Say It Ain't So (23 page)

“Well, beggars can't be choosers,” he said. Man, talk about a ringing endorsement.

“Does that mean I'm on the team?” I asked.

“You got it, kid,” he said. “I like a little wildness in my relievers. Keeps the batters guessing. You're just lucky that wasn't my truck. It belongs to Donovan and I hate that guy.”

Again, not the most enthusiastic endorsement. But still! I was on the team! It was just for one game and it was just because Hunter had quit and it was pretty likely that I was never going to get in. But still! Lenny “the Lunatic” Norbeck, wearing a uniform. Putting on a glove. Smearing on the eye black. (I definitely needed eye black.) Lacing up the cleats. (I would need to buy cleats! My feet have grown about twelve sizes since the last time I played.) And heading to the ballpark.

“Thanks, Coach,” I said. “You won't regret it.” I looked over to the bleachers where Other Mike was sitting, cheering me on. “Oh, and if you happen to need an assistant coach for the big game, I know just the guy. My friend over there is an absolute genius and—”

“Does he have a pulse and the ability to carry a bucket of balls?” Coach Moyer asked.

“Um, one out of two?” I said.

“Tell him he's hired,” Coach Moyer said.

Team Lenny and the Mikes.

Play ball.

Griffith beat Highland in the first round of the play-offs, just as we knew they would. It wasn't even close. They pounded them, and before you could say “round one,” the run rule went into effect. A total whooping. So this set up a one-game, winner-take-all championship game. Schwenkfelder versus Griffith. Good versus evil. Mustangs versus Griffins. Which totally isn't fair if you think about it. Griffins are half eagle and half lion. In other words, the coolest animal ever. Mustangs are just horses. And not even big ones. But anyway, in this case, the Mustangs were sure to win. If I didn't blow it! My first game would be for the trophy. I was trying to not freak out.

I was failing.

I was freaking out pretty much around the clock. I didn't sleep at all. I developed these big
pouches under my eyes that made it look like my face was packing for a long trip. Because of the bags, I mean. Never mind. It got worse on the night before the game. I had weird dreams. All the normal nervous dreams everybody has. Like I was trying to run in wet grass but kept falling down. Like I was falling and couldn't stop. Like all my teeth were falling out into my baseball glove. Okay, that one might not be one that everyone has.

On the day of the game I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. I think the butterflies even had butterflies. And those butterflies had butterflies in their stomachs. Basically what we're talking about here is an infinite loop of butterflies in stomachs in butterfly stomachs. Nervous.

We had one game to win it all. We could have used Hunter, but still, we had Byron Lucas, who was going to start. And there was Noah Stewart, who had developed into a solid reliever. Plus, there was Henry Hrab and at least one or two other guys they could throw in there if they needed an extra arm. They could bring Mike in to pitch even if his arm would fall off. An armless Mike would probably be better than me.
Wait, no, stop it, Lenny!
(This is me talking to myself, a device I learned from a video online called
How to Psych Yourself
Up to the Max
. Part of the video was this guy putting his thumb through a block of wood. So I knew he knew what he was talking about.) I was supposed to shout down the negative thoughts with positive ones. The old Lenny would joke about how a one-armed man was a better pitcher than he was. Or a no-armed man. But the new Lenny believed in himself.

Or at least he tried.

The game was scheduled on a Saturday afternoon at our home stadium. That way all our friends and family could come. I showed up early at the park and tried to play it cool. Then I warmed up. It was confusing, trying to warm up and play it cool. I might have been overthinking it.

I watched the crowd start to arrive. The Norbecks were certainly there, looking happy and maybe a little nervous. I was feeling nervous myself. But also happy that they were there, you know? All the stuff with Kyle made me think how lucky I was, even if they were major dork-buckets. (Sorry, I've been hanging out with Davis too much.) Plus, I had to admit, Dad's advice to confront Mike really was the right thing to do. It didn't seem like it at the time, but it definitely was.

I saw Maria Bonzer was there, sitting on the
Schwenkfelder side.
My
side. I tipped my cap to her as I walked across the field, getting ready for the game. It felt cool, tipping my cap like that.

She waved me over. I wasn't sure if you were allowed to talk to the crowd during practice. But I was pretty sure I'd seen players in the major leagues do it.

“What's up?” I said.

“You'll never guess what I heard in the halls of Griffith Middle School yesterday,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“Swedish?”

“Huh?” I said.

“Swedish.”

“Well, that explains everything.”

“Don't you remember when you said that you thought the ninjas who punched you were speaking Swedish?” she said.

“Oh yeah!”

“Well, it's not actually Swedish. It's a made-up language.”

“No, I'm pretty sure Swedish is a real language—”

“Shut up! I mean, I'm pretty sure what you heard wasn't Swedish but a made-up language that the Fenner twins have! I heard them talking and I
asked some people about it in school. They've apparently been doing it their whole lives. Some freaky twin thing, I guess.”

“Those jerks!” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “If you want to beat them up, I'm available.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I think I'll beat them on the field.”

It felt pretty cool saying that. I scanned the crowd and saw more familiar faces. My old babysitter—I mean
house sitter
—Courtney DeLuca even made the trip in to watch the big game. I had no idea how she knew about the game. Then I remembered that she was the daughter of one of Dad's work friends. Dad must have been talking about it at work! He was probably telling everyone he knew about how his son solved a couple of crimes and then got a spot on the team. Knowing he was actually proud of me (a rare feeling) made the butterflies acquire more butterflies.

Finally, it was just about game time. The team was all sitting in the dugout, getting psyched up to the max. I still couldn't believe I was there. At times I'd look down and see the uniform on my chest and have an out-of-body experience. It was like—
I know this is my head, but whose body is it attached
to? A baseball player's? Why? How did this happen?

Then a familiar face appeared in the dugout. It was Kyle Webb.

“Pardon me, Coach,” he said. “I know I'm off the team and I don't deserve to be here. But I just wanted to wish the guys good luck. And maybe fill in for Lenny as the announcer.”

“Sounds great, Kyle,” Coach Moyer said. “Lenny, show him the ropes.”

“Don't I need to be here for the pregame meeting?” I asked. “Go over strategy?”

“Here's our strategy,” he said. “Throw strikes. Catch the ball. Hit the ball. Score some runs. If possible, more runs than the other team.” He shrugged and added, “That's the game called baseball.” I was beginning to see why Moyer never made head coach. I was also beginning to worry, what with this genius at the helm and Other Mike in the assistant's role. But I did as I was told.

I walked with Kyle over toward the announcer's booth. “Listen,” I said, “I really have to apologize for getting you into trouble like that.”

“You didn't,” he said. “I mean, yeah, you did. But don't be sorry. It was my own fault. I had a stupid plan and it went bad and I let someone else get
in trouble for it. It really was my own fault. I shouldn't have let Davis go down for it. I've been feeling guilty all season. I mean, yeah, I'm kind of bummed that I'm not out there.…” His voice faded away.

“There's always next year,” I said. “Help us repeat as champions.”

“Knock 'em dead out there,” he said. “I mean, not literally. I heard you're a little wild on the mound.”

“They don't call me ‘the Lunatic' for nothing,” I said. “By the way, make sure you call me that when you introduce me. You know, if I get into the game.”

I showed him the rest of the setup—how to use the microphone, how to turn on the CD player for the national anthem—and then it was time to play ball.

The game began with the visiting Griffins batting. All I could do was watch, of course, and cheer from the dugout. Byron Lucas was our starting pitcher, and he looked good. He didn't seem fazed at all by the pressure, and came out working fast. He threw hard, and he threw strikes. Davis was behind the plate and Mike was manning first base. The team looked sharp and we retired Griffith easily in the first. Three up, three down.

In the bottom of the first, Jagdish Sheth pitched just as well for the Griffins. It was a pitchers' duel, as they say. Nothing–nothing through the fifth inning. It started to look like Byron was going to throw a complete game, so I started to relax. We just needed some runs. All of us guys on the bench turned our hats inside out—the classic “rally cap.” It's a superstitious baseball thing. I don't know why.
For some reason turning your hat inside out is supposed to help you get a rally and score some runs. Which is kind of dumb because if it worked, wouldn't you just wear your hat like that all the time? Forget logic. Sometimes you need a rally cap, and this was one of those times.

The first batter up in the bottom of the fifth for Schwenkfelder was Byron himself. Jagdish's first pitch hit him! Was Jagdish trying to hurt him? Was that how Griffith thought they'd win this thing? They were a bunch of cheating cheaters who cheat, as I believe I mentioned before, so I wouldn't put it past them.

Byron played it cool, though. He knew that if he charged the mound and pounded Jagdish into the ground, he'd get ejected. And he wanted to finish this game. So he just took his place at first base. The next batter was none other than Mike. He wasn't the team's strongest hitter, so Coach Moyer gave the bunt sign. It wasn't a bad move. This would get Byron to second base, where he could score on a single. You hate to give up the out, but sometimes one run is all you need.

Mike did his duty and squared around for the bunt. Jagdish's pitch was low, but Mike got the bat on it. The ball squirted out in front of home plate,
giving the Griffith catcher just one play. He threw to first and Byron advanced to second. When Mike came back into the dugout, everyone gave him major high fives. Bunting a guy over always gets you major props because you're sacrificing your own chance to hit for the good of the team.

The next batter up was Nathan Gub. A single could score a run and give us the lead. Gub was a decent hitter and I liked our chances. Instead, he whiffed on three straight pitches. The Schwenkfelder bench let out a disappointed sigh. But up next was Davis Gannett. “Don't worry, guys,” he said to us as he walked from the on-deck circle toward the plate. “I got this.”

Davis dug in at the batter's box. Jagdish threw him a couple of slow ones outside. Then, with the count at two balls and two strikes, he heaved a fastball down the middle. And Davis crushed it. I do believe that that ball might still be traveling to this day. I am pretty sure I saw it in one of those pictures the
Curiosity
rover is sending back from Mars. It was a no-doubt-about-it home run! Byron crossed the plate first, then Davis strutted across. The score was two to nothing. We didn't score again, but all Byron had to do was to get six more outs and we were champions.

It wasn't going to be that easy.

Griffith started the top of the sixth with a rally of their own. In fact, the first three batters hit the ball hard. They were only singles, though, loading the bases. The next batter hit a perfect ground ball right up the middle for a double play. Two outs were recorded, but one run came in. That brought the bad guys within one run. The score was two to one. Byron was looking tired. Still, he needed just one out to get to the seventh and final inning. Coach Moyer conferred with Other Mike and they decided to leave him in.