Say It Ain't So (6 page)

“No,” I said. “There's no way I'd make the team. But I'm glad to help.”

So Mike made the team as the backup catcher. Then, day two into the preseason, the unthinkable happened. Actually, it wasn't that big of a surprise if I think about it. Honestly, it was rather thinkable. Totally thinkable. Here's how I got the news. I was at Other Mike's again after school, a few days before the season was set to start. We were in his room, playing ninjas on the video-game machine. And then a text from Mike came in.

I texted back something dumb like “Davis Gannett got hit by a truck?” And the funny thing was, that wasn't too far off. I don't mean he actually got hit by a truck. That would in fact have
not
been very funny. I don't even wish for guys like Davis Gannett to get hit by a truck. Perhaps a small car or a motorcycle maybe. Kidding, kidding. Mike's text came back:

Mike was kind of starting to overdo it with those smiley faces. But I got it. He was happy. How couldn't he be? Davis Gannett being off the team meant that the starting catcher was going to be none other than Mike DiNuzzio. I wondered what his baseball nickname would be.
DiNuzzio
didn't exactly work with the “first syllable rule.” “Dins”? Maybe because it was pronounced Di-newts-ee-oh, they'd go with “Newts.” Either that or “the Human Backstop.” I just hoped that once he hit the big time, he'd remember where he came from.

I texted back:

Which was the only possible appropriate response.

My first thought was that Davis couldn't keep his grades up above the rigorous standard of “adequate!” If you get all D's or worse, you can't do any sports or clubs. And it's not too hard to imagine Davis getting a report card full of “or worse.” He'd probably pass gym, and quite possibly science, only because Mr. Daber is a big baseball fan. But otherwise, that kid could only dream of “adequate!” He thinks the square root is what you find at the bottom of a square tree. My second thought was that thing about getting hit by a truck, but Mike probably wouldn't have used so many smileys. Sure, we hated Davis, but that's just mean.

Mike texted back:

I thought it was pretty weird that Davis would get kicked off the team just for getting caught stealing once. Especially because the season hadn't started yet. What did he do, get picked off trying to
steal second in a scrimmage? Or possibly, knowing Davis, Mike actually meant that he got caught stealing a cell phone. I texted this joke back to Mike and he was like:

It turned out that Davis Gannett really did get caught stealing a phone! Apparently, it happened during practice. First baseman Kyle Webb's dad noticed his phone was missing. They're one of the richer families at school, so it was probably a pretty nice phone. Also, his dad is well known as being really mean.

Mr. Webb is the kind of guy who even comes to practices to cheer for his son. That is, “yell at his son.” He's one of those red-faced, hollering dads who just constantly look like they're on their way to a heart attack. (That's the kind of thing your parents say if they're cardiologists.) Mr. Webb got really way too involved in Kyle's baseball career. Kyle wasn't bad at all. I mean, he was the starting first baseman and a pretty good hitter. But he was also one of the skinniest kids in school. His arms looked like threads hanging out of the end of his shirtsleeves. Mike's sister could beat him at arm
wrestling. There was no chance Kyle was making the majors. He wasn't going to be on the Phillies anytime soon. Mr. Webb would disagree, but Mr. Webb had a problem with reality.

Anyway, I guess Mr. Webb left his phone on the bleachers and went to talk to Coach Zo (I mean “yell at Coach Zo”) after the practice. He probably thought Kyle should be hitting higher in the batting order or something. The team was on their way back to the locker room, which meant that they would have to pass the bleachers. And after they did, the phone was gone.

Mr. Webb ran into the locker room and freaked out. I can only imagine the scene. He was probably beyond red into bright purple. He was probably punching lockers and kicking holes in the ceiling. I mean, not literally. Okay, maybe literally. Anyway, the missing phone was eventually found in Davis's gym bag, tucked into a shin guard. Davis of course insisted he had no idea how it got there. Yeah, right. Coach Zo didn't believe him. Coach Moyer didn't believe him. Mr. Webb didn't believe him. Nobody believed him. This is Davis Gannett we're talking about. He had a reputation for things far worse than petty theft. He was a good ballplayer,
but there was no tolerance in Coach Zo's world for that sort of thing. Davis was kicked off the team immediately.

Getting this story over text from Mike was a little painful. And not just because of all of the smileys and misspellings. Because, let's be honest, I was jealous. Mike wasn't just going to make the team—he was going to be the starting catcher. Davis was gone. Coach Zo said he was a bench. I mean: a Bench! His new life began today. Was I a part of it?

“What's going on?” Other Mike asked. We were still in his room, the game paused. “Your phone's been going crazy. Did Coach Zo say that Mike was a table and a chair too?”

“Something like that,” I said. “Something like that.”

Before long, the first game of the Schwenkfelder Middle School baseball season had arrived. The first baseman was Kyle Webb. The starting catcher was Mike “Newts” DiNuzzio. And the starting pitcher was Hunter Ashwell. Mike had been going on and on about Hunter for weeks. Hunter Ashwell did this. Hunter Ashwell did that. Hunter Ashwell throws harder than anyone. Hunter Ashwell is so cool. Hunter Ashwell throws a sneaky palmball. Which is, okay, pretty cool.

The palmball is a great pitch. It oddly was not invented by the pitcher named Jim Palmer. Though coincidentally he did throw one sometimes. Other things I know about Jim Palmer from a library book I read: (1) His nickname was “Cakes,” which is a terrible nickname. (2) He was an underwear model in the off-season, which is a really weird job for a
baseball player (or anyone) to have in the off-season.

The palmball is pretty much like a changeup. Basically, you move your arm as fast as you would when throwing a fastball. But because you hold the ball back in your palm instead of up on your fingers, it comes out much slower. The batter sees you wind up hard—grunt and whip your arm around at full speed! But the ball comes out really slowly. The result, if done correctly, is a swing and a miss. Apparently, this was Hunter Ashwell's secret pitch and it made him Coach Zo's choice for opening day starter for Schwenkfelder.

Our opponent was Griffith Middle School. Griffith was located just about ten minutes away from Schwenkfelder and they were our biggest rivals. To be honest, they usually kicked our butts in most things. Griffith had a very good football team and an incredible basketball team. They might have even been better than “adequate!” when it came to academic stuff. But in baseball they were usually ours. And Mike was so excited that his first game behind the plate was going to be catching for the great Hunter Ashwell against the evil Griffith Griffins. Yes, their team name was the Griffith
Griffins. So dumb. Also, their color was green. I guess those guys love alliteration over there.

Mike spent the whole bus ride to school that morning literally bouncing up and down with excitement.

“It's our first game of the year!” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Hunter Ashwell is pitching,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Did I tell you that he throws a palmball?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“We have this whole awesome secret system we made with Coach Zo so I can call the pitch and no one will know what's coming.”

“He only throws two pitches,” I said. “Doesn't have to be some genius system.”

“Oh, Hunter is a genius,” Mike said.

“I don't know if
genius
is the word I'd use,” I said.

“He seriously is,” Other Mike agreed.

“He's in my history class,” I explained. “He thought that China and Japan were the same country. He absolutely refused to admit that they were different places. Even after we showed him a map.”

“Well, he's a genius on the mound,” Mike said.

“Somehow I doubt it.”

“Come check it out. The first game of the year. Besides, there's a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” I said. “For me?”

“That's what I said.”

“What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise.”

I hate surprises. And I didn't want to go to the game. But I knew what being a good friend meant. I knew I had to be there. I just hoped this was like a present under the tree and not, you know, someone stealing all the presents from under the tree.

“Just be there early, Len,” Mike said. “Coach Zo will be looking for you to go over a few things before the game.”

I narrowed my eyes. What kind of surprise was he about to drop on me? Coach Zo was involved? Too weird.

“You better not have a cheerleader uniform with my name on it,” I said.

“Baseball games don't have cheerleaders,” Mike said. “And besides, cheerleaders don't have their names on their uniforms. Come on, Len, get your head in the game.”

I should get
my
head in the game? Mike was acting weird.

After school I met up with Other Mike. He brought some reading material with him, but yeah, he was going to stay and watch the game too. I had already told the cardiologists that I would be staying after for the game. It was a home game, so it would be played just behind the school in the Schwenkfelder stadium. Well, “stadium” might be stretching it a bit. It's basically just a field with some metal bleachers. The field looked good, though—all sharply lined in fresh white chalk. And the grass looked extra green that day. The special green of grass on opening day. Could anything ruin it?

Well, yes.

We got to the field kind of early because of Mike's unclear statement about the “surprise.” But when we arrived, all we found in the bleachers was Davis Gannett. I guess he wasn't in jail or even detention for his crime. He was just kicked off the team. And they couldn't keep him from coming to the game if he wanted. So there he was. He was the only one in the bleachers, and he looked like he
had a storm cloud above his head. He looked like he
was
a storm cloud. His face was darkened and tight with anger. His fists were clenched into little balls.
DO NOT MESS WITH ME
was radiating off of him like stink lines in a cartoon.

So of course Other Mike went right up to him.

“Hey, Davis,” he said. What was wrong with Other Mike???? Was that too many question marks? No! It was not nearly enough!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Okay, now I might be overdoing it a bit, punctuation-wise. But didn't Other Mike remember that all Davis did was call us dork-buckets and threaten to poop in our milk cartons? And that also he was a thief and quite possibly a murderer? Or at least well on his way to becoming one?

Yet, oddly, Davis did not rip Other Mike's head off. He didn't even poop in his milk. Not that he was drinking milk, but you know what I mean. Maybe you don't. I'm not even sure I do. Anyway …

Davis actually looked like he was relaxing a little bit. I wouldn't say that his storm cloud of a face became a ray of sunshine, but he looked only
somewhat
likely to murder someone instead of
definitely
likely. He even unclenched his fists. I stayed nice and far away, in case Davis's mood shifted suddenly,
but I was close enough to hear. I leaned up against a tree and pretended that I wasn't listening. I pretended to be just staring at the field, taking in the scenery.

“Hey, Davis,” Other Mike repeated.

“What do you want, dork-bucket?”

“Nothing really. Just saying hello. Looking for a place to sit. Ready to watch the game? I'm not a fan, but I'm friends with Mike, so you know …”

“Yeah,” Davis said with a scowl. “I
know
.” He punched the metal bleacher he was sitting on. It made a loud ping that echoed through the air.

“What are you so mad about anyway?” Other Mike asked in his typical, clueless way.

“You wouldn't understand, dork-bucket,” Davis said. “All you know is wizards and dragons.”

“Technically they're warlocks, but I think I get your point. Doesn't really matter, though. I'm just asking.”

“Yeah, well, why
wouldn't
I be mad? I should be out there catching this game—not your dork-bucket of a best friend,” Davis said.

“Well,” Other Mike said thoughtfully. “You do the crime, you do the time. That's what my dad always says.”