Wall Ball (5 page)

“L
et us now turn our attention to the blackboard,” said Mr. Swickle. “You will notice where I have inscribed a poem for our mutual pleasure and enlightenment.”

April is National Poetry Month. Mr. Swickle celebrated the occasion by starting every morning with a new poem. I guess it could have been worse. April could have been National Long Division Month or something.

Surprisingly, a few of the poems actually were okay. They hardly seemed like poems at all. The best ones used normal words that sometimes didn’t even rhyme and they could be about almost anything you could think
of. Such as jumping off a rope swing into a cool pond on a hot day.

A real hot day would have been nice. It would’ve melted the snow.

“As you can see, today’s selection is called ‘Father Time Is Coming’ by the poet J. Patrick Lewis,” Mr. Swickle said. “It’s about a subject near and dear to many of our hearts—baseball. Who would like to read it?”

A half dozen hands shot into the air, including mine. I’d never heard of the poem, but I knew you couldn’t beat the subject.

“Gabby? Excellent. Begin when you’re ready.”

Gabby stood at her desk and cleared her throat. “Father Time Is Coming,’” she read. “‘Out of a windmill windup, the whipcord arm grooves a dartball.’”

I sat up a little straighter in my chair. In my head I could see the hurler whipping his pitch. I didn’t know what a dartball was, but it sure sounded nasty. Gabby continued
reading through a list of weapons this cool character had in his arsenal. Forget about ordinary fastballs and curves. The guy’s stuff included the “two-hump blooper” and the “radioball”—you could hear it, but you never saw it. That last one reminded me of Flicker Pringle, star pitcher of the Hog City Haymakers. He whips the ball so hard it’s nothing but a blur.

“‘I’m Satchel,’” Gabby recited, reaching the poem’s last line. “‘I do as I do.’”

Suddenly the words made sense. A whole lot of sense. They were about the real-life, old-time ace Satchel Paige.

“Well done, Gabby,” Mr. Swickle said. “Thank you.” He walked around his desk and sat on the front edge. “Can anybody tell us anything about Satchel Paige?”

Immediately, Stump’s hand shot up. Big surprise. His idea of a clever verse may have begun and ended with “He who smelt it, dealt it.” But his knowledge of baseball was tops.

“He was a pitcher,” Stump said. “Maybe the best ever.”

“Very good.” Mr. Swickle nodded. “Anything else?”

“Sure,” continued Stump, warming up to his task. “Satchel started in the Negro Leagues. This was like eighty years ago, back when African Americans weren’t allowed to play in the bigs. He had really nasty stuff. But nobody knew exactly how good he really was, because he couldn’t pitch against major-league hitters. They finally found out after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in 1947. That’s when African Americans entered the major leagues for the first time. The next year, Satchel joined the Cleveland Indians. He was an old man by then, like more than forty.”

“Ancient,” said Mr. Swickle. “Older than Methuselah.”

“I don’t know who this Methuselah character is,” said Stump, frowning. “Did he play for the Reds maybe?”

“Never mind. A little joke,” said Mr. Swickle with a twinkle in his eye. “Go on, Stump. You’re doing great.”

“Well, a lot of people figured major-league batters would knock Satchel down a notch or two. Plus, like you said, the guy was older than Methuseh-whoever. His best years were behind him. But Satchel rocked their world. He blew people away with these crazy pitches nobody had ever seen.”

Slingshot raised his hand, and Mr. Swickle called on him.

“Satchel had names for all his pitches,” the Rambletown pitcher said admiringly. “The poem talks about some of them. The looper, the drooper, the two-hump blooper.”

“It sounds as though this guy had a lot of fun,” Mr. Swickle observed.

“Nothing in the world is more fun than whiffing a batter,” Slingshot said firmly. He would know. Our own ace pitcher had fanned more than his share.

“Why do you think the poet calls his poem ‘Father Time Is Coming?’” asked Mr. Swickle.

“Easy,” said Stump. “Because Satchel was so old.”

“So, the best hitters in the world learned to respect Satchel?” Mr. Swickle asked.

“More than respect. They were awed. Yankee Hall of Famer Joe DiMaggio, he’s in the poem, called him the best and fastest pitcher he’d ever seen,” said Stump. “Satchel’s enshrined alongside DiMaggio in Cooperstown now.”

“Very impressive, Stump,” said Mr. Swickle. “You sure do know your stuff.”

“Got to,” said Stump. “I’m a ballplayer. Need to know the history of my game.”

“If only you approached regular history with the same diligence,” Mr. Swickle said with a smile.

We all laughed. Stump’s face turned as red as his stand-up hair, but he smiled too.

We spent another half hour discussing Satchel Paige and baseball and what it meant
to be a hero. Every so often, I looked over at Orlando. His mouth hung open and his eyes bugged wide. Apparently they didn’t cover baseball at his old school.

“When a rare individual like Satchel Paige comes along,” said Mr. Swickle, “a Mozart, a Picasso, an Einstein, well, their extraordinary accomplishments seem to elevate the whole human race.”

It was a pretty intense idea for a Monday morning. The first day back from vacation, no less. But I thought I understood what he meant. Just knowing that Satchel could do what he did, could overcome so many barriers and accomplish something great, it made you feel good inside. It made you feel hopeful and proud and amazed. To me, that’s what the poem was about.

In any case, it was one of the best classes ever. I wished Mr. Swickle would give us more poems about baseball. It almost took my mind off the fact that Rambletown Field was still
buried under ten feet of snow.

Almost.

Then I happened to glance out the window and catch a glimpse of Mount Rambletown. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought one of the presidents winked.

Seeing that thing looming like a gigantic soft-serve ice-cream cone brought me back to reality in a hurry. It reminded me that we could gab about baseball all we wanted; but until the snow melted, the Rounders wouldn’t be playing much of it.

Not very well we wouldn’t.

M
y fears were borne out at practice the next afternoon.

Mr. Bones and I arrived at Rambletown Field at four o’clock sharp on Tuesday and immediately started shoveling snow off the diamond.

Again.

Or at least I did. Mr. Bones scampered up the heaps of snow piled around the edge of the infield and slid down on his belly.

“He should be in the Olympics.” Gabby laughed, snapping away with her camera. “The bobsled. But that obnoxious plaid coat has got to go.”

“Shhh! Don’t let him hear you,” I said. “He
doesn’t know it’s plaid. Dogs are color-blind.”

“Ahhh,” said Gabby. “That explains it.”

She took another picture.

“Please don’t put that in the paper,” I begged.

Gilly Wishes showed up and helped me dig out third base. Then I helped him clear a path from home to first. The other guys worked to get the rest of the diamond into some kind of shape. The town plows had already visited the outfield, I could see, leaving behind their usual thin layer of snow.

As we shoveled, Skip Lou ambled about, giving encouragement. He stamped his boots on the frozen ground and slapped his thick gloves together.

“Fine afternoon for baseball!” he said unconvincingly. “What a great time of year. Excitement in the air, first game of the season only days away!”

I looked up at the sky. I didn’t see any excitement in the air. The only thing I saw were snow flurries.

Skip smiled broadly and wandered away to greet the rest of the team.

Gilly and I exchanged perplexed glances. Poor Skip was in serious denial.

After we finished scraping snow off the field, practice began. The infielders started by tossing the ball around the horn. Having learned our lesson last week, we removed our winter mittens and wore only our baseball gloves. From the mound, Slingshot fired the ball home to Tugboat. The catcher squeezed the ball and whipped it to me at third. I quickly turned and gunned it to the Glove at second base, who flipped it to Stump, covering the bag. Stump relayed it to Gilly at first, who tossed it back to Slingshot. Then the whole thing started over again.

“Hot potato!” called Tugboat, scorching the ball to me. “Get rid of it fast.”

A real hot potato would have been nice. It would’ve warmed up our cold, red hands.

Meanwhile, Skip Lou worked with the
outfielders. He stood at the edge of left field and hit flies to Ducks, Orlando, Ocho, and all-around back-up player Kid Rabbit. They raced to get under the ball and make the catch. Whoever snagged it on the fly scored a hundred points. The first player to get to five hundred would replace Skip at bat.

Skip smacked a long, high drive. The fielders took off after it, their scarves flapping in the wind like kite tails.

“I got it!” cried Orlando.

Running full tilt, he reached out with his glove. The ball settled into it as lightly as a bird returning to its nest. Then Orlando slammed on the brakes. If he had been a car traveling on a dry road, his tires would have laid down serious rubber. But he wasn’t a car. He was a baseball player, sliding out of control across a slippery field toward a looming wall.

“Look out, Orlando!” I yelled from third.

Mr. Bones dashed over and hid his eyes behind my knees.

None of us could bear to look.

We didn’t have to. Our ears told us all we needed to know.

Sha-bam!

Orlando had done it again. He had made a great catch and nearly killed himself doing it. Before we could run out to check on him, he popped up to his feet.

“I’m okay,” he shouted. Grinning crazily, he fired the ball back to Skip.

“This is not good,” muttered the Glove. “We need to figure out some way to help him.”

“What we need,” grumbled Tugboat, “is for winter to end and spring to begin. I don’t know about you guys, but my hands are freezing.”

As we talked, we heard a terrible whooping. Snowballs filled the air. A fat one nailed me square in the chest.

Yowch!

That smarted. Really smarted.

I turned to find out who had thrown it and saw a band of Vikings storming the field. Our
field. The big, hairy marauders shouted war cries and fired snowballs every step of the way. Icicles dripped from their bushy mustaches and beards. Leading the charge was a tall warrior with a mean face and a meaner arm. He wound up and whistled a cold one inches over my head. I would’ve recognized that delivery anywhere.

It belonged to none other than Flicker Pringle, star pitcher of the Hog City Haymakers.

“Take cover,” I shouted to the guys. “Defend our turf!”

“What turf?” the Glove asked. “All I see is snow.”

“You know what I mean,” I said as our rivals charged forward.

Dodging a storm of snowballs, we scrambled behind the mounded snowbank along the first baseline and swiftly packed a stockpile of ammunition.

“On three!” Slingshot yelled.

He gave the count, and we sprang out of our bunker and returned fire. Meanwhile, Kid Rabbit led a flanking movement from left field. As we blasted away, the outfielders maneuvered behind the Haymakers. The invaders had nowhere to hide. Our snowballs crashed down on them like meteors.

“You’re just mad we beat you for the pennant,” I shouted.

“That was last year,” bellowed Flicker from atop the pitcher’s mound. “This is now. You won’t get lucky twice!”

Lucky! Luck had nothing to do with it. We’d beaten them fair and square.

His eyes were smoky and full of fire as he reared back and blasted another snowball my way. His long arm snapped like a whip. The frozen sphere sliced the cold air like a hot comet.

Holy hand grenades!

It was coming right at me!

I dropped behind the bank and tried to
get small. But the ball was coming too fast, a whizzing, dimpled blur with my name on it. I squeezed my eyes shut and prepared to meet my maker.

The icy blast never came.

Instead, a metallic clink rang out inches from my face. It sounded like an aluminum bat meeting a baseball.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring close-up at a metal tube. I blinked, and the object came into focus. It was Gasser’s crutch. Gasser himself lay sprawled across the snow, the crutch extending from his outstretched arms. Right down by the tip was a big white blotch, the harmless remains of Flicker’s snowball. Gasser had batted it away at the last second.

“Thanks, dude,” I said. “I thought I was a goner!”

“No problem,” he said. “These things are pretty handy.”

We sprang up to return the volley, but the Haymakers had already pulled out of range.
They slipped safely through the gate, jeering all the way.

“See you Saturday, chumps!” yelled Flicker as he and his gang disappeared into the flakes swirling down from the cold, gray sky. “Expect a serious beating!”

Then they were gone.

And we were mad.

Really mad.

S
plashed across the front of
The Rambletown Bulletin
the next day was a picture of the snow mountain at school. While my mom and dad bustled in and out of the kitchen doing morning stuff, I sat down at the table with a bowl of Pirate Crunch cereal and looked at the paper. Gabby had gotten a really good shot. You could practically feel a cold wind whistling right off the page. Huddled together for warmth, the four blurry presidents glowered down from their icy heights.

“Check it out, Mr. Bones,” I said. “How’d you like to snowboard down that?”

At the mention of snowboarding, he scampered into the mudroom and stood
under the hook with his ugly coat hanging on it. His tail wagged like a metronome set on high.

“Sorry, pal,” I said. “Not today. I’ve got school. Plus, this is one mountain we’re supposed to stay away from. Principal’s orders.”

I turned back to the picture.

The caption said:

“Mom,” I said, slipping a piece of toast to Mr. Bones under the table. “Remind me again which presidents are carved into Mount Rushmore?”

“Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln.” Mom ticked off the names. “Teddy
Roosevelt, that is. Not Franklin. Social studies assignment, Banjie?”

“Do these guys look like them?” I asked as Mr. Bones licked my hand.

“Which guys?” Setting her coffee mug on the table, Mom leaned over my shoulder and peered at the paper.

“Oh…my…goodness,” she exclaimed. “What is that?”

“We call it Mount Rambletown. Principal Gorton says everybody has to stay off it.”

“I should think so,” Mom said. She leaned closer. “These are different presidents. It looks like John Adams, Franklin Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, and…Who is that last one?”

My dad breezed into the kitchen, knotting his tie.

“What’s so interesting?”

He leaned over Mom, who was still leaning over me. I felt like the front end of a collapsing Slinky.

“Ah,” he said. “Mount Rushmore.”

“Look closer,” said my mom.

Dad bent closer, setting off a chain reaction. Another inch and I’d be snorting Pirate Crunch through my nose.

“How about some breathing room?” I hissed, bracing my hands against the edge of the wooden table. I felt like a glass of orange juice. Freshly squeezed.

Dad backed off a little.

“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Is that Millard Fillmore, our thirteenth president? What’s he doing up there? Where’s George Washington?”

“It’s not Mount Rushmore,” I said to set my dad straight. “It’s the snow heap at school. Read the caption.”

Dad read.

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” he blurted. “Right here in Rambletown? This thing could be huge.”

“It is huge,” I assured him. “It takes up
half the parking lot. The peak is shrouded in clouds.”

“I mean, it’s big news. When word gets out, people are going to want to see this thing. Tourists will come from all over.”

“You’re kind of crowding us, honey,” Mom said. She slipped from between us like a tomato escaping from a sandwich. “I think that one on the end is Calvin Coolidge,” she added. “Not Millard Fillmore.”

“Really?” asked Dad. “I don’t know. Franklin Pierce, perhaps? One of those obscure middle guys.”

“Taft,” I suggested.

Dad stepped over to the counter and popped some bread into the toaster. I took advantage of the elbow room to eat some cereal. With my mouth.

“William Howard Taft was gigantic,” he said, shaking his head. “He was so fat, he once got stuck in his bathtub. Yep. Wedged himself in there like a cork. He was so big, he’d need
his own mountain.”

I tried to imagine someone getting wedged in a bathtub. Not a pretty picture. Even worse was what it would be like to haul the person out. One thing I knew for sure: I wouldn’t want to be the one doing the pulling.

I turned to the sports section and found another article by Gabby. This one was about how the Rounders had opened spring training in a blizzard. Above the story was a picture. It showed Orlando barreling into the wall.

The caption said:

“Way to go, Orlando.” I chuckled to myself. One day of school under his belt and he’s already famous.

I tossed aside the paper and stood up. It was time to meet the school bus. I pulled on my coat, said good-bye to my folks, and gave Mr. Bones a scratch behind his floppy ears. Then I headed out into the cold.

The big orange bus pulled into sight just as I got to the stop. I climbed up and took my usual seat next to Gabby, behind Stump and Slingshot.

“Did you know,” I said by way of greeting, “that William Howard Taft was so fat he once got stuck in his bathtub?”

My friends looked at me as if I was speaking in tongues.

“Taft,” I smugly explained. “The twenty-seventh president of the United States.”