Say It Ain't So (14 page)

The sun wasn't really setting. Not quite yet anyway. I rode my bike home at a leisurely pace. This time I wasn't trying to win the Tour de Schwenkfelder. I was trying to get some thinking done. I rode in a winding path, snaking slowly through the quiet streets. I felt just like a detective mulling over a big case. Actually, two cases—only one of which Mike knew about.
Was
someone from Griffith stealing signs? And
was
Davis Gannett innocent in the case of the missing cell phone?

I started taking the long way home and realized I wasn't too far from Griffith Middle School. Schwenkfelder isn't a very big town. Even though I had to cross one or two major streets, it wasn't too hard to get to Griffith. I knew the way. Schwenkfelder is the kind of town that has just about two major streets. Everything is not far off those two.
One of them is called Center Street. It runs through the center of town. I wonder how Sam Schwenkfelder and the other geniuses who formed this town ever thought up that one. Just kidding. There was no Sam Schwenkfelder. Maybe there was. What do I know? I was pretty sure there was a project on local history every year, but I was
quite
sure that I never paid attention.

I rode my bike across Center and into Griffith territory. I started to formulate a plan. I felt like a spy sneaking into enemy turf. Of course no one knew I was from Schwenkfelder Middle. And probably no one would really care. But still, it felt dangerous and exciting.

I realized I wasn't going to see a pair of binoculars hanging on a fence post, but maybe a clue would present itself. The bike ride down Center to Griffith was a lot longer than I remembered it being last time we went that way. Probably because we took a car. Cars make everything seem shorter. But I had all the time in the world, with both Mike and Other Mike busy and the only thing waiting for me at home being homework.

Finally I saw Griffith Middle School. It is a long brick building with about a hundred windows. It actually looks a lot like SMS, which leads me to
wonder if all middle schools are designed by the same person. What a weird job that is. They should let middle school students design middle schools. They would be awesome. How hard is it to design a building? I should totally be an architect. You got walls, a floor, some windows. Boom: I'm an architect. Oops, just realized I forgot a roof. Maybe I should stick to announcing.

And to detecting.

I got myself mentally into detective mode as I rode my bike across the parking lot and up the long walkway that went behind the school to the baseball field. I pulled my bike up onto the sidewalk and stood with one foot on the ground and the other on the pedal. I tried to look casual as I scanned the field for hidden spy spots.

The Griffith team was still on the field. I had forgotten that they'd probably have practice. But from the looks of it, the practice was winding down. Most of the players were already headed back toward the school. A few remained on the field, scooping up stray balls and throwing them into a bucket. The coaches were milling around too. I decided I'd wait until they were all gone before I got down to serious sleuthing.

I got my library book out of my backpack and
started flipping through the pages while the practice finished up. Some of the players from Griffith walked past me on the way to the locker room. I kept my head down and the book up over my face. I didn't know if any of them would recognize me from the games at Schwenkfelder, but it was a risk I didn't want to run. Head down, book up, I read. There was a pretty funny section about a player named Eddie Stanky who was part of that famous 1951 home run I was talking about with Bonzer. Stanky was apparently a notoriously mean player. He'd lie, cheat, steal, and do whatever it took to win. I'm no psychologist here, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say that maybe part of the reason he had a chip on his shoulder was that his name was Eddie Stanky. They'd eat him alive in middle school. Stanky. Ha-ha.

After I spent a few minutes reading about Mr. Stanky and the various ways signs have been stolen over the years, the field was empty. Finally, all the Griffith players had gone back to their locker room. They were no doubt hatching future evil schemes. I imagined them cackling like evil villains. “And then we'll use a spy camera! Mwahahaha! And then we'll kidnap their dogs so they can't concentrate on the game! Mwahahaha! And then we'll
sell the dogs and use the money for illegal bats and brass knuckles! Mwahahaha.” And so on. I had to catch them before this thing got severely out of control, obviously. We can't have the Griffith Griffins out there arming themselves with brass knuckles and stolen dogs. Obviously.

I walked over to the bike rack and chained my bike. I was always careful about bike theft. Even in a town like Schwenkfelder, you can't be too safe. I put my backpack on my back and began walking. Nice and casual. I started scouting out the field. I thought about how
The Semilegal Guide to Cheating at Baseball
said that sign stealing was basically done with variations on the same method. Someone sat in the outfield with binoculars or some way to see the catcher's sign. Then he used a signaling device to quickly show the batter what was coming. The sign stealer would be in the bullpen or the bleachers or hidden in the scoreboard. Every stadium basically had at least one place where an evildoer could perch to do his evil.

I scanned the field. It was obvious. Here, at the Griffith Middle School field, I knew right where I'd start. There was a billboard in center field, an unusual thing for a middle school stadium. And this one was unusual even for a billboard. First of all, it
was huge. It stretched across, like, all of right-center field. And second of all, it had a car driving through it. Okay, it wasn't a real car. It was just that the front of the billboard was built out and it was all painted to look like the wood was smashed. How a car was supposed to be driving up in the air through a billboard was beyond me, but that's Griffith for you. Not exactly geniuses.

The billboard said
FENNER'S AUTOMOBILES!
so I made a mental note never to buy from Fenner's Automobiles. Not that I was in the market for a used car, but you know what I mean. I walked slowly around the field and tried to figure out where a spy might be hiding. I made my way to deep center. I looked up at the back of the billboard. It wasn't a very high fence, but the billboard was enormous—probably about thirty feet tall. And yup, sure enough, there was a ladder going up the back. It wasn't like the ladder was just propped there—it was built into the fence. A ladder wasn't proof of anything. But maybe, I thought, if I climbed it, I could find what I was looking for.

I'm not afraid of heights, not really. Not like Other Mike, who is so afraid of heights that he won't even wear shoes with a heel. He won't even walk on a sheet of paper lying on the floor. He
won't even … What's thinner than a piece of paper? Nothing, probably. You get my point. But I'm okay with heights. More or less.

I gave the ladder a good shake to make sure it was sturdy. Maybe someone was climbing up and down from there every day to steal signs, but maybe no one had been up there in years. Maybe it was all rusted through and would wait until I was on the top rung before it collapsed. I gave it a solid shake and it didn't collapse. It didn't budge. Perfect for climbing. I took a deep breath, adjusted my backpack, and started to head up.

I got about three rungs up off the ground when I heard something whiz past my ear! I thought maybe it was a bee, of which I am no fan. But it definitely was no bee. Worse. It was a baseball. It clanged off the metal of the ladder and flew back out into the grass behind the field. What was going on? I spun my head around and another ball flew past, this one barely missing my foot. I had to get down from there! I was like a sitting duck. Man, what a dumb expression. Why is a sitting duck something that can easily get nailed? Can't the stupid duck simply stand up? And seriously, duck, you have wings. Just fly away! I wished I was a duck. Actually, an eagle. Anything with wings! It would have been so awesome to fly out of there.

But I couldn't fly. And I couldn't climb—up or down. Baseballs were coming at me from all directions!
All I could do was jump. I pushed off the ladder and leapt backward, tumbling to the ground. My backpack fell off, so I turned to scoop it up. I had no idea where the balls were coming from, so I had no idea which direction to run. Also, it was kind of hard to see because I was trying to cover my face with my hands. More balls were whizzing past me. One hit me in the back. Then another! I had to get out of there.

I took my hands away from my face and started to run. Every time I tried to look around to see who was chucking baseballs at me, another ball flew by. All I could do was keep my head down and keep running. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating, and I'm not going to lie to you: I was scared. Somehow I sprinted around the field and made it back to my bike without serious injury. I hopped on it and started to pedal away.

Only it was still locked to the bike rack.

I fell off the bike, and my backpack got stuck in the bike rack. My arms were tangled in the straps. This time I felt like not just a sitting duck, but a duck with its feathers plucked and its wings tied to a bike rack. All I could think was
I'm done for
. And I was. First one ninja came toward me, then another. That's right: ninjas! They were both wearing
the ninja uniform or whatever you call it, which covered their faces and left just their eyes peering through. Their evil, mean, beady little eyes.

And then they got closer and I realized they weren't ninjas. They were just guys wearing green sweatshirts pulled tight over their faces and tied in the back. Still, it made them impossible to recognize. Well, not impossible. Their ninja costumes both said the same thing across the front:
GRIFFITH GRIFFINS BASEBALL
.

One of the ninjas approached. I struggled to move but only succeeded in getting myself further tangled up in the bike rack. The ninja laughed, and then so did his friend. They said something to each other in a strange language I couldn't understand. Then they laughed again.

“U-um, guys,” I stammered. “Dudes. I don't know who you are or who you think I am, but I assure you I'm not the guy you think—” The second ninja cut me off and raised a hand.

“Well, well, well,” he said.

I have found that whenever anyone says “Well, well, well,” that's the exact opposite of how things are about to go. It means things were
not
going well. I struggled more mightily.

He laughed. “I think you're pretty well stuck,” he said.

He had a strange high-pitched voice and an accent I couldn't place. I thought that maybe he was trying to disguise his voice. Like maybe he didn't want me to be able to identify him. Like maybe the police were going to get involved and he wanted to be able to deny it. I didn't like the sound of that. What did he have in mind?

“Yeah,” I said. “Stuck. Maybe you can give me a hand?” Mom always told me to try to make friends, no matter the situation. I don't think she had this in mind, but it was all I could come up with at the moment.

Both ninjas laughed. Their laughs sounded evil. They spoke to each other again in their strange language. I don't speak anything other than English and, like, a tiny bit of Spanish. (
¿Puedo ir al baño?
) I know some Yiddish phrases, but they don't come in all that handy. What I mean is, it didn't even sound like any language I had ever
heard
. Who were these guys?

“I can give you more than a hand,” said the first green ninja. He had the same high-pitched voice, the same weird accent. Maybe it wasn't an act.

“Yeah?” I asked. Though, to be honest, I should have seen it coming.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can give you a whole fist.”

And with that, he punched me in the face.

I don't know what exactly happened after that. I mean, my face hurt, I know that. His fist was small, but he was strong. The punch caught me square in the eye. I didn't know if I should scream for help or cry. What I wanted to do was punch him back, or at least block him before he did it again. But my arms were all twisted up and I was totally stuck. Screaming for help didn't seem like the coolest thing to do, but sometimes you just have to do it.

“Help!” I screamed. “Somebody help me!” There didn't seem to be anyone around, but there had to be coaches or teachers or some grown-up who could swoop in. Nope. None of those. But there was one person who did hear my cries.

“Hey!” the voice yelled. “Stop it!”

At first I didn't recognize the voice. I mean, I recognized it, but I couldn't place it. It was vaguely familiar, like a distant relative you haven't seen for a long time calling you up to wish you a happy birthday. And you're like, “Why are you calling me? How is it a birthday gift to have to spend time
in an awkward conversation with you? You know what would have been an even better gift? You
not
calling me. Or maybe just, I don't know, maybe an envelope full of cash?!”