The Zippity Zinger #4

by Winkler, Henry

  Ashley tried to put me in to pitch for Ryan, but I refused. I was waiting for Cheerio before I’d step out on that field. So she put Heather Payne in. Heather managed to strike Sasha Nabakov out, which wasn’t that hard because Sasha just moved here from Russia and they don’t even have softball there. Then Heather threw a big, fat, slow ball to Hector Ruiz and he hit a double. Ashley called a time-out.

  She and Frankie came running up to me. I was on the bench behind the chain-link fence, and with Ashley and Frankie on the other side, I felt like I was in a television show about prison where I was the prisoner and they were my visitors.

  “Hank, we need you,” Ash said.

  “No, you don’t,” I answered.

  “Yes, we do,” added Frankie. “It’s the last inning. We only have one out. The tying run is on. Heather can’t pitch her way out of a paper bag. We need you to pitch, Zip, or we could lose this game.”

  “You think you need me, but your thoughts are kablooey,” I said.

  “Hank, we’re out of pitchers,” Ashley pleaded. “Come on!!! You can do this. As manager, I know these things. You’ve done this before, Hank.”

  Yeah, in the empty courtyard of our building.

  “Hey, Frankie, you do it,” I said, as if I had just come up with a great idea.

  “I’m catching,” Frankie said. “Hank, breathe. And I’m talking really deep. All you have to do is just listen to the sound of my voice.”

  “Hey, guys, turn around,” I said to Ashley and Frankie.

  They did and saw what I saw. The entire crowd was leaning forward, trying to hear what was going on.

  “Hank, you can do this. Correction. You have to do it. Just keep your eyes on where you want the ball to go,” Frankie said, getting in my face. “It’s you and me. We can do this.”

  “I’m so scared,” I whispered. “I can’t stop my hands from shaking.”

  I put my hands in my pockets so no one would notice them quivering. I looked out in the stands, hoping desperately that Papa Pete had arrived with Cheerio. He hadn’t, but I did see my mom and dad walking out onto the field. Emily was with them, and she was looking very happy. She probably knocked them dead in the Brain Buster. And here I was, too scared to even go out on the field.

  All of a sudden, Nick the Tick started yelling at me from the Blue Team bench.

  “Pitcher has a bellyache. Pitcher has a headache. Pitcher is a wimp.” His team started laughing really hard. Ms. Adolf left her place behind home plate and headed straight for us. I’m not trying to be rude, but you’ve got to see Ms. Adolf in her umpire’s outfit. She looked prehistoric. With her face mask and chest plate and leg guards that went from her knees to her ankles, she looked like a very angry brontosaurus. The shin guards made her walk stiff-legged, so she kicked up a cloud of dust as she moved toward us.

  “Oh, no. This is just what I need now,” I said to Ashley, who turned around just in time to see the Adolfosaurus looming large above her.

  “Manager Wong, what seems to be the problem?” Ms. Adolf snarled.

  “I’m just making a decision about who’s going in to pitch,” Ashley said, trying to sound casual.

  “If you don’t make a decision right away, and I mean in fifteen seconds, the Blue Team will win by default. Am I clear?” Ms. Adolf said.

  “Ms. Adolf, we truly need Hank on the mound, but he’s afraid he will make a fool of himself,” Frankie explained.

  “Just concentrate,” Ms. Adolf told me. “Keep your eye on where you want the ball to go.”

  “That’s exactly what Frankie told him,” Ashley said exactly.

  “We’re talking word for word,” Frankie said.

  Oh, great, just great. Let me see if I’ve got this right. My parents are both here with my smarty pants younger sister. Nick the Tick is yelling at me and his Blue Team is falling all over themselves, laughing at me. Ms. Adolf has given me fifteen seconds to walk out to the mound and embarrass myself for as long as I live or lose the game for my team. And I feel ... what do I feel?

  I feel the need to throw up.

  CHAPTER 22

  “HANK, IT’S NOW OR NEVER,” I said to myself.

  Go, feet. Walk out onto the field. On your mark. Get set. Go.

  “Okay, Frankie. It’s you and me.”

  I did it. I walked onto the field without saying another word. I did not look to the right or left. I did not even look at my parents. As I made my way to the pitcher’s mound, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I heard a full orchestra playing marching music in my head.

  “Concentrate, Hank,” I kept repeating over and over. I turned around to face home plate. Frankie was right where he was supposed to be, kneeling down in the catcher’s position.

  And then there was silence!

  I’m not kidding. If the crowd was yelling, if McKelty was screaming his big thick head off, I couldn’t hear any of them.

  Frankie looked at me through the protective bars of his catcher’s mask. Man, was he intense. It felt as if there was a thread connecting his eyes with my eyes.

  As if in slow motion, he nodded his head up and down. I knew what he was saying to me, too. “You can do this, Hank. Keep your eye on my mitt. Let’s go, Zip Man.” He said all that with just a nod.

  It was one out and we were ahead by one run. Hector Ruiz was on second base and Katie Sperling was up at bat.

  The most beautiful girl in our class, or at least in the top two, is standing at the plate with her long red hair blowing in the slight breeze, the bat just off her shoulder. She is staring at me ... waiting.

  “Pitch the ball, Hank!” I screamed silently to myself.

  Frankie’s eyes were screaming the same thing.

  I put my feet on the mound, which was really a strip of rubber just big enough for your sneaker. I started to wind up. First, I twisted my upper body around so it was facing second base, while my lower body faced home plate. Then I stuck out my left leg. No ... right. I bent at the waist so my head was pointing toward third base. The whole time, my right hand was holding the ball that was resting in the palm of my mitt. Then, I stretched both arms toward first base, raised them over my head as high as I could, and let the ball go—underhand—toward Frankie’s mitt.

  There it was—my pitch.

  I call that sweet throw the Zippity Zinger and, as a matter of fact, that name just popped into my head.

  I’m sure my technique must have looked a little strange, because everyone in the crowd seemed to be staring at me with their mouths open.

  The ball flew through the space between me and Katie and, whop! It sailed past her and into Frankie’s mitt.

  “Strike one!” Ms. Adolf yelled as her hand shot out from her side to make the strike sign.

  Before she put the bat back in the ready position, Katie looked at me and cocked her head as if to say, “Hank, come on ... it’s me, Katie.”

  Frankie knows I can’t really catch well, so he threw the ball back to me short so it would hit the ground and roll the rest of the way. I scooped up the ball in my mitt and got ready for another Zippity Zinger. I let the ball go the same way as before, only this time Katie connected with the ball and it came straight at me.

  I panicked. I can’t catch, remember? I didn’t want to let the other team score, so I turned my body to the right and stopped the ball with my left side. My entire left side. Oh, wow, oh, wowie, did that hurt.

  I’m going to have a humongous black-and-blue mark on the old rib cage later. I can’t think about that now.

  The ball hit me and dropped to the ground. I picked it up and threw it to the first baseman, who caught it and tagged the base. Ms. Adolf called Katie Sperling, “Out!”

  Katie returned to her bench without looking back at me. Her team greeted her with, “Way to go, Katie. Good try, kid.” Nick McKelty’s big ham of a hand slapped her on the back and she almost fell face first onto the bench.

  Two outs and only one more to go.

  Oh, no. McKelty is up.

  On hi
s way to the batter’s box, Nick the Tick picked up every bat leaning against the fence. Finally, he decided on the one he calls the Aluminum Beauty.

  As he walked up to the plate, he never took his eyes off me. And he didn’t stop talking either.

  “Hey, Zipper Head, you going to stop my ball with your head? Hey, Zippy, you pitch like a mouse. Alright. Give me what you got. Oh, right, that would be nothing.”

  “Nicholas, remember to practice sportsman-ship,” Ms. Adolf reminded him. Like that big jerk had ever heard of the word.

  Just before McKelty went into his stance, he pointed his bat toward the outfield.

  “That’s where I’m going to hit the ball,” he shouted. Principal Love thought that was just great. He smiled as McKelty shoved his bat in the air toward Amsterdam Avenue, which was just beyond the fence.

  Cheerio! Where are you? I need you, boy. I need a lucky charm. I can’t do this alone.

  I could feel myself starting to fall apart. I blinked my eyes. They were starting to get blurry.

  Come on, Papa Pete. Where are you? Please, please, please show up with Cheerio.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw a dust cloud moving along under the bleachers. A tiny tornado was making its way under the second row. Everyone sitting in that row started waving their arms to clear the air.

  Wait a minute. Can that be? Is that Papa Pete on his hands and knees, chasing after the cloud?

  Fortunately and unfortunately, the answer to that question was yes. I had gotten my wish, alright. Papa Pete did show up with Cheerio. But Cheerio had broken free of his leash, and Papa Pete was trying to grab him as he spun his way along the bleachers to the field. Every time Papa Pete reached for Cheerio, my nutty little dog would yip and twirl away from him like an out-of-control ballerina. Cheerio, my little dust devil, was making his way to the batter’s box. And rather quickly, I might add.

  McKelty jumped out of the way just in time to avoid Cheerio, but Ms. Adolf wasn’t so quick. Cheerio spun out onto the field, doing his crazy circle dance around her. She tried to step out of his way, but she couldn’t move too well with all her umpire gear on. Cheerio lodged himself somewhere between her right foot and her left foot, and kept spinning. Ms. Adolf went down like a sack of potatoes. She sprawled on the dust like a brontosaurus trapped in a tar pit. And the cherry on top was Papa Pete crawling like a gigantic version of a land crab, trying to grab Cheerio’s leash just before that hot dog took off again.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. One thing I did know, however:

  My life as I knew it was now officially over.

  So much for the Hopi totem spirits.

  CHAPTER 23

  IT TOOK A FEW MINUTES to catch Cheerio. My mom and dad ran out on the field, and Emily, too, but Cheerio kept escaping when they tried to grab him. It was Papa Pete who finally captured him by tossing his red warm-up jacket over him and scooping him up in his arms. Poor Cheerio. He looked like a shiny, red banana. Everyone in the crowd was laughing, and when my little dog poked his face out of the jacket, he looked scared.

  “That’s okay, fella,” Papa Pete said to him in a really gentle voice. “Let’s wave to the nice people out there.”

  Papa Pete held up one of Cheerio’s paws and waved it toward the bleachers. Everyone cheered, and I could see Cheerio’s tail start to wag underneath the jacket. I was glad he wasn’t scared anymore.

  Luckily, Ms. Adolf wasn’t hurt. I guess all that brontosaurus gear protected her. She was pretty messy, though, and my mom and dad helped her brush all the dirt off. While they were cleaning her up, Frankie and Ashley took the opportunity to come to the pitcher’s mound to see how I was doing.

  “Well, there’s your powerful animal spirit,” Frankie said, pointing at Cheerio, who was snuggled up in Papa Pete’s arms.

  I didn’t answer Frankie.

  “Zip,” Frankie said louder, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes. “Over here. Look at me. We have a game to win, remember?”

  “What do I do now?” I wanted to know. “I can’t concentrate on the game.”

  “Listen to me, Zippola,” Frankie said in his no nonsense voice. “Forget the socks. Forget Cheerio. Just concentrate on my glove and throw the ball.”

  “Do the pitch we know you can do,” said Ashley.

  “You mean the Zippity Zinger?” I said. “I think I may have a couple of those left.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Frankie said. “That’s the spirit, Hank.”

  “And we mean that in the Hopi way,” Ashley said. She smiled a real smile at me. I have to admit, I have great friends.

  “Play ball!” the Adolfosaurus shouted from behind home plate.

  McKelty stepped back into the batter’s box.

  “What’s the matter?” he shouted. I thought I could smell his bad breath all the way on the pitcher’s mound. “Pitcher’s got a bellyache? Come on, Zipper Head. I can’t wait to win.”

  “Concentrate, Hank,” I said under my breath.

  My parents were in the stands now. They had looked pretty upset at first, but now they were concentrating on me and the game. Cheerio was asleep in Papa Pete’s jacket, and Emily had her hand on his back. She smiled at me, and mouthed the words, “Good luck.” That’s right, you read it correctly. Emily Grace Zipzer smiled and wished me good luck. You know, when times are tough, it’s kind of nice to have a sister.

  I checked on Hector Ruiz on second. He had been standing there for so long, his legs must have been really tired.

  Now, down to business.

  Frankie got into his catcher’s crouch. He pointed at me and then pointed back to himself. I nodded. As if by magic, the sound of the crowd started to drift away again. And I wound up to let loose a Zippity Zinger.

  My body turned this way and my legs stretched that way. My hands flew out toward first base, then like an arrow, shot right into the sky, and the ball became an eagle that flew right past Nick the Tick’s bat before he took his first swing.

  “Strike one!” Ms. Adolf shouted and made her strike sign.

  Can it be true? Did I just do that?

  Frankie stood up and ripped the mask off his face. He did not say a word. He didn’t have to. He put the mask on and threw the ball back to me so it would roll the last few feet to my glove.

  This time, my body started the pitch, but I felt different. I started to relax and just let my arms and legs and waist and hand flow through their motions.

  Wham!

  The ball left my fingertips and McKelty was really concentrating on it. His eyes were like laser beams trying to bring the ball to his bat. He swung his Aluminum Beauty and hit the ball hard, but it shot backwards. It was going for Ms. Adolf, but just before it reached her, she dropped to her knees into the dirt and it sailed into the chain-link fence behind her.

  Wow! Maybe Ms. Adolf was a professional ballplayer before she became a teacher. She falls just like they do during a TV game.

  Ms. Adolf got up, brushed herself off, and used the same brush to dust off home plate.

  “Strike two!” she shouted.

  This time, Frankie threw the ball back directly to my mitt ... and I caught it!

  I quickly turned to Papa Pete, whose smile was so big that I could see all his teeth from under his black mustache. I could feel his love all the way out on the mound.

  Two strikes, two outs. Hector Ruiz leading off, just itching to race toward home plate. McKelty ready to hit the winning run.

  Let me tell you, this is a dream I never ever thought I would be in. Wait a minute, it’s not over yet. It could become a nightmare in one pitch.

  I twisted to second and stuck my leg out like I was an ostrich. At that moment, with my head pointing to third, I lost focus. When I let go of the ball this time, it didn’t sail. It wobbled and hit the ground, rolling past McKelty’s feet as if there were ten bowling pins behind home plate.

  “Ball one!” Ms. Adolf yelled.

  “Hey, Zitface, this isn’t bowling,” McKelty shouted
. “The game’s called softball, remember? Oh, right, you can’t remember stuff.”

  Ashley yelled from the bench. “Bring it back, Hank! Don’t listen to that boob! Come on now! We need strikes! Throw strikes.”

  I looked at Frankie and leaned toward him a little. I don’t know why I did that, but all the Mets pitchers do it so I thought I would try it.

  He pointed at the center of his mitt and then hit it three times really hard. He was telling me to put the ball “right there.” But could I do it again? All I needed was one more strike. Could I throw another Zippity Zinger?

  “Hey, Zipper—you can’t do anything right, so why try?” McKelty shouted. “Just put it over the plate and I’ll put the ball over the fence to finish the game.”

  I took a moment to regroup. Ms. Adolf got her head in position to see where the ball was going. Frankie was statue-still, his mitt in front of him making a perfect target. The entire crowd knew how important this pitch was. My parents; Frankie’s parents, the Townsends; Ashley’s parents, Dr. and Dr. Wong; Mr. Rock and Dr. Lynn were all standing, waiting.

  I looked at my mom and dad, Papa Pete and Emily. Every fear I ever had came rushing in and filled my brain.

  Now or never, Hank. What’s it going to be? Just pitch like you have been. “Easy for you to say,” I told myself.

  My upper body twisted to second base, my leg started to lift itself off the ground as if it was floating. My head pointed toward third and, this time, I did not leave any part of the Zippity Zinger out. I kept my eyes on the center of Frankie’s mitt and let the ball roll off my fingertips.

  McKelty’s bat started its rotation from his shoulder all the way around his body, and he hit that ball hard. So hard I felt sorry for the ball.

  Thwack! was the sound on contact and it rang in my ears.

  Everything happened in slow motion after that.

  Frankie ripped off his mask, never taking his eyes off the ball. All the heads in the crowd looked up at the ball in flight. Ms. Adolf lifted off her mask and stared up into the sky. Ashley pressed her face up against the fence. My mother was clamped onto my father’s arm, their eyes glued to that ball.