sit the pine and watch my coach dig wax out of his ears. And now, if a major miracle happened and I actually did get into the championship games, the dreaded Dad-O-Phobia would strike.
Dad-O-Phobia is a severe brain wreck that afflicts most people my age. Boys. Girls. It doesn’t discriminate. You can be cruising along in a baseball game, not making any errors, then good old Father Figure shows up.
Dad-O-Phobia probably is an irrational fear, though. Most dads aren’t all that scary. They just want to cheer and offer advice if you need it.
So I went to Dad for his advice and spilled my guts about Bean-O-Phobia.
I told him everything: Dewey’s sideways nose, blood, gore, baseball the size of a meteor, my crush on Becky, open zipper at the plate, the Goose Egg.
Then I asked him if he knew of a cure for Bean-O-Phobia.
The open-zipper disaster gave Dad another one of his laughing fits. When he was done, he told me about a teammate in college who also struggled with Bean-O-Phobia.
The guy was so desperate, he tried a magic ritual to get rid of the fear. He stood on one leg and rubbed a chicken bone on his bat and chanted magic words:
He was supposed to rub the chicken bone on the bat in order to create powerful mojo, but instead he created a greasy mess because he forgot to remove the meat from the bone.
When he got up to the plate, he swung at the ball, and the bat slipped out of his hands and clobbered an umpire right in the shin, one of the most sensitive bones in the entire body.
Dad told me to stay away from magic rituals because they don’t work. He tapped me on my noggin with his knuckles and said that the solution was right there—in my head.
He scribbled what he called a “Dr. Dad” prescription on the back of a golf scorecard and handed it to me. Dad told me to read it whenever I felt an attack of fear coming on.
I actually was more interested in the magic ritual with the chicken bone, but I kept Dad’s cryptic note anyway.
CHAPTER 20
On the day of the Big Game I woke up with Fido curled on my chest as usual, flicking his tongue at my nose.
I jumped out of bed and instantly noticed two things:
First, I had a stiff neck. My mom had bought me a new “therapeutic” pillow that had the opposite effect. Apparently, she saw the bat under my old, thin pillow and worried that I might get a stiff neck from that.
I couldn’t swivel my head. I had to turn my entire body in order to look left or right. I moved just like Frankenstein’s monster. Derp!
And second, Fido had a guilty look on his face and a big bulge in his stomach. I looked closer and saw a scrap of paper hanging out the side of his mouth.
Brilliant. My math homework was halfway down his belly.
Fido felt bad, but it was all my fault. I usually feed him a mouse every two weeks, and I was a couple of days late.
When Fido’s hungry, he’ll swallow anything he can fit into his mouth: candy bars, hockey pucks, lightbulbs. One time he swallowed my cell phone.
It took a few days before Fido, er, returned my cell phone. But it still worked!
I took a shower and went into the laundry room to pull my baseball uniform out of the dryer. Dad was there, and he had a guilty look on his face.
Dad was holding a big pile of laundry in his arms. A pile of PINK laundry.
Including my formerly WHITE baseball uniform.
Dad pulled one of his bright-red golf socks out of the pile.
He had flunked Laundry 101: never wash white clothes with bright colors. There wasn’t enough time to stick the uniform back in the wash to bleach out the pink, so I was stuck.
I have recurring nightmares about going to class wearing only my boxers. This was going to be far worse—and in real life. What a disaster.
Not only would I be pink at the game, I would be pink at school, because there’s a tradition at Spiro that if a team makes the championships, players wear their jerseys to school on the day of a Big Game.
You’re probably thinking it couldn’t get much worse, but you’d be wrongity, wrong, wrong.
I couldn’t find my athletic protector. I usually throw it in with the laundry, but it was missing.
I tore my bedroom apart looking for it: closet, drawers, mattress, snake terrarium.
The mystery was solved when Mom walked into my room. She was holding my missing cup between her thumb and forefinger as if it was a dead rat from our attic. It didn’t even look like an athletic protector.
At least it wasn’t pink.
So my mom flunked Garbage Disposal 101: check for foreign objects before you turn it on.
What a way to begin the day of the Big Game:
Frankenstein neck.
Snake ate my homework.
Pink uniform.
Demolished cup.
I put Fido back in his terrarium and left for school. But I had a feeling there was something I forgot.
CHAPTER 21
On the way to school I made a quick stop at O’Callahan’s Sporting Goods. I was determined to defeat at least one of my fears that day.
Becky was not working, of course. She was in school. I ran in, grabbed an athletic protector, and strolled right up to the checkout counter.
It was painless! Mostly.
I got to Spiro and tried my best to blend in with the crowd in the carpeted hallways. I was worried that my pink jersey would attract a lot of attention.
I don’t think anyone noticed.
My luck ran out at lunch in the cafeteria.
I should have been more cautious when I carried my food tray to C Central table, because Joey had just uttered a psychic warning.
Deck? Neck? Tech?
My Frankenstein stiff neck made it hard for me to look from side to side, and I walked right into the path of Becky O’Callahan, who was carrying her food tray.
Both of our trays flew up in the air. Plates shattered on the floor. Spaghetti splattered in all directions. The cafeteria crowd erupted in cheers
and gave us a standing ovation.
Jimmy Jimerino and his posse at the Jock Table spotted my pink jersey and pounced.
I apologized to Becky and offered to get a towel to wipe off the spaghetti sauce that had splattered on her baseball jersey. But Becky smiled her Nature’s Near-Perfect Smile and laughed it off.
Now we both had flawed jerseys. It was awesome.
CHAPTER 22
Finally the time came when I had to face my math teacher, Mr. Spleen, and explain why I did not have my homework. Everyone but me and Jimmy Jimerino turned in the assignment.
Jimmy and I were told to stay behind after class. I thought we would get the standard “everyone-else-in-the-class-turned-in-THEIR-homework” lecture, then we’d be on our way to the Big Game.
But nothing is that easy at Spiro T. Agnew Middle School.
Mother T. suddenly appeared out of nowhere in her spooky, ghostlike way. She stood there, hands folded prayer-like, and then she unleashed her mysterious mental powers.
She spoke softly about hardworking parents who provide food, clothing, and shelter while their knuckleheaded kids fail to turn in homework assignments on time. She said there are rules at Spiro that cannot be ignored. And one of the rules is that students absolutely cannot participate in games—even the Big Game—unless all homework is turned in.
Jimmy was stunned, but I have to admit that I almost knelt down at her feet to thank her for saving me from a last fateful clash with Bean-O-Phobia.
Mother T. offered a glimmer of hope, though. She told Mr. Spleen that he could overlook the missing homework assignment if he thought there was an “acceptable excuse.”
As quickly as Mother T. had appeared, she was gone!
Our fate was in the hands of Mr. Spleen. He asked Jimmy why he did not have his algebra homework. As always, Jimmy was confident his BJOC status would protect him.
