How Not to Run for President (3 page)

“I've seen better swings on a porch, Aidan!”

A lot of insults get hurled in Little League batting practice. You get used to them. Maybe that one doesn't sound so bad, but it was coming from my
uncle
.

Because Uncle robert is a high-school gym teacher, he has the summers off, so he was coaching our summer league at FreezeStar Field. It was a step up from having T.J.'s dad as coach. He'd quit because he was too busy being mayor, or so he said. I never saw him do much but stand around and try to look important.

Anyway, it was a nice change, even if Uncle robert could be insulting at times. It worked out perfectly, because my younger cousin, Liam, would be old enough to play at this level next year. I've always wished my dad could coach, but he can't, because he works the night shift. He shows up for practice when he can, like this evening. I always want to do really well when he's around.

I hit some nice grounders off the next couple of pitches, but then a pitch went wild and I had to duck before the ball bonked my helmet.

“Thanks a lot!” I yelled to Colin, our third-best pitcher.

“Lime brain!” he shouted back at me.

Sometimes I can't tell if the point of baseball is winning or just surviving.

T.J. was up next, so I handed him the bat, but he tossed it on the ground by the dugout. I should have remembered. He always uses his very own special bat, the one he won't let anyone else touch.

“You don't usually get a crowd for a practice. What gives?” my dad asked as I joined him in the home dugout.

“We've got a celebrity coming. Governor Brandon's on her way.” Uncle robert kept throwing a baseball into his glove, over and over. “Her staff called me, said she wants to drop by and see the company-sponsored team.”

While they talked, T.J. was booming hits over Colin's head, deep into the outfield.

“So that's why all the news vans are parked over there?” my dad asked. “For a photo op? Typical woman,” he added. “Wanting all the attention.”

“What?” asked Uncle robert. “Why would you say that? She's running for office. She needs to be in the news every day, for good reason.”

“Well, Flynn doesn't do that,” Dad muttered.

“Be serious. Everyone in the race does that!” Uncle robert cried. “Besides, Flynn's never met a camera he didn't like.”

“And neither have you,” Dad said to Uncle robert, who was combing his hair.

“Ha-ha,” Uncle robert said. “Who'll be laughing when you look horrible on TV and I don't?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. The whole election, it used to mean something. Now it's all photo ops. Zero substance,” my dad argued. “Same goes for this Brandon.”

“I don't know, I think she's really got something with her Fresh Idea Party. And at this point, I don't care if it's a woman, a man, or an alien with three heads,” said Uncle robert. “Just as long as she gets something
done
if she gets elected. She's for the little man, right?”

“I guess so,” said my dad.

“Well, then, that'll work for you,” my uncle teased him.

Simon and a few of the other kids burst out laughing. My dad glared at Uncle robert. “And if she knows how to represent stupid people,
you're
in luck.”

Everyone laughed again. My dad and my uncle could trade insults all night, and they often did.

My dad is short, and so am I, but it's nothing off-the-charts short. It's just that Uncle robert is a grizzly bear in comparison.

They mostly get along, but every once in a while their friendly teasing seems like it could erupt into a fistfight. I wouldn't want to see my dad lose.

And he would. Badly.

It's kind of like me fighting my big brother. I wouldn't attempt that. Christopher has about a foot of height on me, and too many pounds to think about. Plus, he knows how to fight. I don't.

I sat there for a minute and watched T.J. crush the ball over the heads of the guys playing outfield. He was an amazing hitter. You can't take that away from him.

Actually, I can't take anything away from him. He's too strong.

I play shortstop. I love my position, except for the fact it has the word
short
in it. Why does it have to be called that? There's first baseman, second baseman … Why not stopman? There's catcher, pitcher … Why not stopper? It doesn't help that when my grandma comes to games, she yells, “Way to go, shortie!”

Like a lot of shortstops in history, I'm a better defensive player than a hitter. Not that I put myself in their league, but the same was true of famous shortstops like Ozzie Smith, Omar Vizquel, and Ozzie Guillen.

Sometimes I think I should change my name to start with an
O
, to give myself better odds of making it to the big leagues. Oidan. That sounds weird. Forget it.

Then again, that would leave out Derek Jeter, and I wouldn't want to do that. I love the Yankees. I know it's wrong because I live in northwestern Ohio, and I should love the Cleveland Indians. I do, I totally do, and going to an Indians game last year with Simon was awesome, but I also just love the history of the Yankees.

Dream #1: Go to a Yankees game at Yankee Stadium. Dream #2: Go to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.

Neither of those places is even
that
far away. But it had been taking a long time to convince my parents we should go.

The Football Hall of Fame? Oh, sure. We'd already been there, because Christopher wanted to go. Not only was it in Ohio, but what my brother wanted, he usually got.

I know my dad tries to treat us equally. He just can't help it that he's more interested in Christopher's athletic career than in mine. Or that he doesn't come to all my band concerts because they tend to be at night, when he works. He's never really gotten why I like the clarinet. Football is a lot easier to understand, and I can't really blame him for that.

Sometimes it feels like our family has two sides: me and Mom, and Christopher and Dad.

We heard cheers coming from up on the embankment. I saw the Fresh Idea Party bus pulling up to park on the side of the road, where minivans usually took up the spots.

“Here they come!” said my dad. Everyone in the field came over toward the dugout to get a better view. Uncle robert flipped a little mirror out of his pocket, whipped off his baseball cap, and started to fix his hair.

“Again?” my dad groaned. “What, you think you're going to be on TV or something? Do you really think they want to get a shot of you?”

“Shouldn't you be leaving for work?” Uncle robert replied, waving his comb in the air. “Besides, you only wish you had something to comb.”

All the guys on the team, including me, were staring at the bus, the news vans, and the Secret Service agents who were stepping out onto the grass. Our grass. Our ball field.

Secret Service agents fanned out around the bus and started to cross the field. Then the governor came down the steps, flanked by more agents, and headed toward us, followed by about a dozen other people, including her daughter.

The governor was trailed by a few campaign workers, who were reading their BlackBerries or texting into iPhones and Droids while they walked. Reporters were walking after them, holding out microphones and looking desperate for a good story. One woman's high heels kept sinking into the soft field, and she almost fell down.

Governor Brandon was smarter. She had changed into jeans, a Cleveland Indians jersey, tennis shoes, and a baseball cap that said
BRANDON FOR PRESIDENT
.

Trotting beside her was her daughter, wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a Minnesota Twins ball cap. Her ponytail stuck through the little hole in the back. She was smiling and looked like a normal girl. That was strange.

Maybe she had one of those split personalities, like those psycho villains in movies. One minute they're normal, the next completely merciless.

“Look out, everyone. Look out!” the taller Secret Service agent said. “Coming through.” He stopped and looked at me. “You again?”

“Hi.” I gave a pathetic little wave.

He narrowed his eyes at me, then kept going.

Governor Brandon seemed surprised to see me standing there. “Hey! Aidan, right? I know you.” She grinned.

“Hi,” I said.

“Yeah, you should remember him. He tried to
kill
you,” said T.J.

I glared at him. “Be quiet.”

Emma stood beside her mom, chomping on a piece of gum. She looked around at the FreezeStar Field. “Well, this field needs some work, doesn't it?” she commented.

“It's Little League,” I said. “And it's pretty nice. What do you expect, Yankee Stadium?”

“No. It's just … the grass is turning brown. My Little League field is way nicer,” Emma said.

“Emma. That's not polite,” her mother said. “I'm sorry. I think she's homesick. Mind if we play along for a little bit?”

“Oh, sure, sounds great,” said Uncle robert, looking nervously from mother to daughter and back again.

“Excuse me, sir.” A tall African American man who was also wearing a brandon for president ball cap, along with a matching campaign button on his white button-down shirt, held an Indians ball cap out to Emma. “Here you go, Emma,” he said. “Wear this.”

She looked at it as if were poison. “What? No way! Why would I wear that?”

“Because the campaign manager wants you to,” the man said. He tipped his cap to us. “Nice to meet you all. I'm Governor Brandon's campaign manager. retired General Roy McGarvin.”

“Nice to meet you, General.” Uncle robert shook his hand. “I recognized you right away. You were secretary of defense under the last administration.”

“That's right.” The general nodded. “And secretary of transportation before that. And now, Emma, back to you. Enough already, just wear the home-team ball cap. Is that too much to ask?”

“It's not fair,” she said. “The only thing I know about the dumb team is that they stole our best player, reed Jackson.”

“Cleveland didn't steal him—he was a free agent,” I said.

“Same thing,” she said, hands on her hips. “And what about Hayashi? He was our best relief pitcher. You stole him, too.”

I looked at Simon and shrugged. What could we say? She was right about that. I was a huge fan of Hayashi and his split-finger fastball.

“Wear it, Emma,” the general said in a stern but friendly tone, “or you don't play.”

“Fine.” Emma took off her Twins cap, handed it to him, and jammed the Cleveland one over her head.

“Sometimes being in charge of an entire platoon was easier,” General McGarvin muttered to Uncle robert before he headed off, pulling out his cell phone.

“I'll take first base,” Emma announced. “That's what I play at home.”

T.J. was already on his way to first base. He stopped and stared at her. He looked like he was going to burst. “But that's my position—you can't—” he spluttered.

“Can't what?” She straightened her ponytail and jogged out to take his place at first. He started running beside her, but she won. “You're out,” she said as he touched the base after her.

T.J. stood in the infield, looking lost, as if he wasn't sure what to do. Then he walked over to me and said, “Fine. I'll play shortstop, then.” He pushed me out of position.

Emma looked at me and cracked her gum. “Well, I'm going to need a glove.”

“Emma,” her mother said. “We talked about that.”

“My glove?” Emma asked. “I know. I told you I shouldn't have left it at home!”

“Not that. Gum!” her mother said. “You're not to crack your gum in public like that.”

“Fine,” Emma said. She dug a small hole in the ground with her heel, spit her gum into it, and covered it up with dirt.

Her mother frowned. “That wasn't exactly what I had in mind.”

Because of the way Emma did that, and since she had stood up to T.J., I kind of liked her a little more than I had earlier. Besides, he'd already pushed me out of my position. What was I going to do, push out someone else? I'd never do that.

“Here, you may as well take mine,” I said, holding out my well-worn glove.

She looked at it as if it were a dead fish, her lip kind of curled up to one side. “Okay, thanks, I guess,” she said. Then she slid it over her left hand and punched the heel a few times. “Let's play ball!”

I was happily on my way back to the dugout to watch when Uncle robert stepped out from behind the plate, sliding up his catcher's mask. “Since you just gave up your glove, Aidan, why don't you hit?” he asked.

What?
“Me? Why me?” I said.

“That'll be great. Mind if I pitch?” asked Governor Brandon.

“Uh, well, no, I guess—that'd be fine,” Uncle robert stammered. He handed the baseball to Governor Brandon.