Thumb on a Diamond (9 page)

“Leon?” said Mr. Entwhistle on the tugboat as we headed back home. “When are you going to take off your thumb for me, lad? I'd love to see how this contraption of yours works.”

“Not on the boat. I might drop it and then it might roll overboard. I'll do it as soon as we get back,” I promised.

When we were close to our village, Big Charlie's fishing boat, decorated with banners and flags, pulled next to the tugboat and we all crossed over. We waved goodbye to the tugboat captain and crew and pulled away, heading for the gap between the mountains where New Auckland lay hidden from view.

We rounded Linda Evers Mountain. The beach was lined with villagers, cheering and waving. Five small motorboats weaved around us, waiting to take us to the dock so that we could all arrive together.

“There's a little ceremony planned for the gym,” said Annie Pritchard as I stepped onto the dock.

“But we just won one game. It was no big deal.”

“I know,” said Annie. “We're all proud but the real reason we want to bring everyone into the gym is that this is the perfect excuse for all of us to be together when you take off your thumb for Mr. Entwhistle.” She was grinning. “Do you have the box I carved for you?”

“Yeah. It's in my gym bag.”

“Perfect. Let's go.”

The team lined up across the middle of the gym floor. The stands were filled with our mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and friends. I knew everyone.

Big Charlie, our mayor when we needed one, made a short speech about how the mighty New Auckland team had defeated the Vancouver all-stars in a game of baseball, a game that required grass and a huge playing field.

One of the reasons Big Charlie was our mayor was that we didn't have a speaker system. Big Charlie's voice was so loud that he didn't need one. Another reason was that Big Charlie's speeches were always short.

Big Charlie invited everyone to cheer again, louder.

“Now,” said Big Charlie, rubbing his hands together. “One of the two coaches of our fine baseball team is an Englishman who never even saw a game of baseball before traveling down to Vancouver with our kids. Come on up here, Mr. Entwhistle.”

Mr. Entwhistle walked over to Big Charlie.

“Actually,” he whispered to Big Charlie, “I've seen a few baseball games.”

“Doesn't make any difference,” Big Charlie whispered back. “It's a better tale if you've never seen a game.”

“Mr. Entwhistle,” shouted Big Charlie to the crowd, “has been wanting to see Thumb take off his thumb. What do you say, Thumb? Would you do it now, please?”

The crowd cheered but nobody smiled or leaned over to whisper to a neighbor. They knew that you could only sell a joke if the person you were planning to fool didn't think they were about to be tricked.

I reached into my gym bag and pulled out the box that Annie Pritchard had carved. There was a carving of Raven on top. Raven is the trickster for most of the native people that live along the coast.

I walked forward and stood beside Mr. Entwhistle.

Mr. Entwhistle stared down at the box. He stared hard.

“That box,” he said. “It's beautiful.”

“Annie carved it for me. Well, for my thumb,” I said, trying to keep my voice normal.

“Annie can carve?”

“I've never seen her carve anything except this box, but she sure did a good job so I guess she can carve pretty well.”

If Mr. Entwhistle had any thoughts that my thumb might be some sort of practical joke, the box seemed to convince him that I really could take off my thumb. The box was a work of art. He didn't ask to hold it, which was good, since it had a hole in the bottom where I stuck my thumb when I pretended to take it off. But he did stare at the box, putting his face as close as he could and admiring the details.

I wiggled all my fingers and my thumb and then reached into my pocket for the small screwdriver I kept there. I showed Mr. Entwhistle the screwdriver and then turned my back to him. I pretended to unscrew tiny little screws on each side of my thumb. I slipped the screwdriver back into my pocket, and then slid my thumb into the hole in the bottom of the box, adjusting the cotton at the bottom so that Mr. Entwhistle couldn't tell that my thumb was still attached.

I closed the lid, turned around and faced Mr. Entwhistle, holding the box so that he and I were standing side by side in front of the bleachers. I took a deep breath and opened the lid.

Mr. Entwhistle leaned over to take a good look at my thumb. He stared at the thumb and at the cotton underneath. Big Charlie moved up so that he could catch Mr. Entwhistle if he fainted.

I waited a couple of seconds. I even glanced up and grinned at the audience while Mr. Entwhistle inspected my thumb closely.

I winked at the audience, and then I wiggled my thumb.

The idea, of course, was that Mr. Entwhistle was supposed to scream or faint or leap into the air or do something funny that we could all laugh about for weeks.

Mr. Entwhistle stayed motionless, bent over the box. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his leather glasses case, opened it and slipped his glasses on his nose so that he could take a closer look.

I frowned and wiggled my thumb again, nodding toward the audience so that they'd know what I was doing. Mr. Entwhistle rubbed his chin, like Sherlock Holmes figuring out some clue. He thought for a moment and then leaned way over so that he could see the bottom of the box and the hole.

He stood up and laughed.

“Oh, that is a good one, Thumb. You almost scared me to death. You did. What a terrific little joke. I love it. Wiggle it again. My word. I have never been so frightened in all my life.”

“You sure didn't look that frightened,” said Big Charlie.

“I never show fear,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I'm English.”

* * *

I HAVE MY OWN CHILDREN
now. We go back to New Auckland each summer and stay in Mr. Entwhistle's old cottage with its rounded doors and cedar floors. Mr. Entwhistle retired to England after he wrote his last tale about Bobbie and Bernice Beaver.

Every summer I take my kids into the school in New Auckland and show them a small trophy in a glass case there. A golden baseball player stands on top of that trophy, gazing out toward an invisible pitcher. His bat is off his shoulders, poised to swing.

There's a plaque on the base of the trophy. It says Sixth Place. Provincial Middle School Baseball Championships. Our single victory earned us sixth place for a team from a village without grass or a field large enough to hit a ball.

We didn't even know that we were going to get a trophy. It arrived by seaplane, of course. Each team member got to take it home for an entire night before it made its way to the trophy case.

My son and my daughter play baseball on a team in the city. They like it but I doubt if they get the same shivers of fear and excitement that the New Auckland Beavers felt when they played.

They do reach down and rub their hands through the grass for luck just before each game, though. It's a family tradition.