Skinnybones (3 page)

While I was waiting, I made a sign and hung it on the outside of my door. The sign read:

When Dad saw the sign, he didn’t bother coming into my room to yell at me. I guess he figured I already felt bad enough.

For once, he figured right.

For me, the worst part about belonging to Little League is the uniforms. Every year at the first practice, the same thing happens. The coach shouts out your name, and you have to yell out what size you wear. Right in front of
everyone
, I mean. You have to yell either large … medium … or small.

This year there were a total of twelve kids on my team. And the way it looked to me, there would probably be two larges, nine mediums, and one eensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, practically-the-size-a-baby-would-wear. (Me.)

Every single year, I am always the smallest kid on the team. I mean it. For the first five years of my life, I thought I was a leprechaun.

I remember when I was in kindergarten, our
teacher asked us to cut out magazine pictures of what we thought we would be when we grew up.

Most of the boys in my class brought in pictures of baseball or football players. A few others brought in pictures of policemen.

I brought in a picture of the Lucky Charms guy. I cut it off the front of the cereal box.

My teacher was pretty worried about it, too. She called me right up to her desk.

“Alex, what is this a picture of?” she asked.

“It’s the Lucky Charms guy,” I said.

She closed her eyes. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be afraid of the Lucky Charms guy, Mrs. Hurley,” I said. “He gets on your nerves, but he’s not really dangerous.”

Mrs. Hurley shook her head. “No, Alex. What I don’t understand is why you
want
to be a leprechaun.”

“I don’t. I want to be a pilot,” I told her.

“Then why did you bring this picture?” asked Mrs. Hurley.

“Because that’s what I’m
going
to be,” I explained. “That’s what you told us to do, right? You said to bring in a picture of what we were
going
to be when we grow up.”

Mrs. Hurley called my mother.

As soon as I walked in the door that afternoon, Mom sat me right down and we had a talk about being small.

“Alex, I know that you think you’re too short. But that’s only because you haven’t started to grow as much as some of the other kids yet. Everyone grows at different speeds. But, believe me, you
are
going to grow. I promise.”

She took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen. Then she stood me up against the wall near the corner and told me not to move.

At first, I thought this was some weird new punishment she’d read about in one of those parenting magazines. But instead, she got a pencil and made a mark on the wall at the very top of my head. When I moved away, she wrote the date beside it.

“Okay,” she said. “Just to prove to you that you’re growing, we’re going to measure you every six months. That way you will be able to see the change for yourself.”

Well, all I can say is, six months is a long time to wait. Especially when you’re worried about having to go flitting around the countryside dancing a jig in a green top hat.

When the day finally came to measure me again, I was nervous as anything.

My mother stood me up against the wall in the
same spot where I had been measured before. Then she carefully made another pencil mark.

I turned to look.

Half an inch! I had grown almost a whole half an inch!

I started jumping around all over the place.

Mom looked as relieved as me. “
Now
do you believe me?” she asked. “Does this prove to you that you’re getting taller?”

“Yeah!” I said. “Now all I have to do is gain some weight and grow big feet, and I’ll practically be a real boy.”

My mother threw up her hands in frustration. “I give up, Alex! I swear! You’re never satisfied!”

Sometimes she just doesn’t understand me at all. Being small is
not
an easy thing to be. Especially when you’re in Little League, and you have to shout out your size in front of your whole entire team.

“Alex Frankovitch?” called my coach. “Small, medium, or large?”

No. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t shout
small
again. Not in
sixth
grade.

I swallowed hard. Then I made my voice as deep as I could and yelled, “Large!”

The coach looked up and gave me the eyeball. “Excuse me, son … but did you say ‘large’?”

“Yes, sir. Large. That’s what I said. Alex
Frankovitch takes a large,” I repeated.

“Are you sure, Mr. Frankovitch? Are you absolutely, positively sure that
large
is the size you usually order?” he persisted.

“Yup. Yup, I am. I’m absolutely, positively sure. Large. That’s the size I order. I order a large. Alex Frankovitch orders a large.”

The coach rolled his eyes and shook his head. I’m pretty sure I heard him mutter the word
bean-brain
too. But I really didn’t care what he thought. The important thing was that, finally—after all these years—I hadn’t had to shout out the word
small
.

I couldn’t wait for the day the uniforms came in. I was sure it would be the best day of my life. I even had a dream about it.

In my dream, the coach had all the uniforms arranged in just two piles—smalls and larges—and he was calling out names and sizes. As soon as you heard your name, you had to go to the correct pile and pick up your uniform.

“ALEX FRANKOVITCH! LARGE!” he announced, loud as anything.

I stood up real slow and cool. Then I strolled over to the large pile to choose my pants and shirt. But when I got there, I found out that mine was the only uniform in the large pile. The
only one
, get it?
All the other guys were smalls! And here’s where it gets good … because when I reached out to pick up my large shirt, the whole team jumped up and started cheering! Because of how
large
I was and all!

It was the best dream I ever had. I swear. And, when the team uniforms finally came in—after three whole weeks of waiting—at least part of my dream was about to come true. I’d have my large shirt!

I was the first kid at practice that day. When I arrived, my coach was already arranging everything in piles. My heart started pounding like crazy. It was just like in my dream! I felt as if I had seen into the future or something.

As soon as he was finished, the coach told us to line up single-file. Then one by one, we were to go to the correct pile and pick out a uniform. I have to admit, this wasn’t quite as good as if he had announced my name and size. But still, all I really cared about was getting my
large
.

As soon as it was my turn, I rushed right over and grabbed a large shirt and pair of pants. Then I sort of hung around the large pile for a while just so everyone would notice.

Finally, when all the piles were gone, the coach told us to check our uniforms to make sure we had gotten the right size.

That’s when I heard some of the guys starting to laugh. When I turned around, I saw Randy Tubbs trying to pull his new shirt over his head. It was stuck on his ears, and his eyes were bulging out where it was cutting off his circulation.

The coach helped Randy pull the shirt off. He looked inside to see what size it was.

“This is a small, Randy,” he said. “You’re supposed to have a large.”

Randy shrugged. “It’s all that was left,” he said.

Right away, the coach started looking on his list, trying to figure out what had happened. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

Slowly, I started backing off the field. But the coach spotted me.

“Hold it, Alex! Wait!” he called. “Would you bring your uniform back here a minute, please?”

I felt sick. Sicker than I’d ever felt before. But there was nothing I could do except go back.

Reluctantly, I handed him my shirt and pants and pointed at the tag. “See, Coach? See? It’s a large, just like you ordered for me,” I said.

The coach just shook his head. “Alex, I ordered you a small. A large would eat you up and spit you out.”

Then he gave my uniform to Randy and handed
me the eensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, practically-the-size-a-baby-would-wear … small.

It was one of the lowest moments of my life.

When I got home, I went to my room and tried it on. Thanks to Randy and his giant dome, the neck was all stretched out, and it drooped down to my stomach.

My mother came in and told me not to worry. She said the shirt would probably shrink when it was washed.

As soon as she left, my pants fell down.

T.J. Stoner brags about his baseball team more than any kid I’ve ever known in my whole life. So what if his team hasn’t lost a game all year? It doesn’t mean they won just because of
him
. Everybody knows that just one person can’t make the difference between a winning team and a losing team. After all, every single team I’ve ever been on has come in last place. And I don’t care what anyone says, all those teams didn’t lose just because of
me
 … probably.

Anyway, this year I know for a fact that I am not the worst player on my team. The worst player on my team is Ryan Brady. Ryan broke his arm the first game of the season, and now all he does is sit on the bench. I’m sure I help the team out more than Ryan does … probably.

I play right field. A lot of kids automatically think that if you play in the outfield, it means you can’t catch or throw. But my father says that’s ridiculous. He says that outfielders are just as good as infielders. He told me that when he was a boy, he played in right field just like me.

That really doesn’t make me feel much better, though. I’ve seen Dad play. He can’t catch or throw.

My mother says that when people like T.J. Stoner brag, they’re just trying to get attention. As usual, she says to ignore them. But for some reason, whenever I hear T.J. start to brag about his baseball team, I just can’t seem to keep my big mouth shut.

Like one day, a few weeks ago, I heard him spouting off to a bunch of kids at the playground.

“My coach told me I’m one of the best Little League pitchers in the whole country this year,” he bragged.

As soon as I heard him say it, my mouth went right out of control. I started talking real loud to my friend Brian Dunlop.

“HEY, BRIAN. I FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY BASEBALL PRACTICE LAST NIGHT. MY COACH LET ME TRY OUT FOR PITCHER AND HE SAID I HAD ONE OF THE BEST CURVE BALLS HE’S EVER SEEN.”

Okay,
I know
it was a dumb thing to say. But
Brian wasn’t much help. He fell right on the ground and started laughing himself sick.

“You?” he roared. “You … you … you … 
pitched?”

T.J. came strolling over with this big, smirky grin on his face. He bent down and tapped Brian on the head. “ ’Scuse me. But did I hear Skinnybones say that he can throw a curve ball?” he asked.

Brian held his stomach and busted out laughing all over again.

T.J.’s smirk got bigger. “Hey, Frankovitch. How’d you like to make a little deal?” he said.

I shook my head and started to walk away. “Nope. Sorry, T.J. No deals. I’m gonna have to tell you what I’ve been telling everybody else today. No matter how hard you beg, I cannot pitch for your team. My coach made me sign a contract.”

Brian let out another wild hoot of laughter. Apparently, the idea of me pitching was a lot more amusing than I thought.

It’s not like I’ve never tried it before. Just last week, I practiced pitching with my dad. It didn’t actually work out that good, though. Most of the balls I threw didn’t make it to the plate. The one that did, beaned my father on the head.

“What kind of stupid pitch do you call that?” Dad yelled.

“That would be my bean ball!” I yelled back.

We packed up our stuff right then and went home. I’m not kidding. The man cannot take a joke.

Anyway, T.J. kept on bugging me and bugging me. “Come on, Alex,” he pleaded. “Just listen to my deal. What have you got to lose?”

By this time a bunch of kids had started to gather.

“Okay. Fine. Tell me your deal, T.J. But make it snappy. It’s almost time for Brian to massage my pitching arm.”

Brian went off in another fit of hysterics.

“All right. Here it is,” said T.J. “Since both of us are such good pitchers, why don’t we have a contest after school to see who’s the best? We’ll even get a couple of kids to be the official umpires. What do you say, Alex? That’ll be fun, don’t you think?”

Oh, geez, what a mess! If I said no, everyone would know I was a liar. But if I said yes, everyone would be able to see how weak I threw. Somehow I had to get out of this.

I hit myself in the head. “Oh, man. I just remembered. My coach told me not to tire my arm out by being in any stupid pitching contests. I’m mostly just supposed to rest it on a velvet pillow. Thank you anyway, though. See ya.”

I started to walk away, but T.J. grabbed me by the shoulders.

“I’m not
asking
you, Frankovitch. I’m
telling
you. You get one of your friends, and I’ll get one of mine. They’ll be the umps. I’ll meet you at the Little League field after school. If you don’t show, we’ll all know it’s because you’re a liar and you can’t throw a curve.”

As he turned to leave, he stopped and looked back at me. “
Be
there, chump.”

After everyone left, I looked down at Brian. He was still on the ground.

I reached out my hand to help him up.

“Thank you, Brian. You were very supportive,” I said dryly.

Brian nodded his head “you’re welcome.” His sides were still hurting from all that laughing.

“Geez, Brian. If you think this is funny, wait until you see my curve ball,” I said.

This time both of us started laughing.