by Josh Berk
The Mikes rode with me, all three of us wearing our matching red helmets. Sometimes we liked to pretend we were a motorcycle gang. “You ready, Killer?” Other Mike said. “You ready, Snake Eyes?” He gave us different biker nicknames every time we rode anywhere. It always made me laugh.
Mike got to the library first because he liked to show off his strength by sprinting his bike the last one hundred yards or so. Schwenkfelder Public Library was not a huge building; basically, it was a tall wooden rectangle that maybe used to be a barn. It always made me happy when we went there, as long as I didn’t have homework to do. As usual, I came in second and Other Mike huffed up in third place.
The librarian, Mr. Bonzer, had a big smile and a bushy beard. He was a cool guy. He was a baseball fan too. Every once in a while he wore a wide red and blue tie with a noticeable Phillies P on the bottom, and he had a big blowup of the “PHILLIES WIN” newspaper headline tacked to his desk after they won the World Series.
“Hello, sir,” I said.
“Boys. Can I help you?” he said. His bald head glistened as he smiled. He dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Maybe you can help us!” Bonzer nodded politely, wiggling his large fingers like an evil genius. Mike continued: “We want to find out some information on an old ballplayer. His name was ‘Blaze’ O’Farrell. There’s a little thing about him in that new book my dad got from here.”
“Wacky Baseball Lists,” Bonzer said.
Impressive. Did he have all the books memorized?
“So here’s the thing. That book has, like, a single page—O’Farrell had the worst ERA in history. He pitched one-third of an inning in 1944 and then got shipped off to war.”
“Tough break,” Bonzer said, saluting. “What more do you want to know?”
“We want to know exactly what happened in that game. How did he give up all those runs? The book doesn’t say.”
“We also want to know if he’s still alive,” Other Mike chimed in. “Write him a letter or something, if he is. I think he’s totally alive. Also, we sort of need to know if you have that new book in the warlock series.…”
It sounded crazy the way we were explaining it. We didn’t even mention the contest. We just seemed nuts. Like the kind of guys who spent all day threatening people on the Internet. But Bonzer seemed to have a high capacity for weird. He fielded our request seriously.
“Warlock Wallop Five is already on reserve for you, Other Mike,” he said. “It will be here in a few days. And finding out what happened in that game should be pretty easy if you have the exact date.”
“June 15, 1944.” We all said it at once in perfect unison, like a three-headed boy.
“Sure, yeah,” Bonzer said. “You know it’s scary how you three share a brain, right?” He pushed his large frame off the chair and got to his feet. “We have every Philly paper going back a hundred years on microfilm. We can just look up the sports section. There had to be a write-up.”
He escorted us into the microfilm room. It was all dark in there, and they had these little film-projector-looking things. The room smelled historical and the machines made cool noises. They whirred and clicked like the beginning of a movie. Big old cabinets held tiny scans of every newspaper for the past century.
“The paper from the sixteenth will probably have the story on your game,” Bonzer said. He popped the film in and flicked a knob. The machine whirred, and a grainy image of a 1944 baseball game popped to life.
“There you go, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s a quarter if you want a print.”
We jostled for position in front of the screen. Mike was the strongest so he got the best seat. He puffed out his wide shoulders, nearly knocking us over.
“BLUE JAYS FALL TO CUBS,” he read, scanning the headline. “So weird seeing the Phils called the Blue Jays.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Didn’t make them play any better, either.” The final score was 10–1.
“Hey, look at this,” Mike said. “Blaze’s real name was Blair.”
“Blair is my aunt’s name! Sorta explains the nickname,” Other Mike blurted out.
Mike kept reading. “Hey, and the only out he got was by using the hidden-ball trick!”
The hidden-ball trick, if you didn’t know, is just what it sounds like. The pitcher pretends to have the ball while a fielder hides it in his glove. When the runner takes his lead, the fielder tags him out. It’s actually really hard because the pitcher can’t be on the mound without the ball or he’ll get called for a balk and the runner gets to advance a base for free. So he has to act all casual while pretending he has the ball. It’s tough to pull this off. Old Blaze obviously wasn’t much of a pitcher, but he must have been a pretty good actor.
“Here’s the box score,” Mike said, pressing the button on the microfilm thing. “That’ll give us the details. Wow, look at this! ‘Putsy’ Caballero played for the ’44 team.”
We all laughed. Putsy Caballero. Funniest baseball name ever? (Okay, maybe not, because the following were all actual players, I swear: Estel Crabtree, Van Lingle Mungo, Harry Colliflower, and Tony Suck. Really.) “We can’t know exactly what went down,” Mike said. “The article doesn’t say much. But we can make a pretty good guess. Looks like he didn’t give up that many hits. Mostly walks, I suppose.”
“That’s not going to be much fun to re-create,” I said, scratching my chin. “Ball four, ball four, ball four.”
“You can make it fun,” Other Mike said, punching my arm. “I know you can do it. It’ll be great.”
Mike read more from the screen. He was trying to whisper, but “library voices” have never been our strong suit. “Looks like there was one home run—Bill Nicholson went yard for Chicago.”
“Nicholson goes yard,” I said in an old-fashioned announcer’s voice. The Mikes laughed.
Bonzer came back into the room. He shushed us halfheartedly, but I had a feeling he was getting excited too. Besides, the room was empty. “Do you have what you need, guys?”
“Yeah!” we said together at the exact same moment. Bonzer smiled and shook his head. “Let’s print it out!” we said in unison. Bonzer laughed.
“I have some more stuff for you,” he said. He was holding a printout of his own. “Did you know that O’Farrell’s first name was Blair?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Explains why he went by a nickname.”
“Well, I found that in an online baseball encyclopedia, and then I put Blair O’Farrell into a white pages directory.”
“And?”
“He’s alive.”
“Whoa!”
“And he lives in Schwenkfelder.”
What else was there to say to that except “Double whoa!”
“Here’s his address,” Bonzer said. “Librarian’s honor.”
The Mikes and I looked at each other. Then we looked at Bonzer. Then we looked at each other. Could we go visit Blair—I mean, Blaze—at his house?
We thanked Mr. Bonzer and headed out. We put our helmets on. “Pretty productive trip, wouldn’t you say, Sharkface?” Mike said.
“Sharkface?” I laughed.
“Hey, it’s hard coming up with different biker names every time we ride anywhere. You try it.” Then he sped ahead, leaving us in the dust. By the time we made it back to Other Mike’s house, Mike had already let himself in.
“So we have Blaze’s address, gentlemen,” Mike said once Other Mike and I had joined him in Other Mike’s bedroom. “What are we going to do with it?” He was standing in the middle of the room, pacing slightly.
“Beats me,” I said, flopping onto the floor.
“Hold on,” Other Mike puffed. He was all sweaty and still breathing hard from the bike ride but already at his computer. He was typing quickly and clicking all over the screen, like the computer was part of him. “Ta-da!” he said. “We follow this map.” Blaze did seem to live within biking distance, according to the map. Other Mike was amazingly fast with the computer.
“We’re not really going over there, right?” I said from my spot on the floor.
“Why not?” Other Mike said, standing over me. “Are you afraid of him?”
“I’m not afraid,” I said, sitting up. “But he was in the war.”
“He’s, like, a hundred years old! And besides, they don’t let you bring home guns from war. Wait, do they? Did they even have guns in World War II?”
“Yes, they had guns in World War II,” I said. “They had tanks too.” I knew a lot about World War II, mainly because of a book I read from the library about the baseball player Moe Berg. Once, Moe supposedly hid a camera in his kimono on a trip to Japan to sneak pictures of the Japanese army. He also was involved in a plot to assassinate Nazis who were trying to get the atomic bomb. Plus, he was a catcher who got his first start because Phillies catcher Frank Bruggy was so fat that the pitcher refused to pitch to him. See, Mom? I’m totally enriching myself.
“Do you think Blaze has his own tank?” Other Mike said. He started pretending like he was steering a tank. It was sort of childish, but I laughed.
“I’m sure he has a tank,” Mike said. “Yeah.” He rolled his eyes.
“All right, gentlemen,” I said, doing my best to look serious. “I have an idea.” Thinking about Moe Berg made me feel like I should be at least a little brave. Plus, remembering that story about his secret mission gave me an idea. No, not kimonos. But, yes: disguises.
“All right, Michaels,” I said. I jumped up from the floor and started pacing. “We can dress like Cub Scouts and go to Blaze’s house.”
“Wait, why do we have to dress like Cub Scouts?” Mike said, folding his arms over his chest.
“Why else would we knock on his door?” I asked.
“I don’t get it,” Other Mike said. “Girl Scouts are the ones always knocking on people’s doors. Selling cookies. And aren’t we a little old for Cub Scouts?”
“Stevie Fart-Sniffer is still in Scouts,” I said. “And Cub Scouts could go door-to-door. Remember that time we did the food drive? We had to go around collecting canned food for poor people.”
“Not bad,” Mike said, looking intrigued. He brushed back his hair with one hand. “All we have to do is get to his house dressed as Cub Scouts. We bring a bag or something to say it’s for canned goods. He gives us some beans or whatever, we ask him his name, he tells us.”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Other Mike said. He started drumming his fingers on his desk excitedly. “Then we act like, ‘Hey, Blair O’Farrell … why does that name sound familiar?’ ”
I smiled. They were getting it. “Yeah,” I said. “We pretend we know his name—a former major league player and war hero we read about in school!” I felt pretty good and gave the guys a wide smile and a salute. “Then we tell him that we’re big Phillies fans, and we try to get him to talk a little bit about his time in the majors. Maybe we get a few facts about him that weren’t in the papers.”
Mike was smiling too. He was totally on board. “Maybe we even get him to let us take his picture!” he said. “Maybe he could be in the video! We’ll be the first people to interview Blaze O’Farrell in fifty years. It’ll make the video a winner. More YouTube hits than that cat who can walk on two legs.”
“Technically, the fine announcing skills of the boy with the golden voice will make it a winner,” I said, trying to convince myself this was actually true. “Ahem. But, yeah, that’s the idea. Now, there is the small matter of the disguises.…”
The three of us were Cub Scouts together for years, so our closets were filled with all manner of Scouting clothing. We agreed to dig out something suitable and meet back at Other Mike’s house. I pedaled home as fast as I could and went searching for some old Scouting stuff.
I found the box after a short dig through the mound of junk in my closet. The hat was okay. I just had to adjust the strap a bit. It was weird to think about how much your head grows. You never notice your head getting bigger. But man, it sure does. Courtney came into my room. “Nice look,” she said.
“Yeah,” I grunted.
“What are you up to?”
“Um, we’re thinking about getting back into Scouts,” I lied. “You know, like Stevie Fart-Sniffer. Um, I gotta go.” She rolled her eyes and popped her gum, which was her response to everything. I didn’t care. “Go tan yourself,” I muttered, hoping she didn’t hear me.
I hopped back on my bike and headed for Other Mike’s. I got there quickly, pulling at my stupid tiny shirt to try to stretch it out. Other Mike and Mike were waiting for me on the front lawn. Other Mike was wearing his Scout neckerchief over his mouth.
“What is that look?” I said. “We’re not robbing a bank here.”
“I thought you said we needed disguises,” he said.
I rolled my eyes, Courtney-style, and looked over at Mike. His clothes fit even worse than mine. (Unlike Other Mike, who has apparently been the same size ever since we quit Scouts.) I didn’t want to say anything. It was really nice of him to look so ridiculous and uncomfortable. Let’s face it—this was my plan and my contest. I was the one who had this absurd disguises idea. “Let’s get going, troops,” I said.
“Follow me!” Other Mike said.
“But you’re always the slowest,” Mike complained.
“Yeah, but I got the directions,” he said. “This time you can’t ride ahead.” He waved the printout with the map in the air like a victory flag. He almost steered into a shrub. “It’s hard to read and steer!” he yelled. Then he added, “Someday I’m going to invent a GPS for bikes. I’ll be rich.” It did sound like a pretty good idea.
After a little while we ended up in a neighborhood I had never seen before. It wasn’t very far from us—just a few miles, but in an out-of-the-way area. The houses were smaller, older. Some of them looked like trailers or train cars. Following the map and searching for addresses on the rusty mailboxes led us to Blaze’s house. It was a scary-looking place. The windows were covered with dark curtains, the lawn was dead, and an ancient rusty car sat on blocks in the driveway.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did have a tank out back,” Other Mike said. It was that kind of house. The kind of house where you honestly would not have been surprised to find a World War II tank out back. I didn’t want to find out. The yard looked like it was filled with poison and burrs. Maybe snakes. Possibly traps that would clamp onto your leg and you’d have to chew off your foot like a bear. We took a deep breath, argued about who should be the one to ring the doorbell, and then forced Other Mike to do it.
“Who cares?” he said. “It’s just pushing the doorbell.” But he was scared. We all were a little scared, even though no one would admit it. “Hey, there is no doorbell,” he said. “And I’m not knocking.” He backed away.
“Why is knocking scarier than ringing the doorbell?” I said. No one moved. I realized it was up to me. I marched right up to the door and knocked on it. There was no answer. I pretended to be disappointed, but I was actually happy. The whole scene was starting to creep me out, and the whole idea of Blaze or Blair or whatever was a bit terrifying.
“Let’s get out of here,” Other Mike said. “I feel like someone is watching us.”
I felt it too. Or at least I thought I did. But I wasn’t giving up. I pounded on the door a few times as hard as I could with my knuckles. The door was old and the wood was soft. My hand left a dent. Oops. We waited a few seconds. There was still no answer. I felt happy that I had knocked like a man, though, and if nothing happened, nothing happened.
I turned to face the Mikes and shrug, but when I looked, they were gone. A second later I heard a whisper. “Lenny! Over here!”
I looked and saw them on the side of the house, kicking at an old rusty bin. “What are you guys doing?”
“He’s obviously not home,” Other Mike said. “Thought I’d see what this thing was.”
“It’s a garbage can, genius,” I said. “Old-timers burn their garbage.”
“Isn’t that against the law?” Other Mike asked.
“What are you, the garbage police?” Mike asked him.
“Your mom is the garbage police,” Other Mike said. To punctuate this brilliant insult, he reached in and grabbed something from the bin and threw it at Mike.
“Ah!” Mike yelled. “Ew! I can’t believe you threw garbage! What is it?”
“It’s, like, a pill bottle,” Other Mike said. “It won’t kill you, you big baby.”
Mike picked up the bottle.
“N-n-nitroglycerin,” he stammered.
I shrieked. Then I yelled, “Nitroglycerin is an explosive!” One of the history books I read was about spies. In it this spy tricked the Nazis by using a vial of nitroglycerin! “Back away from that, Michael!” I said. “Back away slowly.”
He took my advice, sort of. He didn’t back away slowly. He ran away from the bottle, toward his bike. He already had one foot on a pedal when we heard the front door open. It groaned, like it hadn’t been opened in a long time.
Mike was already gone. Other Mike and I were scrambling to get back toward our bikes, trying to go fast, but not too fast, through the thicket of Blaze O’Farrell’s yard. If he had nitroglycerin in that barrel, what else might he have?
We moved quickly and carefully. And then we noticed Blaze in the doorway. He had a bottle in each hand. He was very old—gray hair and a gray face. He was also raising his leg, slowly rocking into what looked like a pitching windup.
“Um, is he going to throw those bottles at us?” Other Mike asked me.
“I think he is! Run!”
We didn’t worry about booby traps anymore, we just wanted to move. A bottle zipped by, a few inches from my head! We really started to run then, scrambling for our bikes. Blaze wasn’t a good pitcher, and he was about one hundred years old, but he was really chucking those bottles! We scurried back to the street, where we had stashed our bikes, but Blaze kept throwing bottles at us. One soared over our heads and smashed on the street, where it exploded like a little grenade with a fantastic shattering noise.
Other Mike and I hopped onto our bikes, bottles still flying at us like bombs dropping from an airplane. The old man had a heck of an arm! I was worried about Other Mike getting caught behind and nailed by a bottle, but I figured I wouldn’t do anyone a favor by getting myself brained. Fear made me pedal hard, harder than I ever had before, so hard I thought the chain on my bike might pop or my legs might rip out of their sockets. Other Mike must have been feeling it too because I had never seen him ride so fast.
