Wall Ball (7 page)

S
now fell heavily all night, and on Friday morning there was no question about school. It was like an old stamp: canceled.

Normally I would have been thrilled. Not much beats a snow day. But we’d already had so many that they were no better than yesterday’s
Rambletown Bulletin
. They were old news. At this rate, we’d have so many makeup days, we’d still be going to school in July. Maybe it would have warmed up by then. I hoped so. I didn’t want to be huddled under blankets to watch the Fourth of July fireworks.

I joined my mom and dad at the breakfast
table and poured myself a bowl of Pirate Crunch.

“You lucky duck,” said Dad. “I wish I could take a snow day. Unfortunately, the office doesn’t close.”

“You’re the lucky one,” I said. “I’m sick of snow days. I’m sick of snow.”

My dad nearly fell off his chair.

“Sick of snow days? Whoever heard of such a thing? It’s blasphemy.”

“Whoever heard of such a miserable winter?” I said. “If it doesn’t let up, baseball season will never start.”

“Good point,” Dad said. He opened the morning paper and turned to the weather page. “Look here,” he announced. “Changing to sunny by this afternoon. Tomorrow’s supposed to be even warmer.”

“See, honey,” said Mom. “There’s hope yet.” She leaned across the table and lightly kissed my head. “I’ve got a good feeling. I think winter is on its last legs.”

I looked out the window. A thick white blanket covered the lawn.

“I don’t know about legs,” I said skeptically. “Stilts maybe.”

Real stilts would have been nice. We could have used them to walk over all that snow.

After breakfast I bundled into my Inuit parka, pulled on my ski hat and my down-filled mittens, and laced up my mukluks. Then I zipped Mr. Bones into his silly coat. We went out into the frosty morning and started shoveling the driveway. At least I did. Mr. Bones bounded around the yard poking his furry head under the snow in search of buried tennis balls.

It took me about an hour to clear a path down to the street. As I neared the end, Slingshot and Stump showed up. Slingshot wore a backpack. Stump carried a giant duffel bag. They had the look of foxes with keys to the hen-house.

“What’s in the bags?” I asked.

“Top secret,” said Stump.

“C’mon,” said Slingshot. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I asked, leaning on my shovel. I couldn’t tell if it was the work I’d done or the weather, but I actually felt warm. I unzipped my coat.

“School,” said Stump.

“Maybe you haven’t heard,” I said. “School’s canceled.”

“All the better,” said Slingshot, “to test my invention.”

“What invention?” I asked.

“The one that’s going to keep Orlando from running into the wall.”

This sounded interesting. “Let me ask my mom,” I said.

“We already did,” Stump assured me. “Talked on the phone while you were shoveling. Everything’s cool.”

I turned and looked back at the house. Mom waved from a patch of sunlight on the porch. “Good luck,” she called. I noticed she wasn’t
even wearing a coat. Maybe the paper was right. Maybe the weather was warming up at last.

With that the three of us rushed off, Mr. Bones scampering in our tracks.

All along the route to school, grown-ups cleared sidewalks and laughing kids built snowmen and snow forts. Sunlight glinted off the fresh white stuff, making the day blindingly bright. People smiled and waved and said things like “Enjoy it while you can.”

In other words, a perfect winter scene.

Except it was April.

Obviously none of these people played baseball.

When we got to the school yard, we found Orlando and the rest of the Rounders pegging one another with snowballs. Gabby was there, camera slung around her neck as usual. A few tourists milled around the base of Mount Rambletown, but the crowd was much thinner than it had been earlier in the week.

Slingshot led us across the parking lot to the mountain. He shrugged off his pack and set it down in the snow.

“What’s the idea?” I asked.

“The idea,” said Slingshot, “is to give Orlando some traction.”

“I like it,” said Orlando. “But how?”

“With these,” said Slingshot. He unzipped his pack and pulled out two sheets of sandpaper.

“What’s he supposed to do with those?” I asked. “Rub splinters out of the outfield wall? The goal is to stop Orlando from hitting the wall. Not make his collisions smoother!”

“He’ll need more than sandpaper for that,” Ducks agreed.

With a shake of his head, Slingshot reached into his pack again. Out came a pair of shoes with spikes on the bottom.

“Those are golf shoes,” said Tugboat.

“Borrowed from my dad,” said Slingshot.

“Uh, Slingshot,” piped up Ocho. “I hate to
remind you, but we’ve got a baseball game coming up. Do you think this is the best time for Orlando to learn golf?”

“No, no, I get it,” said Orlando. “Golf spikes will bite into the crusty snow. I can dig in and stop from slipping. But I still don’t get the sandpaper.”

Slingshot smiled and pressed a sheet of the gritty paper over the spikes on one shoe, rough side showing.

“Extra gripping power,” he said. “Like snow tires for your feet.” He stuck the other sheet of sandpaper on to the other shoe and handed the pair to Orlando. “Try them on,” he said. “I stuffed newspaper in the toes so they’ll fit better.”

Orlando sat down in the snow and pulled off his boots. He laced up the golf shoes.

“Not bad,” he said, standing. He shuffled his feet. The shoes scratched loudly, like a cat sharpening its claws. “They really grip,” he said.

“Good!” said Slingshot. “Then let’s get
started. To the summit!”

Orlando craned his neck and gazed up the steep slope of Mount Rambletown. “You want me to climb that thing?” he asked uncertainly.

“Name a better place to test the shoes,” Slingshot said. “If they work here, they’ll work anywhere. Including Rambletown Field.”

“When you get to the top”—Stump grinned, reaching into his duffel—“plant this in the snow.” He whipped out what looked like the world’s largest roll of aluminum foil. Slingshot took one end and helped Stump unfurl it. The shimmering silver material opened up to the size of King Kong’s bedsheet. Stitched to it in big block letters cut out of red felt were the words GO ROUNDERS! BEAT HOG CITY!

At that we all cheered like crazy.

“We made it out of a special kind of foil called Mylar,” Stump said proudly. “Slingshot’s idea. Lightweight and completely weatherproof.”

“And big enough to see from halfway across the state,” added Slingshot.

We were still clapping and chanting “Go Rounders, Go!” as Orlando started his ascent.

S
lowly, carefully, Orlando tested the sticking power of Slingshot’s sandpaper golf shoes. He stomped down one foot to dig the spikes into the snow. Then he stomped down the other. The shoes held, and he took another cautious half step up the steep mountain. Each time he repeated the process, his confidence built and he increased his pace. Soon he was really chugging along, his movements crisp and machinelike.

“That’s the way, Orlando!” I hollered. “Steady as she goes!”

Up and up he climbed, like a fly walking straight up a wall. The higher he went, the
smaller he got. Before long, we could make out nothing more than his red hat bobbing ever upward against a solid white background. Then Orlando disappeared altogether. We watched from way down below, our hearts pounding. All we could hear was the rush of wind across the jagged peak.

I glanced at Slingshot and saw his face turn whiter than the snow. I knew that he’d never forgive himself if something went wrong.

None of us would.

We held our breaths. Time seemed to stand still. Suddenly the hat reappeared higher up the slope, still moving, still gaining.

“He’s going to make it!” roared Ocho. “The kid from Florida is going to conquer this frozen wonder of the world!”

The color returned to Slingshot’s face.

We smacked high fives and bumped chests. We jumped up and down as if the ground was made of rubber. Mr. Bones ran around, licking faces wherever he could reach them. None of
us could stop shouting. I felt happier than the day we’d won the pennant.

Orlando reached the huddled presidents and did not pause. He scaled the bridge of FDR’s nose and pulled himself to his full height atop the old guy’s enormous head.

We cheered like crazy, and then roared even louder as he unfurled the huge, shimmering banner at the very summit of Mount Rambletown. Even at that great distance, its enormous red letters stood out boldly:

GO ROUNDERS! BEAT HOG CITY!

“He did it.” Slingshot laughed. “He really did it!”

“A million small steps for a Rounder, one giant leap for Rounderkind,” Stump crowed.

“Giant leap is right!” said Tugboat. “The outfield will be a cakewalk after this. I can’t wait to see the look on Flicker Pringle’s face the first time Orlando runs down one of his long balls at the wall. The Haymakers don’t stand a chance!”

The silver banner caught the afternoon sun and glowed like a lighthouse. Tugboat slipped on a pair of shades. “Cool,” he marveled. “It’s like a giant solar reflector.”

“We hoped it would be a real attention getter.” Stump giggled.

“I think it’s actually magnifying the sun’s rays,” said Gabby. “All of a sudden I feel warmer.”

She had a point. My own head baked under my wool hat. If the warmth held, we might actually get to play our season opener after all. I wondered if Orlando felt the heat up at the shining summit.

If so, it didn’t slow him down any. We watched him drop from Calvin Coolidge’s left ear on to the president’s shoulder. From there he edged under Silent Cal’s chin and into a chute formed by his necktie. Orlando eased himself into it, pulled his knees up under his chin, and rocketed down Mount Rambletown like a turtle using its shell as a toboggan.

For a kid who’d never been sledding before, he was fantastic.

In no time flat he arrived at the base, nose red, eyes watering, mouth frozen in a smile wider than the Grand Canyon.

We gave him a hero’s welcome. In fact, we carried him all the way home on our shoulders. His feet didn’t touch the ground until we deposited him on his front doorstep.

We turned and looked toward school, where we caught the rays of the lowering sun glinting madly off the team banner atop Mount Rambletown. With one last cheer we said our good-byes, promising one another we’d all get a good night’s sleep before the big game the next day.

I
don’t know about the other guys, but I broke my promise. I broke it like Ted Williams broke hitting records. I shattered it.

Lying in bed Friday night, I couldn’t sleep at all. Despite Orlando’s heroic climb, I still felt nervous. Butterflies played musical chairs in my stomach. It was thinking about the Hog City Haymakers that did it.

We had beaten them to win the championship last year. But that was then, as Flicker said, and this was now.

This was a new season. A new, cold, snowy season that was supposed to be spring but looked and felt an awful lot like winter.

This was a frozen field and cold bats that
stung your hands like swarms of bees and a center fielder who ran into walls.

This was the Hog City Haymakers out for vengeance. A team that would stop at nothing to get back the championship they thought they owned and we had stolen.

This was Flicker Pringle, the biggest, meanest Haymaker of them all. The kid with the best fastball anyone had ever seen. Or not. It moved so fast you couldn’t.

The butterflies in my stomach started turning cartwheels. They did leaps and flips and forward rolls. It was regular butterfly gymnastics down there.

There’s only one thing for butterfly gymnastics.

Fried baloney sandwiches.

I tossed aside the covers and rolled out of bed. Mr. Bones followed closely on my heels as I slipped downstairs. In the darkness of the kitchen, I started sizzling up baloney and toasting bread.

Mr. Bones sat down beside me and gazed
longingly at the smoking pan. The baloney hissed and popped. When the first batch was done, I shoveled it onto the bread and filled the pan again. Mr. Bones began to drool. The toaster ejected four more slices of bread, and I loaded them up with hot baloney.

I was so busy I didn’t hear my dad slip into the kitchen.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “Hungry?”

He looked at me. He looked at the pan on the stove. He looked at the stack of sandwiches on the plate. He looked at the clock on the wall.

“You’re cooking,” he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I thought the furnace was acting up. The whole house is full of smoke. Do you know what time it is?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Worried about the game?” he asked.

I nodded.

“As far as I know, you guys are still the
champs. You beat the Haymakers last year, remember? They’re the ones who should be concerned.”

I flipped the last sandwich onto the stack and clicked off the stove.

“Last year we didn’t have a center fielder who ran into walls,” I said, carrying the feast to the table. “If Orlando’s new shoes don’t work, he’s going to knock himself goofy. And probably cost us the home opener.”

“New shoes?” Dad asked.

“Long story,” I said, reaching for a fried baloney sandwich. “You want one?”

“You go ahead,” Dad said. “Eat.”

Eat I did. So did Mr. Bones. A fried baloney sandwich for me, a fried baloney sandwich for Mr. Bones. Then another one for me and another one for him.

We ate our way clean through a pound of baloney and a whole loaf of old Leadbelly Sinker Bread.

The sandwiches did their trick. By the time I
finished eating, I was too stuffed to worry about much of anything. Except maybe popping the buttons on my pajamas.

“Now get some sleep,” Dad said. “You still have a game tomorrow, you know.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said. “That’s what got me going in the first place.”

I lumbered back upstairs and heaved myself into bed. Mr. Bones jumped up there with me and curled into a ball at my feet.

For the rest of the night, my room was like a forest. I slept like a log, and Mr. Bones slept like a rock.