Wing Ding (10 page)

R
ambletown Field buzzed with activity when I arrived. A fire engine flashed in the parking lot. The school marching band warmed up on the infield, trumpets tooting, tubas burping. Baton twirlers pranced in the on-deck area.

The place looked spectacular, not a single blade of grass out of place. Overnight, the wind had remained steady, keeping the grasshoppers pinned in their clump of trees out beyond the outfield wall. Red, white, and blue bunting flapped in the breeze along the grandstand rail. Hundreds of fans already filled the seats, many waving homemade banners hand-lettered with the names of their teams—the Lumleyville
Lumberjacks, the Bixburg Blue Bottles, the Windsor Gaskets, the Pikerton Scrooges, and lots more. One whole cheering section shook cowbells.

Unfortunately, not even the Haymaker rooters drowned out the grasshoppers. They hummed louder than ever. I hoped they weren't getting ready to make a break for it.

I tried to put the bugs out of my mind as I hurried onto the diamond to meet the other All-Stars. The first person I looked for was Stump.

I found him on the top step of the home dugout, surrounded by the rest of the Rounders as he limbered up.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, full of hope.

“Pretty good,” he said, flashing a smile. But a certain stiffness in the way he moved told me that all was far from well.

We didn't have time to talk about it before Skip Lou rounded us up for the opening parade. To cries of “Good luck!” from our teammates, Stump, Ducks, and I fell into line with the other
East All-Stars. Mr. Bones came with us. That dog loves parades.

The fire engine rolled onto the field, two firefighters perched on the bumper flinging candy to kids in the stands. The marching band and majorettes massed behind the truck, followed by the players from both teams. Then the truck led us down the first-base line and into right field.

The crowd roared, fans screaming the names of their favorite players: “Mudfish!” “Choo-Choo!” “Slats!” “Flicker!”

We circled the outfield and finished by marching straight down the third baseline. As we neared home, a familiar voice rang out from the crowd.

“Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!”

I looked up and saw the lady from Hog City waving from behind the backstop. Her glittery jewelry sparkled brighter than ever as she stalked on high heels to intercept me at home plate, her pink-bowed Afghan mincing
by her side. Leading with his tongue, Mr. Bones rushed to meet them. The woman bent down to pet him and he slapped a wet one on her perfectly made-up face.

“I've been looking for you,” the woman sputtered, rising. “Princess Pinky Muffin and I googled “royal Oxford sniffing spaniel” on the internet, and we didn't find a thing, did we, looovy wooovy? Not a thing!”

Uh-oh,
I thought.

Suddenly Gasser emerged from the crowd, where he'd been watching.

“Of course you didn't!” he said, elbowing forward. “The breed is way too exclusive for the internet. Plaster the breed all over the Net, suddenly everybody and his brother wants a royal Oxford sniffing spaniel. The association would never stand for it. They prefer to keep ownership by personal invitation only. Keep away the riffraff that way.”

“Of course,” whispered the woman as I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “The association.
Hush-hush. Invitation only. Well, if you ever decide to breed this adorable creature, please let me know.” She slipped me a card. “I can furnish references. Call me.”

I waited until she was gone to look at the card. When I did, my jaw nearly hit the ground.

“No way!” I exclaimed.

“What's it say, Walloper?” Ducks demanded.

A yelp of surprise escaped his lips as he read the name spelled out in fancy pink letters on the small rectangle of cardboard:

Mrs. Priscilla Pringle

Sure enough, when I looked up again, I spotted her on the pitcher's mound, posing for a snapshot with her son, the biggest, meanest Haymaker of them all.

Then the umpire cleared the field.

“PLAY BALL!” he barked.

To the roar of the crowd and the grasshoppers, I ran onto the field with the East All-Stars.

Leading off for the West, Grant Vesper of the St. Joe Jungle Cats dug in at the plate.

Flicker Pringle glowered down at him from the hill, rolling his trademark toothpick from side to side in his mouth. For the first time in my life, I didn't mind seeing him do that. He kicked and delivered a sizzling fastball.

Whoosh
went the pitch.

“Yowch!” yelled catcher Charlie “Slats” Connolly of the Bixburg Blue Bottles, who wasn't used to Flicker's heat.

“STEE-RIKE ONE!” bleated the ump.

Strike two came hot on its heels, followed by number three. Out in the bleachers, Haymakers fans superglued a red
K
onto our freshly painted wall.

“Way to go, Flicker,” I called from third, the words sounding strange even as I spoke them.

I glanced over at press row, where all the reporters sat, and saw Gabby glaring at me. She really had a thing about Flicker.

The big, mean fireballer proceeded to whiff the next two All-Stars in order, both on wicked heaters.

If Flicker kept pitching like that, it wouldn't matter whether Stump's yips had been cured or not. He wouldn't need to make any plays. As it was, our shortstop looked relieved to dash off the field as the top half of the first came to a close.

Hitting for the East in the bottom of the inning, Choo-Choo Choo of the Bixburg Blue Bottles smashed the first pitch he saw up the middle for a base hit. Stump batted next and lashed a single to right. The yips sure didn't affect his hitting any.

Then it was my turn.

As I strode up to the plate, the home crowd stood and cheered. “Give it a ride, Walloper!” someone shouted.

I sure meant to try.

Grant Vesper stared in for a sign. He kicked and delivered. I swung with all my might and hit the ball on the nose. It soared toward center field like it had wings. It might have cleared the wall, too, if only a sudden shift in the breeze
hadn't knocked it down. “Lousy low pressure,” I muttered, remembering Slingshot's lecture from the night before. The ball bounced on the warning track, and I raced around to third, driving home the first two runs of the game.

When I looked up, I saw Pepper McGraw leaning over the third baseline, clapping like mad. He wore a Rounders cap on his head and a big smile on his face. I was glad he'd seen my triple. I wished my parents had, too. But it was only the first inning, so of course they were killing time in the parking lot.

After my hit, Grant seemed to flip a switch. He started pitching like the All-Star he was and retired the next three batters in a row, ending the inning before we could inflict any more damage.

Neither team managed any base runners in the second. The score held at 2–0. Just as important, the locusts stayed in their trees.

In the third the wind picked up, and the hitting did too. Balls began to fly out of the park.
Cheese Grabini and Chick Hernanski homered for the West. Neither player struck the ball particularly well. Cheese seemed downright surprised to catch a piece of Flicker's fastball. But the wind grabbed both flares and deposited them in the cheap seats. Hoot Fewster answered for us in the bottom half, keeping us ahead by a run, 3–2.

Flicker came out for the fourth on a mission. Still peeved at the freak taters, he blazed one smoking heater after another. Slats yelped a little louder with each pitch as the West went down in order.

The game was more than half over and Stump still hadn't needed to make a throw.

The fifth inning belonged to Ducks. He dived into the left field seats to steal a dinger from Stinkeye Boyle, hitting for the West. Then he clocked one of his own with a runner aboard when it was his turn to bat.

We moved to the sixth and final inning leading 5–2 and feeling pretty good about our
chances. For the first time all game, I allowed myself to think we were out of the woods. Neither the yips nor the locusts would mess things up for us.

Shows you how much I know.

“B
ATTER UP!” cried the ump.

Flicker blazed two darts past the West leadoff man, Snapper Po. Then he scorched another. But poor Slats, his hand tenderized by the constant pounding, couldn't hold onto it. The ball squirted away from our catcher, and Snapper alertly scampered to first on a dropped third strike.

The next guy up tried to bunt, always risky against Flicker. Shocking us all, he managed to push the ball past the pitcher without splintering his bat. Stump raced in and made a bare-handed grab at the edge of the infield grass. I held my breath as he turned toward
second to start a double play. It was his first chance of the game. And I let it out in a groan when his toss sailed wide, pulling second baseman Bunker Dodge off the bag. Both runners were safe.

Flicker took the ball back and glowered first at Slats, then at Stump.

“You clowns call yourselves All-Stars?” he growled. “My dog plays better defense.”

He proceeded to drill the very next batter square in the hip to load the bases. Behind the plate, Slats Connolly looked relieved that he didn't have to catch the ball for once.

“TAKE YOUR BASE!” commanded the ump, staring daggers at Flicker as the pitcher rolled his toothpick around in his mouth.

I don't know if Flicker hit the batter on purpose. Maybe it was his warped way of sending a message after two guys reached base on errors. I wouldn't put it past him. If so, he didn't accomplish anything except to bring the go-ahead run to the plate with no outs. Fortunately
Flicker fanned the next guy on three invisible hummers. A real fan would have been nice. We could have used it to balance the treacherous wind.

As it was, the gale grew more powerful by the second. It ripped through the park like it had claws, tearing the bunting off the grandstand and shredding the collection of red
K
s that Flicker's fans had posted on the outfield wall. In the bleachers spectators clung to one another for dear life. One false move and they'd be swept away forever.

Given the conditions, Stump didn't stand a chance when the next batter slashed a grounder toward the hole. Ranging to his right, the shortstop backhanded it neatly and came up gunning for the lead runner.

As Stump fired home, a gust rocked the grandstand. The locusts screamed. Mr. Bones raced to the top of the dugout steps and barked a blue streak. Stump's elbow danced a jig—and his toss sailed over the runner, over the catcher,
over the umpire, over everything.

One base runner crossed the plate standing. A second followed hot on his heels. All of a sudden, our lead was down to a single run.

Forgetting themselves in the excitement, West fans jumped out of their seats to cheer. Those who leaped too high instantly were carried off on the jet stream.

“Time out!” I called.

I trotted over to Stump.

“Feel like catching a movie after the game?” I asked.

He looked at me like I had two heads.

“I hear
Sherlock Drones: Detective Wars
is pretty good.” I'd read somewhere that when pro ballplayers huddled, the smart ones talked about anything other than the game. The idea was to break the tension.

My ploy didn't work on Stump. He ground his toe into the dirt, mute as a stone.

“Okay, forget it,” I said. “Just keep cool. Pepper McGraw told you to chill, right? You should
listen to him. It's all in your head.”

I was about to say more when Flicker Pringle elbowed me out of the way.

“Listen, chump,” he growled, jabbing Stump in the chest. “You blow one more easy out, you're toast.”

I gaped. Nothing like supporting a teammate.

Stump's eyes flashed. His nostrils flared. He squared his shoulders and found his voice. “Just pitch the ball, Princess Pinky Muffin.”

The fearsome pitcher nearly choked on his toothpick. Jaw clenched, he stomped back up the mound without another word. Way to go, Stump!

We slapped mitts and I jogged into position.

“PLAY BALL!” cried the ump as heavy-hitting Gravedigger Veach dug in at the plate and base runners danced at second and third.

Flicker kicked and delivered.

First-pitch swinging, Gravedigger lashed a line drive over my head. The ball rocketed
halfway to the left-field foul pole, then changed its mind and turned hard to the right. Borne by the wind, it crossed the entire width of the outfield before Buttered Toast tracked it down in the farthest reaches of right field for out number two. The base runners trotted back to their bags.

Spared disaster by the wind and a heads-up play by our right fielder, Flicker Pringle went back to work. He hurled two strikes past Mudfish LaRouche of the Pikerton Scrooges. One more would end the game. A hit would give the West the lead because with two outs, the runners would surely sprint on contact and the guy on second wouldn't stop until he slid home with the go-ahead run. The drama pulled fans to the edge of their seats. East fans cheered themselves hoarse. Those rooting for the West simply prayed.

Flicker delivered. Mudfish checked his swing.

“BALL ONE!” declared the ump.

A second ball followed, just off the inside corner.

Half the crowd groaned. The other half sighed with relief.

Out in the trees, every last grasshopper shrieked.

I glanced over at Stump. He stared home with steely concentration.

Mudfish fouled off the next pitch. Then he fouled off two more, keeping the West's hopes alive. A frustrated Flicker missed outside to fill the count: three balls, two strikes.

I glanced around the diamond. The base runners were coiled like Olympic sprinters waiting for the starting gun. With two outs and the game on the line, they surely would take off for home on Flicker's next pitch. I dropped into a crouch, ready to spring at the ball if it came my way.

“Let's go, East,” I called. “Let's win this thing!”

Flicker brought his hands together above
his head. Mudfish cocked his bat. The runner on second inched toward third. The runner on third leaned for home. The wind hammered. The locusts wailed.

Just then, a yellow comet streaked across the grass.

“Mr. Bones!” I shouted after it. “Come back!”

He did not come back. He flashed through the outfield and leaped the wall at a single bound.

By then the pitch was halfway to the plate. Mudfish met it with a wicked swing. Right up the middle the ball bounded.

Right at Stump.

The shortstop speared the blast on one bounce and turned toward first, where big Hoot Fewster opened his glove to receive the throw. As Stump gripped the ball, a mighty
whoosh
filled the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Slats fling off his mask and point toward the sky.

“Oh, Mr. Bones!” I cried. For I knew right
then that my dog had finally rousted his mortal foes. The grasshoppers rose from the trees in a great, darkening cloud.

For a split second longer, the wind gusted as if it aimed to blow Rambletown Field clean off the map.

Then, abruptly, it stopped, checked at last by the combined power of ten billion pairs of wings beating hard against it.

Air pressure!
I thought.

Stump never wavered. In the sudden calm, he whipped the ball. The red-stitched orb spun through the still air and found its mark, straight and true.

“OUT!” bayed the ump as the ball settled into Hoot's outstretched mitt.

His cry seemed to break a spell.

Arms raised high, Hoot leaped into the air. Stump ran to meet him. I raced to join the party. Everybody else had the same idea at the same time, including Mr. Bones, who careened across the field and pounced on Stump's back,
riding him to the ground. Before I knew exactly what happened, I found myself rolling in a giant pig pile on the sweet, soft grass.

“Nice throw, buddy!” I shouted.

“Nothing to it,” came Stump's muffled reply from somewhere below me.

Then I turned over on my back and looked up at the sky.

Not a locust in sight. As surely as Stump's yips, they had vanished.

I hoped never to see either again.