Say It Ain't So (21 page)

“Sure, whatever.”

“Okay, but there is no such thing as ‘far field' in baseball. I assure you it's center field.”

“Fine, okay, whatever. When I went out into center field, I climbed up that billboard. No small feat, you know. But I did it.”

“Fenner's Automobiles!” I said. “I knew it.”

“Yeah, it
is
, like, the perfect spot to hide a telescope.”

“Exactly.”

“And, well, I found one, as I'm sure you know.”

“Yeah! I mean, I wasn't
totally
sure, but I thought there might be,” I said.

Other Mike stared at me for a long, long time. I couldn't read his look. It was almost like he was mad at me, but also like he was just confused. And maybe like he felt sorry for me. Other Mike can pack a lot of look into one look. I think it's the eyebrows.

“I guess it makes sense now,” he said. “I can see why you were trying to talk me out of looking. The whole thing about how high it was and how I might get beat up … I guess you even faked the black eye.”

“Wait, what?” I said. “That black eye was totally real! What are you talking about? I wasn't trying to talk you out of anything.”

“Sure, Lenny. Sure,” Other Mike said. “All I know is that you are not surprised that there was a telescope in the Fenner's Automobiles billboard.”

“No,” I said.

“And you wouldn't be,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” he said, “is that the telescope was clearly labeled
PROPERTY OF LENNY NORBECK
.”

Other Mike and I stood there in my living room, as still as statues. Well, he was doing his normal Other Mike twitches, but at a reduced pace.
For him, that was like a statue. As for me, I might as well have been made out of stone. I was frozen stiff! I couldn't believe it. When I finally spoke, this is what I said:

“Dude.”

“Dude,” Other Mike said back.

“Dude.”

“Dude.”

“Say something else!” I yelled.

“What do you want me to say? I get it. You didn't like Mike being on the team. You wanted to sabotage him somehow. You set up a telescope. You stole the signs, gave them to the other team. I get it, Len. And I won't say anything. I promise. I won't call the police.”

“What?” I said. “The police? It's not like it's illegal.”

“Well, you guys sure made a big deal out of it. It seemed like it was worse than murder, to hear you guys talking about it.”

“Well, it
is
a big deal! The play-offs are coming up. Hunter is our best pitcher. We'll have to play at least one game at Griffith. And if we don't figure this out, they will win the championships and we will lose!”

Other Mike twisted up his mouth into a look of
disbelief. Then he twisted his eyebrows into a look of disbelief. He twisted his whole face into disbelief. His arms were even twisted up.

“It's pretty weird that you're so upset about this, seeing as how you're the one who was helping Griffith.”

“I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS!” I was screaming. My face was red and hot, and my voice was becoming a high-pitched wail.

“Well, it kind of has your name all over it,” he said. “Literally.”

We stood there for a long time staring at each other.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he said finally.

And the truth was, I had nothing at all. “Well, it really wasn't me,” I said. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No,” he said. “Just my dad. And Davis. And Mike maybe.”

“WHAT?” I screamed. Everyone was going to be furious at me! “Why did you tell them?”

“I wasn't sure what to do!” he said. “They all said the noble thing was to come talk to you. Oh, and Davis said he wasn't surprised and he thought it was you all along. Actually, a lot of people thought it was you. I didn't want to say anything.”

“What?” I said. “Why didn't you bring the telescope with you? Where's your proof? Maybe it was you!” I was getting desperate.

“It was mounted to the sign. Like with screws and stuff. Good work. I had no idea you were so handy.”

“It wasn't me! There has to be a logical explanation,” I said. “Other Mike, you have to believe me.” And then, sports fans, what happened next was this: I started to cry. I'm not proud of it, but it's the truth. The tears came slowly at first, then they were racing down my cheeks like a base runner sprinting for home. It suddenly struck me: this is how Mike must have felt when I thought it was
him
. How could I be such a bad friend? And how could Other Mike be such a bad friend?

“Okay,” Other Mike said, taking a deep breath. “Okay, okay, okay. I believe you. You really aren't this good of an actor. Let's figure this thing out together. Do you have any clues?”

“Nothing concrete,” I said. “I feel like a dog chasing his tail. Everything winds back onto itself. The only clue I have is this.” I handed Other Mike the checkout slip from the library. “It shows that someone had this book out before me, but I don't know who.”

“What's the other book on there?” Other Mike said. “
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
? Someone murdered that actor?”

“You're thinking of Dan Aykroyd.”

“Someone murdered Dan Aykroyd?!”

“What?” I said. “No. You're getting off track.”

“Do you think that if we found out who borrowed this book, we'd know who was stealing the signs?” Other Mike asked.

“It's our best shot,” I said.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Let's see what we can find out about it.”

He took out his phone and entered the title of the book into a search engine. At first he accidentally did type “Dan Aykroyd,” so it got confusing again. Then he figured it out. He started reading. “
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
is a controversial mystery novel by Agatha Christie starring the detective Hercule Por … Por … I don't know how to say this name.”

“I believe it's Poirot,” I said. “You say it like
Pwa-roh
.” Where had I heard that before?

And then, like a fly ball softly landing in a center fielder's glove, the answer to the puzzle fell into my lap.

I decided to wait until the next game against Griffith to reveal what I knew. I didn't have to wait very long because of the whole three-team-league thing. It was two weeks later. Probably like in the old days of baseball when there were just two teams. The Reds and the Red Stockings. Like, “Oh, who do we play today? The Red Stockings? And tomorrow? The Red Stockings? And the day after that? Red Stockings? Got it. Perchance I shall sport my blue pantaloons. Look at my fancy mustache.”

Hunter was scheduled to pitch. It was clear that someone was stealing his signs. Without cheating like a bunch of cheating cheaters, Griffith couldn't hit him. Schwenkfelder was one game up on Griffith going into the final game of the year. There was just one game left: Griffith versus
Schwenkfelder. If we won, we would clinch the championship. If we lost, the season would end in a tie. A tie, the old sports saying goes, is like kissing your sister. I don't have a sister, but it doesn't sound very good.

There was something else on my mind, though. I was doing my duties as the announcer. I pressed Play to start the national anthem. I dutifully announced the starting lineups. The umpire yelled, “Play ball.” And then I made a subdued announcement. I had been doing some thinking. Deep thinking.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “This is your PA announcer, Lenny Norbeck. You're probably wondering why I gathered you all here today.” Hey, it seemed like my only chance to say it. I realized that no one was wondering. Also that I hadn't technically gathered them. They were just there for a baseball game.

I waited for some applause. There was no applause. I continued anyway. “Well, sports fans,” I said, “I need to get something off my chest. I need to get the truth out there. Sometimes the truth hurts, but it's still the truth.” Again I waited for applause. There was none. Coach Zo started his way toward me, so I began to speak quickly. “The
batters for the Griffith Griffins are cheating! They know the secret signs. They know what pitch is coming before it arrives. The twins are taking turns sneaking out to center field. They know the signs, so they call the coach—their father—and he flashes a sign to the batter!” I paused. Everyone's eyes were on me. It was pretty fun. I sure hoped I was right. “I should add that the person who cracked the code is not me. I don't know what you've heard, but I did not do it! Even if my name was on the telescope. Not sure what was going on there. But you are correct to look to the Schwenkfelder side to find the culprit,” I continued. “You should look to Coach Zo.”

Coach Zo stormed into the announcer's booth. His face was bright red and the veins on his massive arms were popping up. He looked like he might rip my head off.

“Lenny,” he said through gritted teeth. “Would you shut up?”

“Are you saying it isn't true?” I said. “You had the book from the library.
You
had the discussion with the Griffith coach before the game.
You
murdered Dan Aykroyd!” I got kind of carried away.

“I'm just—Turn the microphone off!” he said. The microphone squealed a blast of feedback.

“Only if you tell everyone that it wasn't me!” I handed him the microphone.

“People thought it was
you
who stole the signs?” He seemed genuinely confused.

“Yes,” I said. “And it wasn't. It was you. Even though my name was on the telescope!”

Coach sighed. “It was me. The signs. No idea who murdered Dan Aykroyd. Didn't even know he was dead.”

I turned off the microphone. I felt so proud. Again, I expected a round of applause. There wasn't one. Most everyone in attendance was just confused. I guess it was not what they expected from a middle school baseball game.

Coach Zo spoke quietly. “I wasn't trying to frame you, Lenny,” he said. “I just needed a telescope. I bought that one used at that Salvation Army store downtown.”

“Discardia!” I said through gritted teeth. Still ruining my life. That must have been where Mom donated my stuff. Just a coincidence. Not a massive conspiracy to frame Lenny Norbeck.

Which meant that I just outed Coach Zo's secret plan for nothing. Oops.

Luckily, he took it well. I mean, he didn't murder me, so that was a good starting point. Hunter,
on the other hand? Hunter did not take it well. He stood there on the mound with a look of total disbelief. He started screaming at Coach!

“Is this correct?” he yelled. “Is this how you treat the Great Imperial Ashwell? Is this how you treat the most amazing pitcher the game has ever known?”

“That's it,” Coach hollered back. He left the announcer's booth and walked onto the field. He was yelling and everyone in the crowd was listening with rapt attention. “I guess you learned nothing! That's it! You're sitting today. Hrab, you get in there.”

Henry Hrab quickly grabbed his glove and ran onto the field.

“You can't bench the Great Imperial Ashwell!” Hunter yelled.

“Oh yes, I can,” Coach said.

“No, you can't,” Hunter said. “Because the Great Imperial Ashwell quits.”

He dropped his glove on the mound and slowly walked off the field, never looking back. Everyone was stunned. No one knew what to do for a second. The crowd became restless.

“Um, should I still get in there?” Henry said.

“Yes,” Coach said. “Let's play some ball.”

I turned the microphone back on and repeated his words. “Play ball!”

The game started and, long story short, we got our butts handed to us. Henry kind of got shelled. He wasn't prepared, wasn't expecting it, and, let's face it, wasn't Hunter Ashwell. So the season ended in a tie. Total sister kiss. That is, if kissing your sister is the worst feeling in the world. At least for me. Because it was all my fault! If Hunter had stayed in there, we could have won. We
would
have won. They didn't have a telescope in our park, did they? Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut?