The Zippity Zinger #4 (9 page)

My Yellow Team had used four pitchers, and for one reason or another, they all had to leave the game. Even our ace, Ryan Shimozato, who had pitched every one of his Little League games since first grade without so much as a sprained ankle, had to leave the field. Normally, Ryan's a ball-throwing machine, but, wouldn't you know it, in the last inning of the Olympiad game, he trips over second base on his way to third and lands on his right hand. His pitching hand.

I had been sitting on the bench the whole game. Actually, I had been sitting on my mitt with the ball in it, which is not all that comfortable. Papa Pete hadn't shown up with Cheerio. My confidence level was so low, it felt like it was around my ankles.

When I saw Ryan catch his left foot under the second base bag, my heart sank. He flew through the air as if in slow motion, bounced on his right side, and, yup, landed on his right pitching hand.

Everyone in the stands was up on their feet. Only one person on that whole entire field was high-fiving the rest of his teammates. You know who that was ... of course you do. It was Nicky Ticky McKelty.

“Alright!” the big moron yelled. “They lost another pitcher! The Blue Team rules!”

Ms. Adolf, who was umping the game, ran as best as she could to see if Ryan was okay. I could tell he was trying not to cry in front of that big crowd. I know how that feels. I started yelling, “Way to go, Ryan! You are the coolest!”

Ashley tried to put me in to pitch for Ryan, but I refused. I was waiting for Cheerio before I'd step out on that field. So she put Heather Payne in. Heather managed to strike Sasha Nabakov out, which wasn't that hard because Sasha just moved here from Russia and they don't even have softball there. Then Heather threw a big, fat, slow ball to Hector Ruiz and he hit a double. Ashley called a time-out.

She and Frankie came running up to me. I was on the bench behind the chain-link fence, and with Ashley and Frankie on the other side, I felt like I was in a television show about prison where I was the prisoner and they were my visitors.

“Hank, we need you,” Ash said.

“No, you don't,” I answered.

“Yes, we do,” added Frankie. “It's the last inning. We only have one out. The tying run is on. Heather can't pitch her way out of a paper bag. We need you to pitch, Zip, or we could lose this game.”

“You think you need me, but your thoughts are kablooey,” I said.

“Hank, we're out of pitchers,” Ashley pleaded. “Come on!!! You can do this. As manager, I know these things. You've done this before, Hank.”

“Hey, Frankie, you do it,” I said, as if I had just come up with a great idea.

“I'm catching,” Frankie said. “Hank, breathe. And I'm talking really deep. All you have to do is just listen to the sound of my voice.”

“Hey, guys, turn around,” I said to Ashley and Frankie.

They did and saw what I saw. The entire crowd was leaning forward, trying to hear what was going on.

“Hank, you can do this. Correction. You
have
to do it. Just keep your eyes on where you want the ball to go,” Frankie said, getting in my face. “It's you and me. We can do this.”

“I'm so scared,” I whispered. “I can't stop my hands from shaking.”

I put my hands in my pockets so no one would notice them quivering. I looked out in the stands, hoping desperately that Papa Pete had arrived with Cheerio. He hadn't, but I did see my mom and dad walking out onto the field. Emily was with them, and she was looking very happy. She probably knocked them dead in the Brain Buster. And here I was, too scared to even go out on the field.

All of a sudden, Nick the Tick started yelling at me from the Blue Team bench.

“Pitcher has a bellyache. Pitcher has a headache. Pitcher is a wimp.” His team started laughing really hard. Ms. Adolf left her place behind home plate and headed straight for us. I'm not trying to be rude, but you've got to see Ms. Adolf in her umpire's outfit. She looked prehistoric. With her face mask and chest plate and leg guards that went from her knees to her ankles, she looked like a very angry brontosaurus. The shin guards made her walk stiff-legged, so she kicked up a cloud of dust as she moved toward us.

“Oh, no. This is just what I need now,” I said to Ashley, who turned around just in time to see the Adolfosaurus looming large above her.

“Manager Wong, what seems to be the problem?” Ms. Adolf snarled.

“I'm just making a decision about who's going in to pitch,” Ashley said, trying to sound casual.

“If you don't make a decision right away, and I mean in fifteen seconds, the Blue Team will win by default. Am I clear?” Ms. Adolf said.

“Ms. Adolf, we truly need Hank on the mound, but he's afraid he will make a fool of himself,” Frankie explained.

“Just concentrate,” Ms. Adolf told me. “Keep your eye on where you want the ball to go.”

“That's exactly what Frankie told him,” Ashley said exactly.

“We're talking word for word,” Frankie said.

Oh, great, just great. Let me see if I've got this right. My parents are both here with my smarty pants younger sister. Nick the Tick is yelling at me and his Blue Team is falling all over themselves, laughing at me. Ms. Adolf has given me fifteen seconds to walk out to the mound and embarrass myself for as long as
I
live or lose the game for my team. And I feel ... what do I feel?

“HANK, IT'S NOW OR NEVER,” I said to myself.

“Okay, Frankie. It's you and me.”

I did it. I walked onto the field without saying another word. I did not look to the right or left. I did not even look at my parents. As I made my way to the pitcher's mound, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I heard a full orchestra playing marching music in my head.

“Concentrate, Hank,” I kept repeating over and over. I turned around to face home plate. Frankie was right where he was supposed to be, kneeling down in the catcher's position.

And then there was silence!

I'm not kidding. If the crowd was yelling, if McKelty was screaming his big thick head off, I couldn't hear any of them.

Frankie looked at me through the protective bars of his catcher's mask. Man, was he intense. It felt as if there was a thread connecting his eyes with my eyes.

As if in slow motion, he nodded his head up and down. I knew what he was saying to me, too. “You can do this, Hank. Keep your eye on my mitt. Let's go, Zip Man.” He said all that with just a nod.

It was one out and we were ahead by one run. Hector Ruiz was on second base and Katie Sperling was up at bat.

“Pitch the ball, Hank!” I screamed silently to myself.

Frankie's eyes were screaming the same thing.

I put my feet on the mound, which was really a strip of rubber just big enough for your sneaker. I started to wind up. First, I twisted my upper body around so it was facing second base, while my lower body faced home plate. Then I stuck out my left leg. No ... right. I bent at the waist so my head was pointing toward third base. The whole time, my right hand was holding the ball that was resting in the palm of my mitt. Then, I stretched both arms toward first base, raised them over my head as high as I could, and let the ball go—underhand—toward Frankie's mitt.

There it was—my pitch.

I'm sure my technique must have looked a little strange, because everyone in the crowd seemed to be staring at me with their mouths open.

The ball flew through the space between me and Katie and,
whop
! It sailed past her and into Frankie's mitt.

“Strike one!” Ms. Adolf yelled as her hand shot out from her side to make the strike sign.

Before she put the bat back in the ready position, Katie looked at me and cocked her head as if to say, “Hank, come on ... it's me, Katie.”

Frankie knows I can't really catch well, so he threw the ball back to me short so it would hit the ground and roll the rest of the way. I scooped up the ball in my mitt and got ready for another Zippity Zinger. I let the ball go the same way as before, only this time Katie connected with the ball and it came straight at me.

I panicked. I can't catch, remember? I didn't want to let the other team score, so I turned my body to the right and stopped the ball with my left side. My entire left side. Oh, wow, oh, wowie, did that hurt.

The ball hit me and dropped to the ground. I picked it up and threw it to the first baseman, who caught it and tagged the base. Ms. Adolf called Katie Sperling, “Out!”

Katie returned to her bench without looking back at me. Her team greeted her with, “Way to go, Katie. Good try, kid.” Nick McKelty's big ham of a hand slapped her on the back and she almost fell face first onto the bench.

Two outs and only one more to go.

Oh
,
no. McKelty is up.

On his way to the batter's box, Nick the Tick picked up every bat leaning against the fence. Finally, he decided on the one he calls the Aluminum Beauty.

As he walked up to the plate, he never took his eyes off me. And he didn't stop talking either.

“Hey, Zipper Head, you going to stop my ball with your head? Hey, Zippy, you pitch like a mouse. Alright. Give me what you got. Oh, right, that would be nothing.”

“Nicholas, remember to practice sportsman-ship,” Ms. Adolf reminded him. Like that big jerk had ever heard of the word.

Just before McKelty went into his stance, he pointed his bat toward the outfield.

“That's where I'm going to hit the ball,” he shouted. Principal Love thought that was just great. He smiled as McKelty shoved his bat in the air toward Amsterdam Avenue, which was just beyond the fence.

I could feel myself starting to fall apart. I blinked my eyes. They were starting to get blurry.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a dust cloud moving along under the bleachers. A tiny tornado was making its way under the second row. Everyone sitting in that row started waving their arms to clear the air.

Fortunately and unfortunately, the answer to that question was yes. I had gotten my wish, alright. Papa Pete did show up with Cheerio. But Cheerio had broken free of his leash, and Papa Pete was trying to grab him as he spun his way along the bleachers to the field. Every time Papa Pete reached for Cheerio, my nutty little dog would yip and twirl away from him like an out-of-control ballerina. Cheerio, my little dust devil, was making his way to the batter's box. And rather quickly, I might add.

McKelty jumped out of the way just in time to avoid Cheerio, but Ms. Adolf wasn't so quick. Cheerio spun out onto the field, doing his crazy circle dance around her. She tried to step out of his way, but she couldn't move too well with all her umpire gear on. Cheerio lodged himself somewhere between her right foot and her left foot, and kept spinning. Ms. Adolf went down like a sack of potatoes. She sprawled on the dust like a brontosaurus trapped in a tar pit. And the cherry on top was Papa Pete crawling like a gigantic version of a land crab, trying to grab Cheerio's leash just before that hot dog took off again.

I couldn't believe my eyes. One thing I did know, however:

So much for the Hopi totem spirits.

IT TOOK A FEW MINUTES to catch Cheerio. My mom and dad ran out on the field, and Emily, too, but Cheerio kept escaping when they tried to grab him. It was Papa Pete who finally captured him by tossing his red warm-up jacket over him and scooping him up in his arms. Poor Cheerio. He looked like a shiny, red banana. Everyone in the crowd was laughing, and when my little dog poked his face out of the jacket, he looked scared.

“That's okay, fella,” Papa Pete said to him in a really gentle voice. “Let's wave to the nice people out there.”

Papa Pete held up one of Cheerio's paws and waved it toward the bleachers. Everyone cheered, and I could see Cheerio's tail start to wag underneath the jacket. I was glad he wasn't scared anymore.

Luckily, Ms. Adolf wasn't hurt. I guess all that brontosaurus gear protected her. She was pretty messy, though, and my mom and dad helped her brush all the dirt off. While they were cleaning her up, Frankie and Ashley took the opportunity to come to the pitcher's mound to see how I was doing.

“Well, there's your powerful animal spirit,” Frankie said, pointing at Cheerio, who was snuggled up in Papa Pete's arms.

I didn't answer Frankie.

“Zip,” Frankie said louder, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes. “Over here. Look at me. We have a game to win, remember?”

“What do I do now?” I wanted to know. “I can't concentrate on the game.”

“Listen to me, Zippola,” Frankie said in his no nonsense voice. “Forget the socks. Forget Cheerio. Just concentrate on my glove and throw the ball.”