Wall Ball (9 page)
S
lingshot kept the Haymakers off the bases in the second. When it was Flicker’s turn in the bottom half of the inning, he did too. He threw darts, BBs, bullets, missiles. We swung gamely; but as hard as he threw, we would have had more success trapping wind in a butterfly net.
Hog City added a run in the top of the third on a string of squib hits. In the bottom half, we caught a break when Ocho and the Glove reached base on back-to-back infield errors. With no outs, it looked like we stood a pretty good chance of bringing in the tying run, maybe even taking the lead.
Flicker Pringle quickly laid our hopes to rest by fanning Ducks, Stump, and me one after another.
Midway through the game, the Haymakers’ 3–1 lead was holding up better than their catchers. Flicker wore these guys out like old blue jeans. They couldn’t take more than an inning of his heat. The used-up ones sat side by side in the dugout, their swollen hands buried in tubs of ice.
Flicker didn’t care. He kept firing away. And we kept swinging.
And missing.
Slingshot pitched a one-two-three fourth inning. Flicker Pringle matched him pitch for pitch, striking out Tugboat, Orlando, and Gilly.
As we took the field for the fifth, shadows began to creep like doubt across the field. With the sun dipping toward the horizon, the afternoon turned as cold as our bats had been all day. Suddenly, it felt like winter again.
Fortunately, the Haymakers were ice-cold
too. They managed no hits in the fifth.
Slingshot led off for us in the bottom half and swung for all he was worth at Flicker’s first pitch. Maybe Flicker was tiring. Or maybe Slingshot actually saw the ball for once now that the glare from atop Mount Rambletown had died. Or it could have been nothing more than good hitting. Whatever the reason, Slingshot actually struck the ball. In the dugout, we jumped up and roared.
It was our first hit of the game since my homer way back in the top frame.
At least it would’ve been our first hit. If the ball had actually gone anywhere. It didn’t. Instead, it just disintegrated. Vanished in a puff of powder. Poof. It was gone.
I’d never seen anything like it.
“FOUL BALL!” cried the umpire.
Slingshot shook his head like a fisherman who’d let one get away. He dug in again. Flicker whipped another bullet.
Whoosh! went the pitch.
Swish! went the swing.
Poof! went the ball.
“FOUL!” roared the umpire as the ball vaporized in a fine mist. “STRIKE TWO!”
“If that don’t beat all,” said Skip Lou.
Slingshot stepped back and tucked his bat under his arm. He clapped his hands in frustration. When he stood back in, Flicker popped off another fastball.
Whoosh!
Swish!
Poof!
The ball vanished in thin air.
Again.
“FOUL BALL!” roared the umpire.
Before Flicker could throw another pitch, Billy Wishes charged out of the dugout and on to the diamond.
I wondered if maybe he was looking for his marbles. He seemed to have lost them.
“Get back here, Billy,” Skip called after him. “You can’t run on the field in the middle of a game!”
Billy kept going.
“No fair!” he shouted, rushing the mound. “He’s throwing slush balls! That’s why Slingshot can’t hit them! Flicker Pringle’s packing slush balls! He grabbed a big wad from the heap by the dugout between innings. I saw him!”
All of a sudden it got very quiet at Rambletown Field. Every person in the ballpark turned and looked toward the mound. Sure enough, Flicker Pringle was furiously dumping snow out of his oversized pitcher’s mitt.
“Way to go, Billy,” I screamed. “Great eyes, kid! I don’t know how the rest of us missed it.”
The umpire trotted out to the mound, raising his mask as he ran. He took one look at the big wet spot on Flicker’s glove where he’d been hiding the snow and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder.
“YOU’RE OUT OF HERE!” he bellowed.
Snarling like a mountain lion, Flicker stamped off the mound. He was furious, but he had no case. He’d been caught red-handed. More accurately, he’d been caught blue-handed
from packing wet snow. Why he wanted to do that, I’ll never know. It wasn’t as if he needed an edge. With an official baseball, he was already pitching a one-hitter.
In any case, he had to leave the game. There was no reason to believe any of his teammates were cheating, so the Haymakers were allowed to finish the game. But they were forced to send in a substitute pitcher.
It was thanks to Flicker Pringle’s mean-spiritedness that our luck began to change.
Unfortunately, the weather continued to change right along with it.
Thick clouds rolled in from the north and blocked out the sun as completely as if someone had drawn the blinds. With no sunlight left to reflect, the banner atop Mount Rambletown was snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane. The temperature instantly plunged. In the stands, fans broke out their blankets. All over the field, puddles of melted snow began to freeze. The footing turned from sloppy to
downright treacherous.
Slingshot took a curve for strike one from the new Haymaker hurler, Dirty Joe Dartoe, then tagged the next pitch. This time the ball did not explode. It bounced squarely between short and third for a hit. Ocho followed with a blooper into short right. The fielder charged in and slipped on a patch of new ice. By the time he came up with the ball, Ocho stood on second and Slingshot occupied third.
The Glove came up next. Swinging on the first pitch, he smashed a drive into left field. For a moment it looked like it would carry to the wall. A gust of wind knocked it down, however, and the left fielder squeezed the ball for our first out of the inning. The runners did not advance. Tugboat followed with a pop-up to first for out number two. Then Stump beat out a crafty bunt to keep our rally alive.
With two outs and the bases loaded, I came up to bat.
I’d knocked a hit off Flicker Pringle; I
meant to get one off the new guy, too.
A long one.
I took my bat from Billy, rubbing his head for luck. As I made my way to the plate, a pair of bright orange objects out in the bleachers caught my eye. I did a double take. It was Principal Gorton, waving her gloved hands in the air. Next to her sat Mr. Swickle. A group of kids in new winter coats filled the row in front of them. A few seats away, my mom and dad stood and waved. I smiled and tipped my helmet before settling in to hit.
The pitcher whipped a fastball. Compared to a Flicker Pringle fastball, it moved like frozen molasses. I practically had time to read a book.
I swung the bat and walloped the ball clear into the bleachers, where Principal Gorton caught it in her orange traffic mitts.
Grand slam!
Slingshot scored. Ocho cruised home right behind him, followed closely by Stump. Then I crossed the plate with our fifth run of the game.
The Haymakers still had only three.
Tugboat came up after me and went down quietly on strikes. Our side was retired. But we had taken the lead. We were only three outs away from a season-opening win.
A
s we jogged out to start the sixth and final frame, an icy wind howled through the ballpark. Dragon-shaped clouds filled the sky. Real dragons would have been nice. They breathe fire, and fire is warm. With the sudden deep-freeze, the field now looked like some kind of fancy dessert. It had more frosting than a birthday cake.
Slingshot wound up and let fly.
The huge Haymaker batter jumped all over the pitch, ripping a grounder toward second base. The Glove lunged, but his feet flew out from under him. As he hurtled across the icy ground on his back, the ball squirted away.
Stump pounced on it and gunned it to Gilly at first.
“SAFE!” called the umpire.
The next batter worked the count full before Slingshot buckled his knees with a nasty curveball for strike three.
Luck smiled on us when, with one out, the next hitter scorched a liner straight to center. For the first time since I’d known him, Orlando didn’t have to move an inch to make the catch. It settled into his mitt like a pigeon coming home to roost. He flung the ball back in to the Glove, then waved his arm in the air.
“Time!” he hollered.
The umpire stepped from behind the plate and removed his mask.
“What is it, son?”
“I’m stuck,” Orlando yelled. “I can’t move.”
The Haymakers roared with laughter.
The ump waved to Skip Lou on the bench. “Better see what this is about,” he said.
Skip Lou jogged carefully to center, weaving
around the larger ice patches. I followed him out from third while Ocho and Ducks trotted over from their sides of the outfield.
“It’s the shoes,” Orlando whispered as we gathered around him. He was standing in the middle of a patch of ice the size of a hockey rink. “The spikes sunk into the mud. But it’s gotten so cold, so fast, the ground froze around them while I stood here. It’s like I’m nailed into concrete.”
“Quick,” Skip Lou ordered. “Unlace those crazy things and run to the dugout for a change. You did bring an extra pair, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I brought other shoes all right,” Orlando said.
He unlaced his sandpaper spikes and sprinted to the bench in his socks. Our fans cheered him every cold step of the way. Not the Haymakers, though. They pointed and jeered.
Ducks, Ocho, and I worked on freeing the modified golf spikes. After a good bit of
wrangling, we managed to pry them loose. I handed them to Skip, who raised them in the air to more cheers from the crowd.
“Well, boys,” he said with a shake of his head. “I have now officially seen everything. I’ll tell you what. Let’s end this game before anything else crazy happens.” He trotted back to the bench, and I ran in to third.
Orlando passed me going the other way. He seemed to have gotten taller. He was also walking funny. Kind of wobbly at the ankles. He reached the big frozen pond of center field and began to glide. Then I saw what was different. The kid from Florida had swapped his spikes for a pair of ice skates.
Everyone else saw what he was up to at the same time.
“This isn’t hockey,” hooted the Haymakers. “This is baseball!”
Orlando paid no attention. Sweeping into position with a textbook hockey stop, he sprayed a fountain of shaved ice from his silver blades.
The crowd roared its approval. He was a good skater.
The Haymakers manager didn’t like it one bit. He charged out to the plate and thrust his face in the ump’s. His jaw pumped like a nutcracker’s as he complained bitterly about Orlando’s choice of footwear.
After listening politely for a few seconds, the ump threw his hands in the air.
“There’s nothing in the rule book about skates,” he said. “I guess he can wear them if he wants. Let’s just finish this crazy game.”
The manager reluctantly returned to the dugout. The Haymakers booed.
“BATTER UP!” roared the umpire.
Slingshot checked the runner on first, then snapped off a curve. The batter got a piece of it, rolling a slow one back up the middle. The ball squibbed over the mound, eluding Slingshot. Stump charged in, lost his footing, and flopped on his face. The ball hopped into short left field, where Ducks scooped it up and fired to me
covering the bag at third.
I caught his throw and swept my glove toward the sliding runner.
“SAFE!” shouted the umpire.
With two outs, the Haymakers had runners on second and third. One hit would likely tie the game. A homer would put the Haymakers ahead. We had to stop them. But how could we? We were tumbling like dice out there.
Flicker Pringle’s substitute stepped up to the plate for his first at bat of the game. If he was nervous, he sure didn’t show it. He wiped his mustache on his sleeve. It was a big handlebar job. It made him look like a walrus, if walruses could swing bats the size of telephone poles.
The runner on second edged toward third. The runner on third sneaked toward home.
Slingshot grooved a greasy slider. The batter swung. Crack! The ball rose from his bat like an eagle.
Deep center field!
Back!
Way back!
Orlando put down his head and skated.
He went faster and faster. The ball flew farther and farther. The wall came closer and closer.
“Look out, Orlando!” I yelled.
He barreled straight for the high, hard center field wall. The exact same spot he’d crashed into so many times before.
Orlando didn’t hear me. If he did, he didn’t listen. He poured on speed until he was rattling across the ice like a human bobsled. I swear sparks flew out from under his skate blades.
The ball and Orlando arrived at the wall at the same time. Orlando leaped.
“Ooooh!” groaned a thousand Rounders fans in unison, expecting the worst.
One runner crossed the plate. Two runners crossed the plate.
The entire Hog City team raced out of the visitors’ dugout and jumped up and down on
the plate. Leading the celebration was Flicker Pringle.
As he flew through the air in center, Orlando reached up with his glove. The ball disappeared. Orlando’s momentum carried him into the wall. Only this time he didn’t bounce off it.
He hit it feetfirst and stuck.
The toes of his skates bit into the wood like arrows shot from a bow. Suspended three feet above the ground with his back toward home, he reached into his mitt. Like a rabbit coming out of a magician’s hat, the baseball appeared in his hand. Orlando waved it over his head for all to see.
“YOU’RE OUT!” boomed the umpire. “GAME OVER!”
“NO WAY!” screamed Flicker. “HE CHEATED! HE USED HIS SKATES TO CLIMB THE WALL!”
“He made the catch before he stuck to the wall,” ruled the ump. “Fair catch. Game over. Besides, didn’t I already toss you?”
Flicker stomped off.
“ROUNDERS WIN! ROUNDERS WIN! ROUNDERS WIN!” yelled the announcer again and again as fans went bonkers.
Gasser led the charge from the bench. Working his crutches like ski poles, he raced out to Orlando. The whole team ran slip-sliding into the outfield behind him. Mr. Bones dashed along with us. He got to Orlando first and tried to climb the wall to lick his face.
Orlando reached down and scratched Mr. Bones behind the ears.
“I got it,” panted Gasser.
“No, you don’t,” said Gilly. “You don’t have it at all. Orlando does. He made the catch that won the game.”
“The greatest catch ever!” added Tugboat. “Way to go, bro!”
“No,” insisted Gasser, balancing on one leg as he waved his crutches in the air. “I’ve got it! I’ve got Orlando’s nickname! Velcro! Orlando “Velcro” Ramirez. He’s a superstar center
fielder who catches the ball and sticks to the wall like Velcro.”
“Word,” said Ocho.
For about half a second, we thought it over. Then we pried our center fielder off the wall and carried him from the field on our shoulders. At that moment his smile was the biggest thing in the entire city. Not even Mount Rambletown with its bizarre, flag-waving presidents topped it. The only thing that came close was the din of the frenzied crowd, a thousand voices strong, as it screamed deliriously for Orlando “Velcro” Ramirez, the center fielder who stuck to walls.
Which was altogether better than running smack into them.
