Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (25 page)

Reba lifted her nose and snorted, blowing snot all over me.

"I'll take that as a yes," I said and wiped the crud off my chin.

I jogged over and picked up my bat, blinking when I realized the "honorary" umpire was none other than Doug Samuels.

I gave Samuels an "I've got my eyes on you" look before I stepped into the batter's box to receive the pitch.

The pitcher threw the ball, high and outside.

"Strike one!" Samuels barked.

I frowned at the "umpire."

"Seriously?"

He shrugged.

The next pitch to the plate almost qualified as a wild pitch.

"Strike two!"

I whirled around.

"Are you blind? That pitch didn't even come within a bat's length of the batter's box! I'd have to be a Marvel's superhero to reach it."

He shrugged again.

Okay. I saw where this was going.

I wouldn't play ball with him, so he wasn't going to play ball with me.

I tapped the dust off my shoes with the bat and stepped back into the box. I was going to hit this ball if I had to defy the laws of gravity to do it.

I leaned into the plate so far I almost toppled over. I tightened my grip on the bat and locked eyes on the pitcher.

Be the bat. Be the bat
. I chanted in my head.

The pitcher wound up and released the ball.

Bam
!

A loud
boom
reverberated through my cranium as the ball ricocheted off the batting helmet and bounced up over my head, smacking poor Reba between the ears causing the donkey to break free of its handler and take off across the infield in a tantrum worthy of the most dramatic donkey diva.

"Hey, wait for me, Reba! That's a walk! A walk!" I yelled. "That means I get to go to first!

On you! Remember our donkey power talk? Wait for me!" I ignored the laughter and the catcalls from the stands and took off in pursuit of my ride, figuring "what the hay?" They wanted a show. I'd give them one. "I'm coming, Reba! I'm coming!"

Where was a lasso when you need it?

A whistle so loud and shrill it almost made my eardrums pop, brought my base runner to a dead stop just like that. I walked up to the animal and grabbed hold of the lead rope.

"Good girl, Reba," I said and started to lead her back to home plate.

The donkey diva wouldn't budge.

I yanked on the rope. Still a no-go.

I dug in my heels and wrapped the rope around my palms and prepared to give it all I had when some wiseass owner let rip with another earsplitting whistle. Reba lifted her head and bolted full steam ahead at me, knocking me on my butt along the first base line.

I was about to get up and dust my britches off when another jackass thought it would be an opportune moment to blast "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" through the loudspeakers again. Before you could say, "Flash Mob" the occupants of the stands had joined Travis in a dancing-with-the-donkeys moment that would get a gazillion hits on YouTube. I propped myself up on an elbow and took in the surreal splendor, shaking my head when I spotted my gammy getting her groove thing on along with the rest of the spectators turned performers.

I shook my head. If you can't beat 'em…

I got to my feet, dusted myself off, grabbed Reba's lead, and led her back to home plate. I grabbed a hank of mane, vaulted into the saddle, and giddy-upped it to first base performing my best princess wave the entire length of the first base line.

What can I say? Travis Tritt and "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" trumps "Beat It" every day of the week for us good old girls. Right, Reba?

Once the game-stopper extravaganza had ended and the game resumed, I found myself, thankfully, on a now docile donkey. I gave Craig on second base a "we got this!" thumbs-up.

All we needed was a solid hit. Just one hit and we'd win.

I checked out the next batter and suddenly found myself with a case of the slumps.

The Frankfurter was the next batter up.

Forget "T-R-O-U-B-L-E." Cue "The Party's Over."

Honest to God, just watching Frankie and his batter's stance made me want to gouge my eyes out. And talk about prep work. The guy had more rituals than the Church and Wicca combined.

Adjust the batter's helmet. Scuff his toe in the dirt. Once, twice. Again. Spit on his hands. Choke up on the bat. Scratch his nose. Adjust his crotch area. Scratch his crotch area. Adjust again. Scratch his waistband. Then his nose.

Ewww! Where'd he just put that hand?"

"Sometime today, batter!" Someone yelled.

"We're turning gray here, dude!"

"Batter up!" Sheriff Samuels yelled, and Frankie jumped like a little girl. And that made him have to start his whole ritual ordeal again.

"Batter up!" Samuels screamed again.

I saw Frankie wince before he moved into the batter's box.

"No hitter! No hitter!" Someone from the stands jeered.

I turned. It was Drew Van Vleet,
New Holland News'
answer to the Family Feud question,

"Name something that leaves a bad taste in your mouth," standing near the fence between home and first. I'd call Van Vleet a horse's you-know-what, but that would only insult the horse.

"Give it a rest, Gimp," I yelled back. "At least
he's
brave enough to give it a shot."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Van Vleet yelled back. "I can hardly play given the injury you and that maniac inflicted on me."

"I think it's safe to say your injury was self-inflicted, dude. Get over it and move on."

"I'd love to move on. Only I can't do that very well, can I, because your dipshit cousin made me break my ankle!"

I shook my head. Some people just didn't get the concept of personal responsibility.

"No hitter! No hitter!"

This time the taunt came from behind home plate.

"What a minute!" I yelled at Sheriff Saggy Pants. "You're supposed to be impartial!"

"I am?" He shrugged. "Oops!"

I shook my head. The umpire strikes back.

The windup came, followed by the pitch.

Frankie held the bat up like a badminton racket, jumped into the air, and swatted at the ball like it was a plastic shuttlecock.

I winced.

"Strike one!"

Shocker.

A dejected Frankie went through his routine once again.

"Come on, Frankie! Don't let 'em get your goat!" I said. "Show us your stuff!"

"S
ttrr
ike two!" Sheriff Samuels bellowed before the ball reached the batter.

"Now hold on!" I yelled and looked at Frankie. He looked so forlorn I found myself wishing by some freakish miracle Oscar Mayer at the plate would step up and knock that ball clean out of the park—pun so intended.

Really. Is that too much to ask?

I watched Frankie perform his little ceremonial mumbo jumbo. He lifted his bat.

I held my breath.

"Come on, slugger! Let it rip!" I whispered.

The windup.

And…the pitch!

Tip-Tap!

It wasn't pretty, and it sure didn't go far, but Frankie's fly-swatting (not a pun) made contact with the ball—enough contact that the ball fell about twenty feet straight out from the batter's box.

"Whoo-hoo!" I yelled. Then, "Go, Frankie! Go!" when he seemed to be glued to home plate. "Move your ass!" I screamed at him. "Go! Go! Go!"

Frankie finally seemed to get that he'd actually hit the ball, and he ran to his donkey. Only then did I notice what donkey he'd drawn to run the bases with him.

Outlaw, the desperado donkey.

Frankie grabbed the lead reins and, to my amazement, pulled himself onto Outlaw's back and started in my direction.

"Second base, Tressa! Second base! Go! Go!" Craig yelled.

It finally dawned on me that Frankie wasn't the only one who needed to make donkey tracks around the bases, and I nudged Reba with my heels, praying she wasn't planning to make like congress when it came time to compromise and dig in hers.

By now, Craig had kicked his runner into gear and was making slow, yet steady progress towards third base. After several false starts, I finally had Reba facing the right direction and on the move to second base.

"Go Grandville go!" I heard as we made our way around the bases towards home plate and victory!

The base rounding was going well until a shrill whistle pierced the sounds of the cheering crowd.

"
Weeorreet!"

Before you could say do-si-do, all three four-legged runners turned themselves around and headed in the wrong direction.

Holy hokey-pokey
!

"What the hell?" I heard Craig yell.

Another, short whistle had the donkeys changing course again.

Whistle. Turn. Whistle. Turn. Whistle. Turn.

I felt like I was in donkey square dance hell. I could only imagine how Frankie's delicate stomach was handling the donkey-go-round.

 "Go! Go! Before they switch gears again!" I yelled.

I breathed a sign of relieve when Craig finally trotted across home plate tying the score.

"Go, Tressa! Go!" I heard and rounded second, heading for third.

I snuck a peek behind me.

Roy Freaking Rogers!

Frankie and Outlaw, at a high lope, were gaining on us big time.

"Step it up, Reba!" I urged, pressing my heels into her sides to speed her up. "Yaw! Yaw!"

We hit third base, home plate in our sights. I squeezed Reba's midsection with my thighs—keeping my head down and center of gravity how-low-can-you go—offering encouragement and praise.

"Atta girl, Reba! We're going to make it, you donkey diva you! We're going to score!"

I hazarded one final look behind. Frankie and Outlaw had closed the gap. Mere inches separated us now

I looked at Frankie, his face frozen in stark terror as Outlaw opened his mouth and suddenly lunged at Reba.

"Oh, shit! Go, Reba, go!" I dug my heels into her sides. "Move your donkey diva ass!"

It played out in scary slow motion. I watched with a sick, horrified fascination as Outlaw's long ugly, yellowed, badly in need of a good brushing chompers formed an evil "gotcha girlfriend" grin just before he clamped onto Reba's hindquarters in an fierce, angry nip.

Raging hee-haws from Hades filled the dusty air around us.

Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw!

Reba, like most females who'd just got bitten on the ass without even the courtesy of a howdy-do first would, retaliated. She kicked at Outlaw—
whap! whap
!
whap!—
and began to buck.

She bucked so hard I bit clean through my tongue. To this day I have no clue how I stayed on the enraged ass. Once the bucking ended, Reba set a frenzied course for home plate.

I pulled back on the reins to gain control, but there was no holding back the proud and pissed off, diva. I gave one long, hard
heave-ho
tug on the reins and felt them
snap!

I shot backwards like a projectile fired from a slingshot and did a half-assed flip over Reba's backend. The last thing I saw before I hit the ground hard was the look of unbridled terror on the face of the Knox County Sheriff umpire before he was flattened by Reba the diva base runner.

"Help!
Hellp
!"

I recognized the voice, identifying the high-pitched girlie squeals of terror associated with my cousin.

"Help me!"

Suddenly the ball field took on the atmosphere of a battlefield, sounds of chaos and calamity combining with scared, angry donkey snorts and kicks and bucks that reminded me of an unsanctioned rodeo free-for-all.

"Oh, God! Help!"

Frankie and Outlaw—a blur of high-speed octane—crossed home plate, nearly trampling Sheriff Sam before running out of the ballpark. A mule-in-loco-motion, the duo passed the concession stand, flew by Uncle Frank's mini-freeze, kicked up dust crossing the road, and headed cross-country over fields of green and rolling hills.

"Oh, my God. Someone help! Hurry! They're headed down to the pond!"

"Oh, God! He's gone in the water! Get help! Get a rope! Get a life vest! Get an EMT!"

I covered my ears to block out the screams and stared at the sky from my prone position on the field, one thought consoling me as I sucked air into burning lungs.

At least we won the game.

How do you say "Donkey Kong"?

Frankie was fished out of the drink, wrapped in bubble wrap, and transported home by Dixie the Disgruntled. Johnny, Toby, George, Garth, Waylon, Willie, Hank, Kenny, Dolly, Reba, Patsy, Loretta, Shania, and Outlaw were rounded up, quieted with donkey treats, and coaxed into trailers. With a final, "I've never had a donkey do that," from Merle, the Donkey-Palooza owner, the donkey carnival pulled up its tents and moved on to its next palooza.

As you might imagine, the party broke up soon after that.

Since Taylor had the early shift the next morning, she'd headed home once the halftime show was over and missed the excitement. My folks, after checking to make sure I knew the date, the president, and could recite my Social Security number and the Pledge of Allegiance, left to help Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie clean up and get the mini-freeze back to town.

I half expected Mr. and Mrs. Joe Townsend to join us, but they were still on surveillance duty so that left me and Townsend, Craig, Kimmie, Brian, and Kari to strap on the old feedbags and enjoy a cold one.

We decided to hit Skeeters, a place on the edge of town that was a cross between a sports bar and a neighborhood watering hole. We got a table, ordered drinks, jumbo onion rings, and two deep-dish Skeeter pies. Yum! I nursed my beer and, feeling someone's eyes on me, looked up and found Townsend studying me, a perplexed look on his face.

"What?" I said. "What?"

"You are way too quiet," he said. "You sure Reba didn't ring your bell, after all?"

I shook my head.

"I'm sure. I'm quiet because I don't have anything to say."

"Oh, boy. Now you've really got me worried," Townsend replied. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"How long do you have?" I asked.