Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Not Growing Up

by Tommy Greenwald

  The kid shielded his eyes to protect himself from the sun, even though the sun was behind him. He ran forward two steps, then he ran backward three steps, then he ran to the left four steps, then he ran to the right one step. The last thing he did was the most sensible: He covered his head so he wouldn’t get beaned.

  The ball dropped about six feet in front of him. A roar went up from the crowd as the runners scurried around the bases. The poor kid picked up the ball and tried to throw it in to the second baseman. It wound up closer to the center fielder.

  “Oh, no!” said Katie. She was watching as the boy covered up his face with his glove. It was possible he was crying.

  “Shake it off, dude!” I hollered. “Get ’em next time!” But the kid was too embarrassed to move.

  At the end of the inning, he ran into the dugout. All the other kids and most of the assistant coaches patted the kid on the shoulder, trying to make him feel better. But this other guy, who must have been the manager, didn’t make the kid feel better at all. Instead, he just buzzed around like a mad hornet. Finally, I heard him say to the kid, “Get a helmet on! You’re up this inning. Let’s go, let’s make this right! We need something out of you!”

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Katie. “What a jerk.”

  “Unbelievable,” she agreed.

  “Let’s go closer,” I said, suddenly interested in what was going on.

  We grabbed the dogs’ leashes and found Megan and Willy in the stands behind home plate. The game was pretty close, but I wasn’t really paying that much attention. That’s because I was becoming more and more obsessed with this jerky manager. He scowled and paced like he was at war, not a Little League game. He yelled at the umpires when he thought they made a mistake, even though the umps were barely older than the players. And worst of all, he treated the good players way better than he treated the bad players.

  “Who is that guy?” I asked Willy.

  “Oh, that’s Mr. Crabtree,” he said. “Real idiot.”

  Katie shook her head. “Why does he get to coach?”

  “Because he runs baseball in this town,” Willy said. “If you want your kid to get playing time, you gotta stay on his good side.”

  “They’re little kids!” Megan said. “That’s crazy.”

  “Which one’s your brother?” I asked Willy.

  He pointed at a big kid on Mr. Crabtree’s team, who was just about to start pitching. “That’s my bro, Chad.” Watching him warm up, I was impressed with how fast he threw. And also, how wild he was.

  “Are your parents here?” I asked Willy.

  “My mom’s working at the concession stand, and my dad stands way out in center field, where he can be nervous in peace.”

  I looked, and saw a man pacing back and forth behind the fence. Meanwhile, Mr. Crabtree was standing there with his arms folded, chewing his gum a mile a minute, watching Chad warm up. Boy, talk about pressure.

  “Easy does it, kid!” Willy called to his brother. “Nice and easy.”

  “Chad throws hard,” I said.

  Willy made a face. “I just hope he doesn’t kill somebody.”

  Chad walked the first batter, and went to two balls and no strikes on the next. Meanwhile, Mr. Crabtree was getting more and more worked up: He started stalking around the dugout, and it looked like he was swearing to himself. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Throw the ball over the plate, son! Come on now!”

  But sadly, easier said than done. After Chad walked the second guy, Mr. Crabtree stomped out to the mound for a meeting. Chad looked scared to death.

  “This guy’s a turd,” I said to Willy.

  He nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  Finally the coach went back to the dugout, and by some miracle, Chad got the next pitch over. The problem was, the kid hit it. It was a hard ground ball that went right through the third baseman’s legs.

  “No!” bellowed Mr. Crabtree.

  Luckily, the left fielder was backing up the play. Unluckily, his throw hit the kid who was sliding into second base, and the ball bounced out to right field. Luckily, the right fielder was a different boy from the one who was out there earlier. Unluckily, he was just as clueless. The poor guy was as frozen as a statue.

  “THROW THE BALL!” screamed Mr. Crabtree. “HURRY UP! THROW IT!”

  The right fielder did exactly that. He threw it right to Mr. Crabtree.

  “NOT TO ME!” the coach thundered. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

  By then, all three runners had scored. The third baseman looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole, and the left and right fielders looked like they wanted the third baseman to make room in the hole for them.

  “BRING IT IN!” Mr. Crabtree hollered, and everyone on the field gathered at the mound. The coach started talking a mile a minute, but really softly. I had no idea what he was saying, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t, “Hey guys, whaddya say we forget about this whole thing and go get some ice cream?”

  “I can’t believe this jerk gets to coach,” I said. “How is that possible?”

  “Because nobody can do anything about it, that’s how,” Willy said glumly.

  Well, that was all I needed to hear.

  “Says you,” I said.

  “Uh-oh,” said Katie.

  I poked my head in the dugout. “Pssst, you guys!”

  There were about three kids on the bench, all blowing bubbles with their gum and minding their own business. These were the bench-warmers, the ultra-scrubs, the kids who really, really didn’t care. They looked up at me with mild curiosity.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the kid closest to me, who was sporting a pair of those wraparound goggles that no child should ever be forced to wear.

  “Norman Beckles,” he said. Of course it was.

  “You want to see something funny, Norman?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  I pointed to a box of PowerBars that was sitting in the dugout. “Hand me two of those.”

  He did.

  Without anyone looking, I quietly unlatched the fence that led from the bleachers to the field.

  “Moose! Coco!” I whispered. “Delicious delicious!” That was my code phrase for I’ve got treats. Their ears perked up to high alert, and their tails started smacking into each other.

  I led them over to the fence and unwrapped the PowerBars. Then I threw them out onto the field—one to the third base side and one to the first base side. “Go get ’em!” I said to the dogs, who didn’t need to be told twice. They tore out there so fast, no one even knew what was happening until those PowerBars were long gone.

  Here’s the thing about dogs, though. Once they’re in a place they’ve never been to before, they want to explore everything about it. Back when I played, Moose and Coco had been forbidden to go onto the field, of course. That would be wrong.

  Except for this time. This time, it just felt really, really right.

  Once they’d finished scarfing down the PowerBars and started sniffing around the infield, people started realizing exactly what was happening. Mr. Crabtree, who was still lecturing his team at the mound, looked up.

  “What are those animals doing on my field?” he hollered.

  Oh, so now it was his field?

  The kids on the team, meanwhile, weren’t sure what to do. At first they started shyly pointing at the dogs, but then Moose and Coco did what they always do—treat all children as playmates. So they went up to the kids on the mound and started jumping, licking, and pawing at them.

  And the Little Leaguers? It was the first time I saw any of them smile all day.

  By now, the parents were headed out onto the field as well. Of course, there were a couple of dads who were just like Mr. Crabtree, yelling, “This is a baseball game! What is going on here? Clear the field!” and stuff like that. But most of the parents thought it was pretty darn funny. Which made me happy. It’s good to know that not every adult is a crazy sports fanatic who makes their kid miserab
le. It’s mostly the ones in charge who do it.

  “Uh, Charlie Joe?” said Willy. “You maybe want to call your dogs?”

  “Not really,” I said. “They’ve never been out onto the field before. I think they really like it.”

  Megan smacked me lightly on the back of the head. “You made your point,” she said. “Go get the dogs.”

  “Fine.”

  By now, the dogs were playing with the right fielder who’d misplayed the fly ball earlier. It looked like he’d gotten over it, though, considering he was rolling around on the ground and laughing hysterically while Coco got on top of him and started licking the ketchup stains smeared on his shirt.

  I noticed a few other dogs had decided to join the fun and snuck onto the field; it was starting to look less like a baseball game and more like a show on Animal Planet. (Have you ever checked out that channel? It’s AWESOME.) Little Norman Beckles was getting happily mauled by a black Newfoundland twice his size, and a tiny dachshund was pushing a baseball all over the infield with his nose.

  It killed me a little bit, but finally I went out to the field. “Moose! Coco! Come!” They heard me and came trotting over, wagging their tails in gratitude. This had been a lot more fun than they’d expected—and a PowerBar snack to boot!

  “Time to go,” I said, “before they send you guys to doggie jail.”

  We were heading off the field when I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see Mr. Crabtree staring down at me like an angry parakeet.

  “Are these your dogs?”

  “Uh…”

  I was completely tongue-tied and just about to panic when Katie suddenly appeared at my side to rescue me. “Yes, they are his dogs. Aren’t they cute?”

  “Are you kidding?” Mr. Crabtree waved his hand. “This is a baseball field, not a kennel.”

  “We’re leaving,” Katie said.

  “Yeah, we’re leaving,” I echoed.

  “Good!” Mr. Crabtree was standing there with a smug look on his face. “And don’t come back until you learn how to respect the game!”

  This was no time to be a wise guy. “Yes, sir.” I said, grabbing the dogs by their collars. I was walking back to the fence when I heard a voice behind me.

  “How about you learn to respect the kids?”

  Megan!

  She was walking up to Mr. Crabtree, with Willy and his younger brother, Chad, next to her.

  Mr. Crabtree looked at her in disbelief.

  “What did you say to me?”

  Megan wasn’t about to back down. “I said, how about you learn to respect the kids? Let them have fun, like boys are supposed to do, instead of scaring them half to death!” She pointed at Chad. “You practically made my boyfriend’s brother cry.” Then she looked at Chad. “Sorry, buddy.”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “This isn’t a sandbox,” said Mr. Crabtree. “This is competitive sports. The kids in this town have it too good—they need to toughen up a little bit, learn how to deal with a little adversity.”

  I felt I had to step in and say something. “You’re right, sir,” I said. “We do have it too good in this town. We’re really lucky. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t let us be kids. Pretty soon we’ll all have to face real life. I’m going to high school next year, and it’s going to be hard. So while these kids are still in fourth and fifth grade, shouldn’t they be allowed to have a little fun?”

  “They ARE having fun!” Mr. Crabtree turned around to face a bunch of his players and their parents, who had all gathered around to listen. “Aren’t you guys having fun? Aren’t you?”

  A few kids nodded, murmuring, “Yup” and “Sure,” and one or two of the dads made their kids raise their hands. But most of them didn’t say a thing.

  Mr. Crabtree’s face turned bright red. “Do you people know how many hours I’ve dedicated to this team?” He waited for an answer, but none came. “Okay, FINE! Find another freakin’ coach for all I care!”

  He said that last sentence so loud, it scared Coco a little bit. Which wasn’t good because when Coco gets scared, she pees on the first thing she sees.

  Which happened to be Mr. Crabtree’s foot.

  “THAT’S IT!” the coach roared. “I’M OUT OF HERE!” He stared me down for one last second. “You’re older than these boys, you’re supposed to know better,” he spat out. “Grow up!”

  Everyone watched him as he marched into the dugout, grabbed his clipboards, his windbreaker, his whistle, and his baseball glove and headed to the parking lot.

  Two minutes later, he turned around and came back to the field, because he forgot his son.

  “Marcus, let’s go!” Marcus, who was tall, fast, and (obviously) the best player on the team, gathered up his two gloves, his six bats, his bat bag, and his catcher’s equipment and walked toward the car.

  But on his way out, he stopped, bent down, and hugged Moose and Coco.

  “Thanks, you guys,” he said. “That was the most fun I’ve had on a baseball field in a long time.”

  11

  3:31 pm

  After Mr. Crabtree left, the umpire decided to postpone the rest of the game until the next day. We’d left a mess of food wrappers and plates on the field—that’s the problem with fun, it’s usually messy—so Willy, Megan, Katie, and I started cleaning up. Coco was doing her part by polishing off any last scraps of treats lying around, but Moose was lying down in the shade under a tree.

  “That’s weird,” I said to Megan. “Moose is never not interested when eating is involved.”

  Megan glared at me. “You need to stop feeding him so much junk,” she snapped.

  “That has nothing to do with it,” I snapped back.

  We fought about that a lot—she was always on me for giving the dogs human food. My philosophy was that humans live a lot longer than dogs, so how can it be bad?

  “Well, it’s pretty hot out,” Katie said, playing peacemaker. “That was a lot of activity for a senior citizen. He needs a break.”

  “Moose isn’t a senior citizen,” I said. If I didn’t want to think about myself getting older, I DEFINITELY didn’t want to think about Moose getting older.

  I was putting the last of the PowerBar wrappers into a garbage can when my phone buzzed.

  It was a text from Mom: Where are you?!? I’ve been calling! Awards ceremony in 30 minutes!! Oops. I checked—three missed calls.

  “We gotta go.” I shook Willy’s hand, then went to say goodbye to his little brother Chad. “Nice game,” I said. “You’re a good pitcher. You throw hard.”

  “I like your dogs,” he replied. “Can they come to every game?”

  * * *

  On the car ride home, Katie and I stared out the window while Megan drove. Nobody said much. We were all tired, and I had a lot to think about. We’d just been to three places where I’d spent a ton of time during the last few years: The Scooper Bowl, Jookie’s, and the Little League field. I felt really old at all of them. I felt a little out of place at all of them. And yeah, it still felt good to pull the occasional goofy prank with my dogs. But how much longer could I get away with that?

  In other words, it was pretty much going to be all business from here on in.

  I looked down and saw the Jookie’s hat that Mr. Radonski had given me, lying on the car floor. Heck, I couldn’t even go to Jookie’s anymore! Oh sure—you might be thinking, why would you want to keep going to Jookie’s anyway? It’s way too young for you! Well, that may well be, but you’ve never tasted their chocolate chip cookies. I would stay young forever if I could keep eating those cookies.

  But no more Jookie’s. No more being a kid. Time to act like a high school student. Grow up! Mr. Crabtree had said. And even though he was a jerk, he seemed to be saying exactly what everyone was thinking.

  Even Mr. Radonski, the gym teacher who was more immature than me, was getting married!

  What was happening? Why was it happening?

  And most important: What coul
d I do to stop it?

  12

  3:59 pm

  Ties and me have never gotten along.

  I don’t even get why ties exist. Who invented ties? What were they thinking? Did that person say to themselves, “Hey, I know! I’m going to invent an article of clothing that you tie incredibly tightly around your neck for absolutely no reason? And to make things worse maybe I’ll invent an incredibly hot, uncomfortable, wool jacket to go with it?”

  That person should be ashamed of him- or herself.

  My point is that I don’t like ties. But that didn’t matter. Birthday or not, I had no say in the matter. For extra special occasions, I had to wear a jacket and tie, no two ways about it.

  Which is why I was scratching, pulling, yanking, and otherwise doing whatever I could to separate my skin from the collar of my shirt, when I walked into the school auditorium at exactly 3:59 p.m.—one minute before the start of the awards ceremony.

  “You’re going to stretch it past repair,” said my mom, walking behind me and trying to slap my hand away from my shirt.

  “I know. That’s the whole point.”

  I took a look around the auditorium. All the teachers were sitting in the front, on the right side. I saw Ms. Ferrell, my guidance counselor, and Mrs. Massey, my old art teacher—by old, I mean I had her last year, and also she’s actually very old.

  My Spanish teacher, Señora Cohen, was talking to Mr. Radonski, which was interesting, because Mr. Radonski had once annoyed all the Spanish and French teachers by claiming that foreign languages were overrated. I believe his exact words were, “We should be teaching the rest of the world to speak American, not the other way around!” I guess on graduation day, though, all is forgiven, and we’re all one big happy family.

  Jake waved. “Charlie Joe, come sit over here!” He and Nareem were saving me a seat. The good news was that they looked just as miserable in their jackets and ties as I did. The bad news was that Timmy and Pete weren’t there, because they weren’t getting awards. That wasn’t all that surprising. What was surprising is that I was there.