Say It Ain't So (7 page)

Davis paused for a moment. “Your dad is doing time? Mine too. State or county?”

“What?” Other Mike laughed. Then he quickly covered his laughter. “No, not funny,” he said. “I'm sorry. It's just that my dad is such a nerd, you know? I can't imagine him even jaywalking. He picks up
other
people's litter. That kind of a guy.”

“I guess being a dork-bucket runs in the family,” Davis said.

“Ha!” Other Mike said. “I suppose so. I suppose so.”

They sat quietly for a moment, the two most improbable friends in the world. Like one of those picture books where a baby duck becomes best friends with a wolf and they teach us all the meaning of love. Then Davis leaned very, very close and said something very quietly to Other Mike that I couldn't hear. Other Mike nodded his head as if to say “Sure, sure, sure.” I couldn't decide whether I should go join them or what. But before I could make up my mind, I heard a voice.

“There he is!” it boomed. “The boy with the golden voice.”

I looked around, but couldn't see
where
the sound was coming from. Was he talking about me? “The Boy with the Golden Voice” was what Mike
and Other Mike called me sometimes. I
am
a great announcer. But it was neither of them talking. The person talking, I was pretty sure, was Coach Zo.

He continued. “That's right, Lenny Norbeck, I'm talking to you!”

Somehow I had completely missed it! Right next to the dugout was a little building made out of wood and painted Schwenkfelder maroon. A Plexiglas window faced the field. And inside the Plexiglas was Coach Zo. Speaking into a microphone. I knew immediately what it was, and I knew immediately who was behind it. Mike's dad had built an announcer's booth for the middle school!

I ran over, forgetting immediately about the conversation Other Mike was having with his new BFF Davis Gannett. Mike was in the booth too, wearing his uniform and smiling. There wasn't much room for anyone else.

“So what do you think?” Mike asked.

“Well, you know,” I said, teasing. “It's not quite as luxurious as what I'm used to, but it ain't bad.” It really was a tiny little room, basically the dimensions
of a shed. Coach Zo couldn't stand up straight or he'd whack his head. He was very tall. Coach Zo was just a big guy. Even though he was over the hill, he had the height and build of a ballplayer. He looked like he could grab a bat and go out there and hit one four hundred feet. Stooped into the announcer's booth, he looked like an old man, but Coach Zo was a beast.

He smiled and handed me the microphone. “Newts here said you had some experience with this sort of thing. I didn't know we had such a talent in the school. I mean—I knew you were a heck of a detective. I heard all about what happened at the Phils last year. Very impressive. I'm a detective fan myself. Agatha Christie, that kind of thing. Hercule Poirot has got nothing on you, though, kid.”

Awesome! Coach Zo was a legend and he was complimenting
me
.

He continued. “So Mike and his dad asked me if they could build this for you. They said you're the one responsible for turning Newts here into a catcher. So thanks for that. They have been coming in after practice and working on this thing until it got dark. Pretty cool.”

“That
is
pretty cool!” I said. Because it was.
And also it was pretty cool that “Newts” was catching on as Mike's nickname just as I predicted. Maybe I'd be able to give everybody nicknames! Oh, the power of the announcer! I could name Hunter Ashwell something like “Ash-smell.” … Though, wait, that's probably not good. “Do I get a color commentary guy?” I asked. Every play-by-play announcer gets a retired big leaguer or wacky personality to sit next to him and make weird comments.

“Oh no,” Coach Zo said. “You're not … Well, you can't do play-by-play really. The league has rules. You'll be more of the in-game-type guy. The PA announcer. ‘Now coming to the plate …' That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” I shrugged. Not
quite
as cool. But still I couldn't pass it up. There would be nickname possibilities. And I'd get to be part of the game, if not part of the team.

“That is,” Coach Zo said, “if you're interested.”

“How much do I get paid?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Coach said.

“Double it and you've got yourself a deal,” I said.

“I'll triple it,” he said, sticking out his hand.
Ah, multiplication jokes. We shook on it. “When do I start?”

“Today, if you're up for it,” Coach said. “Game starts in a few minutes. I have the lineups here so you'll know who is who on both squads.” He handed me a couple of printouts with names and numbers and positions for the Schwenkfelder Mustangs and the Griffith Griffins. “Just keep it simple—announce the name of the batter as he comes up to the plate. If there's a pitching change, announce the new guy. Nothing fancy.”

“Got it,” I said. “Simple. Nothing fancy is my middle name.”

“Uh, thanks,” he said, giving me an odd look.

“Oh, thank you,” I said. “And thanks to you too, Newts.”

Before it got too sappy of a manly moment in that little announcer's shed (it really was more of a shed than a booth), Other Mike came in.

“You're just like the hobbit in here!” he said to me. “Sweet hobbit-hole. Invite me in for elevenses sometime.”

“Um, thanks?” I asked.

“You are welcome,” he said. Apparently, being the hobbit is a good thing?

Mike and Coach Zo squeezed past him. They had pregame prep to do. I had my own work to do! I had to learn how to operate the microphone, first of all! Well, okay, it wasn't that hard. It basically just had one button that you pressed to talk. It was a cool mike, though—kind of old-fashioned-looking. I thought about my old friend Buck Foltz, the great Phillies announcer. Maybe he got his start like this? Probably not, because he was so old that he probably got his start shouting through one of those cone things. But anyway, this was an extremely cool chance to be back in the announcer's seat. It was really nice of Mike.

I had some other work to do too, mainly figuring out how to pronounce the names of the guys on the teams! I knew everyone from Schwenkfelder, and even knew how to say relief pitcher Henry Hrab. Hint: The
H
is silent. I mean in
Hrab
. You do say the
H
in
Henry
. What did you think, his name was Enry? I scanned the list. There were some tough ones for Griffith, including a pitcher named Jagdish Sheth. No offense, J-dog, but I sort of hoped you didn't get into the game.

But something was still bothering me from before.

“Hey, Other Mike,” I said. “What on earth were
you talking about with our dear friend Davis Gannett over there?”

Other Mike was tapping on the Plexiglas window of the booth, muttering, “Precious … My precious …”

“Other Mike!” I said louder, to snap him out of it.

“Huh, what?” he said.

“What were you talking about with Davis?”

“Nothing. He was saying that he was mad he got kicked off the team, stuff like that. Oh, and he said his dad was in jail. Or is in jail. Not really sure. Not really surprised either.”

“No,” I said. “I heard that part. I meant the other part. Right before Coach Zo started talking into the microphone.” This reminded me to quickly check to make sure that the microphone was off. That kind of thing was always happening to politicians and celebrities. They'd forget that a mike was live and they'd start talking about which countries they were going to bomb or which of their friends they hated. I
had
to make sure that never happened to me. Not that I secretly hated any of my friends. And not that I had any countries I wanted to bomb. Though, to be honest, Kyrgyzstan was kind of getting on my nerves. Only because we had to learn
how to spell it for social studies. Ridiculous. Stupid Kyrgyzstan, why can't you be more like Chad?

But anyway, I did
not
want the microphone on while I secretly talked about Davis Gannett. The last thing I needed was to give him a reason to beat me up. I double-checked, then triple-checked. The mike was off.

“Oh,” Other Mike said. “Davis was just saying that he did
not
steal Kyle Webb's dad's phone. He said someone else did it.”

“That doesn't make sense,” I said. “They found the phone in
Davis's
shin guard. Who else could it have been who took it? Who else would steal a phone by putting it in Davis's shin guard?”

“That's just the point, isn't it?” Other Mike said. “They weren't trying to steal it. They were trying to frame Davis.”

I tapped the microphone with the tip of my finger a few times. “He said all that in the, like, two seconds you were talking?” I said.

“Well,” Other Mike said. “That was the basic idea. I'm filling in a lot of the blanks. Davis mostly talks in grunts and snorts. It's like talking to a caveman, kind of. He just said it wasn't him who took the phone, ugh, grunt, snort. Just showed up there. Ugh, sniff, burp. I filled in the blanks. You're not
the only one who has detective skills.” He smiled and tapped his head.

“Oh, I know it,” I said. “Remember when we were little and used to pretend to be spies, gathering information on everyone in the neighborhood?”

“You were pretending?” he said.

I laughed. “Yeah,” I said. “So who would want to frame Davis?”

“Beats me,” Other Mike said. “I get the feeling that everyone kind of hates him.”

“Imagine that,” I said. I tried to remember if I'd seen Davis torment anyone in particular at school besides us. He was pretty much an equal opportunity tormentor, but there were a few guys he really bothered I could name. I was going to run this theory by Other Mike, but although he does have some detective skills, he is also sort of ADD.

“Hey, what does this do?” he said, reaching over and flicking the microphone's On switch. It was pretty obvious what it did, seeing as how it said
ON
in big red letters.

“Stop it!” I yelled, and smacked his hand, but it was too late. He'd already turned it on. The microphone made a loud squealing sound and everyone could hear me yell. Coach Zo turned
quickly and stared over at us. Great, I was going to get fired before the first pitch was even thrown!

“Sorry!” Other Mike said, flicking the switch back off.

“Yeah, a lot of people don't like Davis,” I started to say. “But he made the team so much better that I figure they'd just put up with it to win a championship. The only person I can think of who could really stand to gain from Davis getting kicked off the team was—”

But before I could finish that thought, Coach Zo came running over. He stuck his head into the shed. “We're just about to get started. I forgot to show you this.” He handed me a portable CD player. “It's got a disc loaded up already with the national anthem on it. All you have to do is press Play and hold it up to the mike. Start it when I give you the signal.”

“Got it, Coach,” I said. I had so much power. The power to start the game! The very anthem of this very nation rested in my very hands!

Of course I also had the power to solve mysteries.

But did I want to?

Coach Zo gave me the signal, and after a brief second of fumbling I found the Play button. The On switch I already knew how to find. I gently flipped it on. A loud brass-band version of the national anthem began to blare out of the booth. I guess Mike's dad had installed speakers around the field. He must have buried speaker wire and gotten some rainproof speakers, not to mention all the time and effort and expense of putting together the actual booth. Shed. Whatever. It was really nice. Mike was a nice friend. A good person. Not a bad person. Not a bad person at all, right? Right.