Super-sized Slugger

by Cal Ripken Jr.

  “Let’s jump on them right away!” Connor said as the Orioles hustled off the field.

  “All right!” Coach said, fist-bumping Robbie. “Time for Murderers’ Row to get cranking!”

  But Murderers’ Row could have stayed home in bed—at least for this inning. The Blue Jays’ pitcher was a short, hefty kid named Kyle Mattison, who also happened to be in Cody’s gym class. Usually, he had an excellent changeup, one of the best in the league, according to Coach. But the Orioles could see the kid was struggling even with his warm-up pitches. He was having trouble keeping them in the same area code, never mind getting them over the plate.

  Willie led things off with a walk on four pitches. With Robbie up, he promptly stole second on the next pitch, despite a great throw by the Blue Jays’ catcher. On the next pitch, he caught the Blue Jays napping and stole third without a throw, since Kyle failed to hold him and the third baseman forgot to cover the bag.

  “This is why I feel like a genius!” Marty hooted. “Willie’s only the fastest kid in the league! How do you forget about the fastest kid in the league when he’s on base?!”

  And Willie wasn’t through yet. The Orioles could tell, just by watching his body language. He took a big lead off third, rocking back and forth, one foot to the other, a coiled bundle of energy.

  “He’s gone on the next pitch,” Yancy murmured.

  This time, though, Willie had Kyle’s full attention. The Jays pitcher threw over to third once, twice, three times. Willie dove safely back each time. And each time he popped up grinning and dusting himself off.

  After the third throw over, the Orioles began crooning the theme music from Jeopardy, the one that was played at major league ballparks whenever there was a conference on the mound and it looked like the visiting team was stalling for time.

  “Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo…” they sang, drawing a glare from Kyle.

  After yet another futile attempt to pick off Willie, Kyle seemed resigned to his fate. He peered in for the signal from his catcher, came to the stretch position, and reared back. Willie was off.

  “HE’S GOING!” the entire Blue Jays infield screamed.

  But it was too late. Kyle tried to hurry his delivery, but that only made things worse. He lunged awkwardly on his left foot and the pitch bounced in the dirt. The Jays catcher did a great job of blocking it, but couldn’t come up with the ball as Willie slid across the plate in a cloud of dust.

  “He’s safe!” the umpire cried.

  Just like that, it was 1–0 Orioles. And not one of the Orioles had even lifted the bat from his shoulder yet.

  From there things only got worse for Kyle. He walked Robbie, Jordy doubled him home, and Connor followed with another RBI double. Unnerved now, Kyle tried to blow the ball past Cody and ended up walking him on four pitches. Then Dante singled Connor home to make it 4–0 Orioles.

  Taking his lead off second base, Cody felt sorry for Kyle. The kid was sweating as if he’d just climbed out of a sauna even though the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. Cody knew how lonely it was on the mound when things were going badly, and your legs felt like rubber, and you didn’t have a clue as to where the ball was going.

  When Yancy walked yet again to load the bases, the Blue Jays’ coach finally called time and trudged out to replace his pitcher. Cody silently applauded as he jogged to third. About time, Coach, he thought. Give the kid a break.

  Kyle did a slow death march back to the dugout with his head down, fighting back tears. But the next Blue Jays pitcher didn’t do much better, and neither did the one after that. It was one of those days when the Orioles could do no wrong as they belted out twelve hits to accompany all their walks, ending in a thorough butt-whipping of their opponent.

  Final score: Orioles 11, Blue Jays 0. It was their twelfth straight win. And they seemed to be peaking at exactly the right time, with the play-offs just around the corner.

  As they lined up and slapped hands with the Jays, Cody made it a point to talk to Kyle, whose eyes were still red-rimmed.

  “Tough one,” he said softly.

  “Tell me about it,” Kyle said with a rueful smile.

  “But you’ll be back,” Cody said. “Our coach said you have the best changeup in the whole league.”

  Kyle seemed to brighten. “He did? Thanks.” As the Blue Jays walked back to their dugout, Cody noticed that Kyle’s shoulders sagged a little less now.

  What a game this is, Cody thought. One minute it can make you feel great. The next minute it can make you want to lock yourself in your room for a week.

  Listen to me, he thought. A little baseball philosophy from the Bat Whisperer himself.

  Cody loved Coach Mike’s class. Physical education instructor Michael Theodore Lombardi was by far the oldest faculty member at York Middle. His students delighted in speculating about his age, with the guesses ranging from sixty to eighty to already dead.

  His waxy gray skin stretched like parchment over his gaunt six-foot-one frame, and when he wore his ancient Chuck Taylor sneakers and a tight T-shirt and gym shorts that reached only to his skinny thighs, it was like seeing a character from a documentary about phys ed in the old days come to life.

  Long ago Coach Mike had arrived at the conclusion that he could no longer remember the names of his fellow teachers, never mind the students. When this realization hit, he made the decision to simplify his professional life and not worry about names at all. Instead, he began calling everyone Chief, even the women and girls.

  Another distinguishing characteristic of Coach Mike was that he invariably ended each instruction to his students with the word ’kay?, for “Okay?”

  “Today we’re going to play some badminton, ’kay?” he’d announce. “We’ll divide up into ten teams, ’kay? Each game to eleven points, ’kay? Winning team stays on the court, ’kay?”

  This distinctive style of speaking was endlessly parodied by Cody’s class, who would automatically lapse into “Lombardi speak” the moment they passed through the gym doors. Soon, all twenty-five of them would be jabbering like their teacher and calling each other Chief and cracking up. As for Coach Mike, he remained clueless the whole time.

  Cody always looked forward to Coach Mike’s class because he wasn’t like the tough-guy, no-nonsense gym teachers Cody had had in the past. He wasn’t always telling you to tuck in your shirt and pull up your shorts, for one thing. And he didn’t care if you didn’t do things exactly right in his class, like demonstrate perfect form when serving in volleyball, the unit they were on now.

  On the Monday following the Orioles’ big win over the Blue Jays, Cody’s volleyball team was about to take the court when Cody ran to his locker to get a different pair of sneakers. When he returned, he was frowning.

  “Coach Mike,” he said, “my cell phone is missing.”

  “You’re talking about your portable phone, Chief?” Coach Mike asked.

  Cody nodded. He forgot Coach Mike wasn’t exactly up on the latest technology. If any of the kids ever tried talking to him about laptops or iPads or smartphones, he would wave his hands and bark impatiently, “I don’t know anything about that stuff! And guess what? I don’t wanna know!”

  “It was in my locker five minutes ago,” Cody said. “Now it’s gone.”

  Coach Mike sighed and ran a thin, bony hand through the few remaining strands of hair on his head. “Obvious question,” he said. “Was your locker locked?”

  “Yeah,” Cody said. “I’m pretty sure it was.”

  “And you looked everywhere?”

  Cody resisted the temptation to say: “Well, if I looked everywhere, I would have already found it.” Instead, he simply nodded. He had searched the pockets of his clothes, his backpack, his locker, and even the other unlocked lockers nearby.

  Coach rubbed his chin and stared down at the floor, as if giving the matter a great deal of thought. Finally, he shrugged. “I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere,” he said. “We’ll look for it after class. Might as
well get back to your game.”

  Cody was worried about his phone, but playing volleyball helped take his mind off of it. He was pretty good at volleyball, even for a big kid. He had a sneaky game at the net, where he would often fake a kill shot and then dink the ball over the net for a point. And he’d noticed that he felt lighter these days. He was able to jump higher than ever before, which allowed him to slam the ball even more effectively.

  The only weird thing about today’s volleyball game was that Dante was on his team. The big dude still hadn’t said a word to him since Cody had gone psycho on him. Most of the time Dante wouldn’t look at him even when they were sitting near each other in the Orioles’ dugout.

  It made for some strange moments. In the fifth inning against the Blue Jays, when Cody had returned to the dugout after driving in a run with a long sacrifice fly, all the Orioles had stood to greet him with their hands up for high fives.

  Dante had joined his teammates—Coach would have jumped on him if he hadn’t. But when Cody slapped hands with Dante, Dante stared down at his spikes. After that, he quickly moved to the far end of the dugout.

  “I see you’re still not on Dante’s Christmas-card list,” Willie had whispered after watching his behavior.

  “No, he loves me,” Cody had whispered back. “The big lug just doesn’t know how to show it.”

  Still, being ignored by Dante was fine with Cody—far better than having to worry about Dante swooping out from behind a car and giving him another gravel bath, or stalking him after he got off the school bus.

  But Cody’s mind was on volleyball now, and the class seemed to fly by. The two teams were evenly matched, and late in the final decisive game, the score was tied at 9–9, with players on both teams whooping and cheering after every point.

  Which was exactly when Nicky Evans, a short, chubby kid on Cody’s team, decided he had to go to the bathroom.

  “Now?” Coach Mike said. “The game’s almost over! And class is over in a few minutes!”

  Nicky looked at him with pleading eyes, clutching his stomach.

  Coach Mike threw up his hands in frustration and said, “Okay, okay, when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  A girl named Vanessa offered to take Nicky’s place, and the game continued, just as spirited as before. It ended with a tall boy named Javier slamming the winning point for Cody’s team, touching off a wild round of celebrating and trash talk from the victors.

  As the boys trooped into the locker room, Coach Mike bellowed, “After you change, everyone take a moment to look around for Cody’s portable phone, please!”

  “It’s the twenty-first century! They call them cell phones now, Coach Mike!” a few kids yelled. As always, Coach Mike pretended not to hear.

  Suddenly, Nicky emerged from behind a row of lockers with a pained expression on his face.

  “Stomach still acting up, Chief?” Coach Mike said.

  “Worse than that!” Nicky said breathlessly. “My cell’s missing too! My mom’s going to kill me!”

  Coach Mike put his hands on his hips and stared at Nicky for several seconds. Then he slowly swiveled his head from side to side, his watery eyes taking in the entire room.

  “What in God’s name is going on here?” he said. “Two portable phones missing in one class? Well, they didn’t just grow legs, people! They have to be here someplace!”

  But they weren’t. The boys went up and down each aisle, opening and closing lockers and even searching under the benches, on top of shelves, and in the hallway. Nothing turned up.

  By this point, Nicky seemed on the verge of tears.

  Suddenly, Dante raised his hand.

  “Coach Mike, there was a kid snooping around here earlier,” he said. “He was opening and closing lockers. I saw him when I came in to change.”

  He dropped his voice to a dramatic hush. “And he’s right here with us.”

  The room was absolutely still now. The boys exchanged uneasy glances, then turned back to Dante, who seemed to be enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

  “Okay, Chief, this isn’t Law and Order,” Coach Mike barked. “Get on with it! Who was it?”

  Dante smiled mysteriously. For a second or two, he said nothing. Then he whirled around and pointed at Cody.

  “It was him!” he said.

  Now all eyes turned to Cody, who stood gaping with astonishment.

  “WHAT?!” he cried. “Are you crazy?”

  Dante shrugged and looked away. Coach Mike looked around the locker room, seemingly lost in thought. Just then the bell rang.

  “No,” Coach said at last, looking at Cody. “Why would the boy tell me his own phone was stolen if he was the one doing the stealing? Doesn’t make any sense. Fellas, I suggest you report this to the office. You watch. Those phones’ll turn up somewhere.”

  He clapped Nicky on the back and said, “Cheer up, Chief. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “No,” Nicky said mournfully, slipping on his backpack. “But it might be the end of me.”

  The cafeteria was even noisier than usual, three days later—so loud it was almost giving Cody a headache. In addition to the usual lunchtime pandemonium of trays clattering and coins clanging into vending machines and paper bags rustling, it seemed every kid in the place was yakking away at a decibel level that rivaled a Justin Bieber concert.

  “Let me guess,” Cody said dryly, tossing his lunch bag on the table. “Everyone’s talking about the big food drive to help the homeless.”

  Willie looked around and shrugged. “You gotta admit it’s pretty exciting,” he said. “It’s not every day you have the police crawling all over the place and students being questioned.”

  Cody nodded. Willie was right—you couldn’t blame the kids. “The Great York Middle Crime Wave,” as it had been dubbed, was all anyone was talking about.

  Even though there had been a few thefts in previous weeks, most of the school considered the start of the crime wave to be the day Cody and Nicky Evans had reported their cell phones missing in gym class. Later that same day, a girl in eighth grade had reported that her cell had been stolen from her locker.

  By the next morning, a computer from the computer lab was missing, and two teachers had reported having their wallets stolen from their handbags. And just the day before, Ms. Wratched had arrived at school early in the morning, snapped on the lights to her classroom in the science wing, and let out a loud, piercing scream. At first her fellow teachers had ignored her, thinking she’d simply seen another mouse scurrying across the floor. That sight had become rather commonplace with all the construction work going on outside. It was disrupting the habitat of critters big and small and causing them to seek shelter elsewhere.

  When Ms. Wratched’s fellow teachers finally decided to investigate, they found her standing in the front of the room with a shocked expression, staring at a gaping space on the wall where a flat-screen TV had been. Now all that remained were a few wires dangling forlornly from where the unit had been ripped from the wall.

  In addition, at least ten other students had reported their cell phones or iPods stolen in the past few days. In fact, so many were now missing that when a student went to the main office to report a theft, the bored-looking secretary didn’t even look up, but simply pointed to a notebook under a cardboard sign that read: HAD SOMETHING STOLEN? LEAVE YOUR INFO HERE.

  Now the entire student body was buzzing about whether the thefts were an “inside job” perpetrated by a York Middle student or students, or whether a nefarious gang of professional thieves had descended on the normally quiet school.

  “I’m going with professional thieves,” Willie said now, munching on a cookie. “There’s too much stuff missing. It can’t be just kids.”

  Connor snorted and shook his head. “Have you been watching that dumb Ocean’s Thirteen movie again?” he said. “Why would a bunch of slick thieves target our little school? Huh? How much money are they going to get for a computer and a few crappy iPods and cell phon
es?”

  He took an enormous bite of his turkey sandwich and continued. “Even the TV from Ms. Wratched’s room would be small change for your average master thief. He’s not risking ten years in the slammer just for that.”

  Now it was Willie’s turn to snort. “Oh,” he said, “listen to the star of Criminal Minds.”

  “Make fun all you want,” Connor said. “But it’s true.”

  Suddenly, they heard a loud “OOOH! OOOH!” from the far end of the table. Everyone turned to find Marty with his hand raised.

  “I have a theory, if you’ll permit me,” Marty said.

  Jordy rolled his eyes. “Marty, you don’t need permission to speak here,” he said. “And you don’t have to sound like such a dweeb. Who talks like that? ‘If you’ll permit me’?”

  A week earlier, Cody had finally coaxed Marty into leaving the geek table at the back of the cafeteria and sitting with his Orioles teammates. But Marty still seemed in awe of his surroundings and had only recently worked up enough nerve to join the conversations. Most days he preferred to keep his head down, nibbling like a tiny woodland creature at the weird sandwiches he brought for lunch, including the hummus-and-cream-cheese-and-onion sandwich that was now grossing everyone out.

  “Okay,” Marty said, looking around and dropping his voice conspiratorially. “I think Connor’s right. I think it’s someone right here in school. He walks among us. He talks like we do. He knows our every move.”

  “You make him sound like an alien,” Willie muttered.

  “Or an angel. Or a demon,” Jordy said.

  Marty smiled, revealing a pasty brown mouthful of gunk and tiny green clumps stuck to his teeth. The other boys winced. Well, Cody thought, now we know the cream cheese had chives in it.

  “Oh, no, my friend,” Marty said. “He’s not from another world. Far from it. He’s a living, breathing York Middle student. He might even be sitting in this cafeteria right now. Not at this, um, particular table, of course.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Jordy said.