The shadow stopped and turned toward me.
It looked up at me in surprise.
I looked back in just as much surprise.
Huh?
ike Stammer jumped up and brushed the dirt off his knees. His big toothpaste-ad smile gleamed in the lamplight.
“Hey, there,” he said.
What was he up to? Looking for worms? Maybe he was going fishing the next morning. Or maybe he was in the middle of some weird exercise routine. In any case, at least Mike wasn’t a coyote!
“Uh, hey, there. I was just looking for you, and, uh . . . will you please sign a baseball card?” I said quickly as I got off my bike. I pulled the card out of one pocket and a pen out of the other.
Mike took the card, held it flat in his left palm and scribbled on it. “You probably wonder what I’m doing crawling around out here, huh?”
“Nope,” I lied. “It’s none of my business.”
“Good kid. Hey, what’s your name? I’ll get you tickets to tomorrow’s game.”
“My name is Chad, but I don’t need tickets. I’m a batboy!”
“Great. Glad we finally got one for the summer.” Mike gave me back the card. “So you won’t tell anybody about this?”
“No way.”
“Thanks.”
I got back on my bike and pedaled off. I glanced in the mirror and saw Mike crawling around in the grass again. I hoped he didn’t scare anybody else, because he cast one big shadow!
• • •
“How did it go?” Dad asked as soon as I got home. He looked up from his book, which was about Madagascar. Dad was interested in everything. The last book he read was about eggplant farming, and the one before that was about the Franco-Prussian War.
“It was fun,” I said. “Wayne Zane is funny. At least, he tries to be funny. And there’s a new guy named Tommy Harris who’s really friendly. He fell asleep on the bus and they put a rat face and ears on him. Mike Stammer is nice but kind of weird. And Sammy Solaris is even bigger up close.”
“Did you work hard?” Dad asked.
“Of course.” I thought about how Dylan was way faster than me, but maybe he was just superfast.
“Saturday is Kids Get In Free Day,” Dad told me. “I heard an ad on the radio about it.”
“I know, but I don’t have to worry about getting into the game free. I get paid to be there.”
“The ad said there was going to be a big surprise,” said Dad. “Do you know what it is?”
“No. Everybody’s talking about it, though.”
“Maybe the surprise is that you’re the new batboy,” said Dad.
• • •
As soon as I got to my room, I took a binder off my shelf and slipped Mike Stammer’s card back into the plastic sleeve. The binder was just for players who’d played for the Porcupines. I had over forty of them.
I have other binders, and even more baseball cards in boxes. I have cards going all the way back to the 1950s, when my grandpa started collecting them. He gave his baseball cards to Uncle Rick, and Uncle Rick gave his—and Grandpa’s—cards to me. Some of them were tattered at the corners and had worn spots on the face. Others were still perfect, even though they were twenty or thirty years old. A few were worth a lot of money, and a lot of them weren’t. I didn’t care. I loved them all, whether it was a Hall of Famer or a guy who was only in the majors for one season, like Mike Stammer.
I flipped the sheet over to see the back of Mike Stammer’s card. The stats don’t lie. Mike was a good hitter and runner. He wasn’t enough of a slugger to DH, but he got on base a lot. If only he played shortstop as well as he hit, he’d be back in the big leagues. He just made too many errors.
I didn’t need the card to tell me that. I’d seen Mike on Baseball Bloopers plenty of times. I’d seen him run at a ball and accidentally kick it like a football. I’d seen him throw the baseball right over the first baseman’s head.
That’s why Mike was back at Single-A. He had to work on his game. I hope he did get better . . . but not right away.
he Porcupines played the Heron Lake Humdingers on Friday night. They also played them on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Wally told Dylan and me to show up two hours before each game started. I wanted to get there even earlier.
On Friday, I biked to the ballpark and saw the patch of grass where Mike Stammer had been crawling around.
Suddenly, I realized what he had been looking for.
I jumped off my bike to find it.
When I walked into the locker room, it was exactly four o’clock.
“You’re late,” said Wally.
“I’m right on time!” I pointed at the clock. The minute hand was right on the twelve.
“If you’re not five minutes early, you’re late,” said Wally. He went off to the equipment room.
“If he wanted us here at five to, why didn’t he say so?” I asked Dylan.
“I don’t get it, either,” he replied.
He was wearing a Porcupines uniform with BB on the back. Our uniforms were here!
I found my own uniform on the bench and changed into it. The pants were tight around the waist and so long in the legs that I had to roll up the cuffs, but I swelled with pride. I was one of the team!
“I was hoping for the porcupine logo,” said Dylan. One of the Pines’ logos was a fierce porcupine. Our caps had the other team logo, an interlocking P and C for Pine City.
“I like the porcupine one better too,” I told him.
The uniform was pretty cool.
“Yech!” someone shouted from the other side of the locker room.
Tommy Harris pulled a glue trap out of his locker. “Very funny, guys!” he said.
“We heard there was a rat on the loose,” said Wayne Zane.
Mike Stammer was getting dressed too. He started to put his socks on.
“Those are the smelliest socks I’ve ever smelled,” said Wayne Zane.
“I haven’t washed them in eighteen days,” said Mike. “I’m trying to break the jinx.”
“Maybe you can break the jinx by washing those socks. In extremely hot water. With bleach.”
“But the last time I had a jinx, I broke it by not washing my socks,” said Mike. “I just can’t remember how many days it took.”
“Don’t wash them, then,” said Wayne Zane. “But don’t wear them, either. Bury them . . . deep . . . very deep!”
“Here’s a clean pair,” said Sammy. He tossed two socks over to Mike. “Try these—do us all a favor.”
“Ah, it’s probably not the kind of jinx that socks can fix, anyway,” Mike said. He put on the clean pair.
That reminded me. “Hey, Mike, I have something for you.” I dug through my street clothes and found the four-leaf clover in my shirt pocket. It had taken me half an hour to find it. I handed it to Mike. “I figured that’s what you were looking for last night.”
“Yeah, it was,” he admitted. “I’ve had so much bad luck lately, I’m willing to try anything. But I couldn’t find one.” He tucked the clover into his pants pocket. “Thanks, uh . . . Chad, right?”
“Yep.”
“I hope this works!”
“Me too.” I didn’t really believe in four-leaf clovers, but it didn’t hurt to try. “You want me to, uh . . . get those?” I pointed at the unwashed socks.
“Don’t touch ’em, kid!” said Wayne Zane. “Not without a hazmat suit.”
It was time for batting practice, which everybody called “BP.” The batters took turns, swinging at easy pitches. Dylan and I ran around in the outfield to gather up the balls. They call that “shagging,” but I don’t know why. Just another one of those weird baseball words. I just know it’s fun.
The Porcupines’ mascot walked by, waving at the fans who were there early. “Hey, Pokey!” I shouted. The giant porcupine saw me and waved. His back quivered. The quills looked sharp, but I knew they weren’t.
“Yours,” said Dylan. I turned just in time to see a ball bouncing straig
ht at me. I fielded it and threw it back toward the pitcher’s mound. Last year I’d seen the batboys and thought those kids were really cool. Now some kid was looking at me and thinking the same thing.
Wally walked into the dugout when BP was over.
“I need one of you to help out the visiting team,” he said.
“What?” I dropped the last ball back into the canvas bag. “You want us to help the other guys?”
“That’s why we have two batboys,” Wally said. “One for here, and one for over there. The other teams do the same for us when we go to their ballparks.”
“Oh,” I said. That made sense, but I still didn’t like it much.
“So who wants to volunteer?” Wally asked.
I traded looks with Dylan. He was a better batboy, but I really wanted to hang out with the Porcupines.
“Well?” said Wally.
“I’ll do it,” said Dylan. He didn’t look very happy about it.
“Great. Thanks for being a good sport,” said Wally.
“Thanks,” I said as Dylan headed off to the visiting team’s dugout. He didn’t even look at me. Now he probably thought I was a dillydallier and a bad sport. Maybe I should have volunteered to help the Humdingers.
“You know how to set up a bat rack?” Wally asked.
“Sure.” I didn’t, but I could figure it out.
“Here’s the lineup card. Go do it, and hustle.”
I did figure it out, and I hustled.
ommy Harris led off the bottom of the first inning for the Porcupines. He paused just before he got into the batter’s box, checked his shoelaces and batting gloves, pulled up his socks, and straightened his jersey. He rubbed the tip of his bat and nodded to it like they had a secret agreement. Finally, he got into his batting stance.
Tommy drew a walk. The next two batters struck out, but Tommy stole second base. The pitcher was so surprised, he didn’t make the throw and Tommy slid in safely.
The Humdingers’ pitcher chewed his lower lip. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck. He threw a couple of balls and then a curveball that didn’t curve. Sammy Solaris knocked it out of the park. The Porcupines were up by two runs! I got to trade high fives with Tommy and Sammy when they came back into the dugout. It was awesome.
Being up close, I knew something that the fans didn’t: Tommy was partly to thank for that home run. He stole second base right under the pitcher’s nose, and that shook up the pitcher. I never would have seen how nervous the pitcher was if I was sitting in the stands.
I loved my new job!
• • •
That was the only scoring for either team until the seventh inning, when the Humdingers had runners on second and third. There were two outs. The batter swung and grounded a ball right at Mike Stammer, who was playing shortstop. It should have been an easy out. Mike got the ball and wheeled to make the throw to first base, but his feet got tangled up. He fell down, and the ball rolled into the outfield. Both runners scored—and just like that, it was a tie game.
“Early season jitters,” Wayne Zane told Mike during the seventh inning stretch. Wayne took off his mask and shin guards and chest guard, and put them on the bench. It was his turn to bat.
“I’ve had the early season jitters for eight weeks,” Mike said.
“Hmm. That is a long time,” Wayne admitted. “Maybe you’ve really got the June swoon.”
“I’ve had it since last July,” said Mike.
“Well, then. It must be a two-summer slump.”
Mike glared at him.
“Just sayin’.” Wayne headed to the on-deck circle for his practice swings. I stayed on the bench. I saw Mike getting a cup of water.
“I could have gotten that for you,” I said.
“Afraid I’ll drop it?” Mike joked. He swigged the water and refilled the cup.
“I’m supposed to help out,” I said with a shrug.
“Sorry your clover didn’t work,” said Mike. “It’ll take a seven-leaf clover to break this jinx.”
“Have you tried a rabbit’s foot?” I asked. I’d seen one in the junk drawer at home.
“Nah, that grosses me out,” he said.
“Me too,” I admitted.
“You just gave me an idea, though,” said Mike.
• • •
The Humdingers scored three more runs and won the game. The Pines’ fans were slow and quiet as they trickled out of the ballpark.
“Come back tomorrow afternoon for Kids Get In Free Day,” the announcer, Victor Snapp, said over the PA system. “Be sure to get here early and secure your seat for the second game against the Humdingers, and see the big surprise that the Porcupines have in store for you.” I wondered if Victor knew what it was. I wished I could run up to the booth and ask him, but I was still helping the team.
I put the bats away while Grumps, the Porcupines’ manager, told off the team. His real name was Harry Humboldt, but everybody called him Grumps. Lots of guys in baseball have nicknames. The funny thing about Grumps was that when he was a player, his nickname was Happy Harry. I even had his major league card from the 1980s. He had a big grin. Managing must have made him grumpy.
“I’ve seen better fielding from six-year-olds!” Grumps shouted. He didn’t name names, but he looked at Mike Stammer. “You can’t give a team extra outs, especially when you’re not scoring that many runs. That’s why we’re in last place by nine games.”
“Ten games,” said Wayne Zane. “I saw on the scoreboard that the Rosedale Rogues won again.”
“Nine games, ten games, it’s still early in the season,” Grumps replied. “Just don’t get into a hole you can’t dig yourselves out of.”
“And the first rule of holes is, when you’re in one, stop digging,” said Wayne Zane.
“That’s right,” said Grumps. “So stop digging!” He marched out of the locker room.
Everyone was quiet for a moment.
“Sorry, guys,” said Mike Stammer. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been hitting OK, but if I don’t fix my fielding, I’ll get sent down again.”
“Hey, there’s nowhere down from here,” Wayne Zane reminded him.
“Gee, thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.”
“Just sayin’,” replied Wayne.
worked for a very long time after the game. I didn’t want to leave until Dylan did. I didn’t want to look like a lollygagging dillydallier.
I rounded up the wet towels, put the equipment away, and swept up sunflower seed shells in the dugout. After a while, I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I got dressed to go home. By that time, the players were already gone. Dylan came in just before I left.
“Thanks again for going to the visitors’ dugout,” I said.
“It was nothing,” he said.
“It was something,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it.” He got dressed fast and headed out. I was really sure he was mad at me.
I started to bike home, thought of something, turned around, and caught up with Dylan. I beeped my bike horn at him, and he turned around.
“What now?”
“I’m sorry about what happened at school. If that’s what’s bothering you, I’m sorry.”
“What happened at school?”
“I wanted to brag about being a batboy, but you got to go first. I interrupted you.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dylan said. “I’m not mad about that.”
“So what’s bugging you?”
“Oh, man. You’re the last one in the world who would understand.”
“Understand what? Try me.”
“I just don’t like baseball.”
“What?”
“I think it’s boring.”
“How could anybody find baseball boring?” I asked.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.” Dylan started walking again.
“I’ll try!” I said. “Seriously.” I pedaled after him. “Just tell me what’s boring about it. You have pitchers and batters and
home runs and triples and stolen bases and hot boxes and . . . and . . . Hey, how come you have this job if you don’t like baseball?”
“My dad said I had to do something this summer besides hang around the house,” Dylan replied. “He gave me a few choices, and I picked this one. I figured I’d only have to work half the time, since I wouldn’t have anything to do when the Porcupines are on the road.”
“So you just called the team up and asked for a job?”
“I sent them a résumé. My dad helped me with it.”
“Hey, me too! Did you have to do an interview?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you wear a tie?”
“My dad made me, but Wally didn’t like it.”
“Me too! Did you have to explain the infield fly rule?”
“No, but I could have. I studied. Wally asked me to explain what a balk is.”
“Oh.” I was glad I didn’t get that question. I knew what a balk was, but had trouble explaining it.
“Anyway,” Dylan said. “I like hanging out with you. It makes things a little less boring.”
“Thanks.” I decided I would help Dylan turn into a real fan before the end of the season. How hard could that be when we were so close to the action?
met Dad on the sidewalk in front of our house. He was walking our dog, Penny. She was happy to see me and barked. I knelt down to scratch her ears.
“I didn’t think you’d be back so late,” said Dad. “The game was finished two hours ago.”
“There’s a lot to do afterwards,” I explained.
We went inside. Dad unleashed Penny, and she followed me into the living room.
Mom muted the TV. “It looked like you were having fun,” she said, “even though the Porcupines lost.”
“Yeah. Wait—you were there?”
“We wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” said Mom.
Jinxed! Page 2
