“Base-running!” hollered this kid who was even smaller than Ace. But he could probably run really fast.
The other fellas started yelling stuff too, and even the crowd in the stands hollered suggestions. Pitching. Giving signs, reading signs. Stealing signs. Stealing bases. Fielding.
Oh, jeepers, not fielding!
“Okay, okay,” said Joe Daggett, laughing and holding up a hand. “Those are all dandy suggestions. But if you ask me, there’s one skill a batboy needs more than any other, and that’s the ability to pay attention. When you’re standing out there in foul territory, you’d better be on your toes, watching for foul balls, signals from the umpire. Monkeys on the field. Ha! I made that last one up!”
That got the biggest cheer of the day so far.
Joe Daggett waited for the cheering to die down, and then he looked at the six of us. “Okay, fellas, are you ready?”
We all leaped in the air and cheered.
But my heart was pounding. My hands were clammy. Please please please don’t make me have to catch a fly ball.
Joe Daggett held on to the microphone with both hands. “The contest is one simple question,” he said. He paused for dramatic effect. “Our first annual Mudpuppy for a Day will be the one of you who comes closest to telling me the correct weight of that rhinoceros out there in right field.”
CHAPTER
43
I ALMOST COULDN’T BELIEVE my ears when Joe Daggett announced the final contest question. A couple of the other guys said they remembered seeing Tank’s weight printed on the banner, but now the banner was gone, and neither of them could remember the right number.
Pete just stood there with his hands balled into fists. He was so mad that puffs of smoke started coming out of his ears. (I might be making up that last part. But everything else is true, I swear.)
So it was even more fun than it should’ve been to march right up to Joe Daggett, grab the microphone, and announce loud and clear, “That rhinoceros out there in right field weighs exactly 2,580 pounds. Oh, and his name is Tank.”
Joe Daggett’s mouth dropped open, and then he broke into a huge grin. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he said, after he pried the microphone out of my hands. “Today’s winner—guessing the rhino’s weight exactly—and our first official Mudpuppy for a Day: Nick Spirakis!”
The crowd went wild, and I swear that from their seats behind home plate, Ace and Penny were cheering the loudest.
Joe Daggett shook my hand and slapped me on the back. “Head on into the locker room, Nick, and put on that Mudpuppies uniform!”
And I escaped down the steps of the dugout and into the locker room before Pete could pulverize me.
Miss Garble was waiting for me with my glove and a brand-new uniform, number 00. She handed me the gear and then scurried out of the room so she wouldn’t see me in my underwear.
Once I was dressed, I looked at myself in a mirror.
The uniform was too big for me, but I don’t mind telling you: I looked pretty darn good.
I grabbed my mitt and headed up to the dugout and onto the field, just like a real ballplayer.
BOB:
Here he comes out of the dugout, Ray! Doesn’t the lad look sharp in his Pups uniform!
RAY:
Our winner, for those of you listening at home, is . . . let’s see my notes here . . . twelve-year-old Mick Sparks! Congrats to Mick, and to all the fellas who did their darnedest to win this competition!
BOB:
Mick sure earned it, Ray. That kid marched right up and gave the rhino’s correct weight, as if he knew that rhinoceros personally!
RAY:
Right on the nose, Bob. Or should I say horn, ha ha. Now the teams are lining up on the baselines. Listen to those cheers! If I didn’t know better, I’d say the atmosphere here in the ballpark was more like the World Series than a Saturday in May.
BOB:
We should be so lucky, Ray. Say, Ray, is that rhino wagon supposed to be rocking like that?
RAY:
How’s that, Bob? Oh, I see. Sure enough, folks, the rhinoceros appears to be getting a bit feisty out there in right field. I guess he wants the game to start too, ha ha.
BOB:
Wow, look at that wagon sway! If I didn’t know better, I’d say that critter is liable to bust out!
RAY:
I’m sure the zookeepers have taken all the necessary precautions, Bob. Uh-oh. I don’t think that was supposed to happen.
BOB:
We have a breach! We have a breach!
RAY:
Calm down, Bob. Well, folks, it seems the rhino has found a weakness in his wagon. . . .
BOB:
Weakness?? He just busted out!
RAY:
Ladies and gentlemen, you’re not gonna believe this, but we seem to have a rhinoceros on the loose in the outfield. I think it’s safe to say we’ll have an official delay of game. I bet you can’t find this anywhere in the official rule book, ha ha.
BOB:
Run, you people, run!
RAY:
The players are making a break for it! Most of them have hightailed it back to the dugout, but a handful are sprinting for the bull pen. That’s ironic, isn’t it, Bob? Maybe we should start calling it the rhino pen, ha ha!
BOB:
Watch out! Holy cow, did you see that, Ray?
RAY:
That’s definitely what I’d call a near miss, Bob. Thank goodness that umpire was fast on his feet. Well, folks, it appears that everyone is off the field and out of danger.
BOB:
Wait! Do you see what I see, Ray?
RAY:
I’m afraid I do, Bob. It seems the rhinoceros has fixed his beady eye on that group of ballplayers in the bull pen. Which is unfortunate, because there’s nothing between them and the rhino except fifty feet of beautifully manicured outfield grass.
BOB:
Uh-oh. He’s heading in the direction of the bull pen! I thought rhinos had bad eyesight!
RAY:
Very bad eyesight, according to my notes here. Very good hearing, apparently. Who knew? With those tiny ears?
BOB:
The players are trapped in the bull pen! There’s no escape! If they run for it, the rhino will mow them down like . . . like . . .
RAY:
It won’t be pretty, Bob. Let’s just leave it at that.
BOB:
Hold your horses, Ray! One player just ran back out onto the field! Who’s number zero zero, Ray?
RAY:
Holy smokes, Bob, that’s the batboy! Now he’s just standing there, all alone in center field. He’s actually waving his arms and yelling. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trying to attract the rhino’s attention!
BOB:
It’s working! The rhino is turning away from the bull pen and toward the batboy! The players are taking this chance to hightail it down the first-base line and into the safety of the dugout.
RAY:
The rhino sees the batboy, all right. Now it’s lowering its massive head. That can’t be good. Uh-oh! I can’t look!
What was I supposed to do? There was Tank, free as a bird (a fat, leathery, stumpy-legged bird), and all those ballplayers in the bull pen were sitting ducks (tall, skinny, sitting ducks).
So I ran out to center field. I hopped around and hollered, and pretty soon Tank noticed me. I waved at the fellas in the bull pen to get out of there. Most of them ran for the dugout, but a few of them hopped the railing and into the stands along the first-base line.
But Tank wasn’t paying attention to them anymore.
He was paying attention to me.
The crowd in the bleachers hollered their encouragement.
“What’re ya doing, kid?”
“I think he’s crazy, that’s what I think!”
And then, slicing through all the noise like a worm through dirt, came a familiar voice. Its owner was in the front row of the bleachers, leaning out over the ce
nter-field fence.
“Some batboy you are!” hollered Pete. “What, are ya scared of a little ol’ rhino?”
I dropped my mitt and sized up the situation: I could tear across the grass and hop the right-field fence to safety. Six seconds, tops.
Or never. Depending on the reflexes of the rhino.
Tank ran toward me.
I ran faster.
It was just like old times. And this time, I didn’t even tear my pants.
BOB:
Holy smokes! I didn’t know rhinos could run that fast!
RAY:
Thank goodness that batboy was faster, Bob. Did you see how he sprinted across the grass and vaulted over the right-field fence? It’s like he’s done it before.
BOB:
Is that a rhino-shaped dent in the right-field fence, Ray?
RAY:
That might be a bit of an exaggeration, Bob.
BOB:
Not by much, folks! That was a close one!
RAY:
How do ya like that, Bob? That rhino has gone right back to eating the grass again. It’s like someone turned off a switch.
BOB:
That’s right, folks. Now that everybody’s off the field, the rhino has calmed down considerably and has started grazing the outfield.
RAY:
Say, Bob, maybe the Mudpuppies can fire their grounds crew now, ha ha.
BOB:
What’s he doing now?
RAY:
It looks like he’s headed back toward his wagon, Bob. I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes.
BOB:
Sure enough, Ray. Apparently, during all the commotion, the zookeeper finally woke up—I mean, had the presence of mind to open the door of the cage and deploy the ramp. Now he appears to be coaxing the rhino up the ramp with . . . what is that, Ray? Is that the elephant gun? No, wait. It’s a celery stalk.
RAY:
And just like that, the rhino is safely back in his cage. I hope the latch holds this time, ha ha! I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen with my own eyes, folks. Right here at the Ol’ Orchard: a rhino in right field.
BOB:
Well, Ray, after all that excitement, there’s only one thing left to say.
RAY:
What’s that, Bob?
BOB:
Play ball!
CHAPTER
44
THAT’S RIGHT. Not only did I win Mudpuppy for a Day, but I saved half the Mudpuppies starting lineup (and most of the pitching staff) from Tank.
After it was all over, and everyone was safe, the whole ballpark hollered and stomped and waved pennants. The marching band up in the bleachers launched into “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” and I got to run out onto the field and wave my cap.
After all that, everybody practically forgot there was a ball game to be played. But the Parks Department trucks started their engines, and the zoo wagons finally rolled out of the ballpark through the left-field fence. Not a single monkey had gotten loose, which probably disappointed Ace, but personally, I don’t think I could’ve taken any more excitement.
From the bleachers, the marching band played “Yankee Doodle Dandy” as the wagons rolled out. Out in the street, the police escort fired up their lights and sirens, and off went the whole procession, back to the zoo for more speeches and presentations.
I peeked out of the dugout to give the thumbs-up to Penny and Ace. They were having a swell time, with cotton candy and bags of peanuts.
The manager showed me around the dugout and explained my batboy duties. “Stand here at the top of the dugout steps, and keep your eye on the umpire. If he signals for fresh baseballs, be ready to hustle out there and hand over a few. And keep your eye on the ball. Always wear your glove, and be ready for those hard-lining foul balls. They can take your head right off. If any of our players actually manages to reach base, it’s your job to run out and grab the bat off home plate and bring it back to the dugout. Got all that?”
“Sure thing, skip,” I said, trying not to think how I was supposed to keep my eye on all that stuff at the same time. “For the visiting team too?”
“Heck, no,” said the manager. “I hope they trip and break their necks.” He nudged me and winked. “Don’t worry, kid. That’s what you call home field advantage. And keep the water jugs filled, and make sure there’s plenty of sunflower seeds. Piece of cake!” He slapped me on the back, and then he moseyed over to hand his lineup card to the umpire. The players were taking warm-up swings or rubbing spit into their gloves. And Joe Daggett was over at the backstop, leaning on his cane and talking to Ace and Penny. It was still about ten minutes until first pitch, so I went over to see what was up.
“Your sister should be here any minute now,” Joe Daggett was saying to Penny. He checked his watch. “Her train was scheduled to arrive twenty minutes ago. I sent someone down to the station to pick her up.”
Just then, one of the Pups players jogged out from the dugout.
“Mr. Daggett? Phone call for you.”
“Oh, good,” said Joe Daggett. “I’ll bet that’s Bill. I told him to call me on the dugout phone when the train got in.” Joe Daggett limped over to the dugout, and I followed him. Because I was the batboy, and I was allowed.
Joe Daggett picked up the telephone receiver from where it rested on the shelf. “Hello, Bill? How goes it? Did you find our shortstop?”
A voice buzzed through the phone. With all the ballpark noise, I couldn’t make out any of the words, but the person on the other end was talking really fast.
“What’s that?” said Joe Daggett. “Slow down, Bill. Say that again?” He plugged his other ear with a finger so he could hear better.
Then Joe Daggett yelped. “Late?! How late? A whole hour? How on earth—what do you mean, traffic jam? How the heck can there be a traffic jam? It’s a train!”
The voice on the other end of the line said something else.
Joe Daggett’s eyebrows popped up. “You don’t say. A cow? On the tracks? Wait a minute: Doesn’t the train have one of those cowcatcher things on the front? I thought trains had cowcatcher things.”
Bill’s voice again.
“You don’t say,” said Joe Daggett. “No, Bill, of course nobody wants to hurt the cow! Okay. Keep me posted. Get here as quick as you can, all right?” And he hung up the phone with a klunk.
“Miss Garble!”
Miss Garble appeared out of nowhere with a clipboard in her arms. “Yes, Mr. Daggett?”
“We’ve run into a snag. Our All-American Girl baseball player won’t be here in time to throw out the first pitch. She’s somewhere on the godforsaken prairie, stuck behind a Jersey cow.”
“Are you sure?” said Miss Garble.
“That’s what Bill just told me, Miss Garble!” said Joe Daggett.
“I mean, are you sure it’s a Jersey? It’s just that I grew up on a dairy farm, Mr. Daggett, and most cows around here are Holsteins. Is it a brown cow, or black and white?”
“How do I know what color it is?” said Joe Daggett.
“Because if it’s black and white, it’s definitely a Holstein.”
“Miss Garble, unless you can drive down there and coax that cow off the tracks before game time, I don’t really want a lesson on dairy farming right now.”
“Yes, Mr. Daggett,” said Miss Garble. “What’ll we do now?”
“That’s a very good question,” said Joe Daggett. “Do you see all those people out there in the stands, Miss Garble? I promised them that a girl baseball player would throw out the first pitch, and I’m not about to disappoint them. So either you need to suit up and grab a mitt, or we’d better think of something else, toot sweet.”
That’s when I stepped forward.
“Mr. Daggett?” I said. “Can I make a suggestion?”
CHAPTER
45
AND THAT’S HOW PENNY got to throw out the first pitch at an official Mudpuppies baseball game, in front of a st
anding-room-only crowd.
I dragged Joe Daggett out of the dugout and over to where Penny was sitting, and explained the situation to her (except I skipped the part about Jersey versus Holstein cows, which I think Mr. Daggett really appreciated). So Penny told Joe Daggett how she practiced with her sister all the time, including overhand pitching. Me and Ace told Joe Daggett how Penny had a rocket-launcher for an arm. And it was settled.
And there she was a few minutes later: on the mound, in front of ten thousand people, with her hair jammed up under a brand-new, official Mudpuppies baseball cap. She hitched up her Rosie the Riveter overalls, dug in with a saddle shoe, and fired that ball clear across home plate, right into the catcher’s mitt, without even one bounce. She threw so hard that her cap popped right off, and her crazy mop of hair busted out in a big cloud all around her head.
Maybe it was the overalls, but when Joe Daggett announced to the crowd that Penny Lonergan would throw out the first pitch, they sounded a little disappointed. Or maybe it was because they’d been promised a real professional player for the Kenosha Comets, and now she was stuck behind a cow. Or maybe they didn’t really believe they were watching a girl. When there are pro ballplayers named Christy and Babe and stuff, who could blame them? But when that cap popped off Penny’s head, and everybody got a load of her hair, and finally realized that they’d just seen a rocket of a pitch thrown by a twelve-year-old girl, the crowd went wild.
Practically the entire Mudpuppies team busted out of the dugout, lifted Penny onto their shoulders, and carried her to her seat behind home plate. I don’t know if that’s what Penny had in mind when she’d told Joe Daggett that girls could do stuff, but it was pretty swell.
And then something really strange happened.
As I was going back to the dugout to get a supply of baseballs for the start of the game, I saw something—or should I say, someone—in the stands, about ten rows behind the Pups dugout.
“Pop?”
It was hard to see his face, because he was wearing a fedora—everyone was wearing fedoras, of course—but I stared pretty hard, and he stared hard at me too, and then his caterpillar eyebrows shot up behind his glasses, and he pulled his fedora down over his face and slumped down in his seat.
The Rhino in Right Field Page 13
