Skinnybones (7 page)

T.J. grinned. Then he wound up and threw the ball as hard as he could.

“Steeerrriiiikkke one!” yelled the umpire.

Kevin looked confused. “Did we start already?” he asked the ump.

T.J. went into his windup for the second pitch. This time he threw it a little slower. Just as the ball got to the plate, it curved.

Kevin swung with all his might.

“Steeerrriiiikkke two!” yelled the umpire again.

Poor Kevin. I really felt sorry for him. Whenever you swing as hard as you can and miss, you always feel like a fool. He tried acting cool, but it didn’t work. When he knocked the dirt off his shoes, he accidentally hit himself in the ankle.

Embarrassed, he quickly got ready to bat again.
Unfortunately, the third pitch that T.J. threw was even better than the first two. Kevin just watched it go whizzing by.

“Strike three! Batter’s out!” called the ump.

Everyone in the stands began to cheer loudly for T.J.

Kevin stood there stunned for a second. Then he walked over and sat down on the bench, bent over so no one could see his face, and began to cry. It wasn’t the kind of crying you could hear. But you could see his back heaving up and down, so you definitely knew he was sobbing.

At first the whole team was pretty embarrassed about it. But as it turned out, Kevin was the best batter of the inning. He was the only one who swung. The second batter, Willy Jenson, just stood there, counted three pitches, and sat down. And the third batter never even took the bat off his shoulder.

Our team was out in the field before we knew it. Everyone was looking totally depressed. It was pretty clear that we needed something to get the old team spirit going.

I called them into a huddle for a pep talk.

“Okay, you guys,” I said. “All we need to do is hold ’em. What do you say? Let’s get them out one-two-three! Three up. Three down!”

Densel Johnson, the first baseman, laughed right
in my face. “Are you nuts, Alex? Our team hasn’t made three outs in a row all year.”

“Yeah, Frankovitch. What are you trying to do?
Mock
us? We’ll be lucky if we make three outs the entire game,” said Willy Jenson.

So much for team spirit.

I didn’t care what those guys said, though. I was still determined to cheer our team on.

Frankie Rogers was our starting pitcher. As I walked to right field, I watched him warm up. Frankie only throws two warm-up pitches per game. He says he doesn’t have that many good pitches in him, and he doesn’t want to risk using them up in practice.

I started chattering from the outfield. “Okay, Frankie, pitch it in there, babe. Right over the plate, Frankie! You can do it! You can do it, Frankie babe.”

Frankie threw the first pitch. It hit the dirt about ten feet in front of the plate.

“Ball one!” shouted the umpire.

“That’s okay, Frankie, don’t worry. You can do it!” I yelled. “Chuck it in there, Frankie! Smoke it in there, guy!”

Just then, Frankie made the time-out sign and began walking toward right field. I figured he wanted to have some sort of strategy session, so I ran up to meet him.

“Would you please shut up, Alex?” he said. “How am I supposed to concentrate with all that noise out there? You’re just adding pressure. That’s all you’re doing.”

“No, Frankie. I’m
encouraging
you,” I explained. “It’s baseball chatter. I’m supposed to chatter. The whole team is supposed to chatter.”

Frankie rolled his eyes. “Get a clue, Alex. This is not a normal game. And we are not a normal team. And I do not respond well to
chatter
. So put a sock in it, okay?”

Frankie stomped back to the pitcher’s mound. His next pitch hit the batter on the foot and he took his base. The batter after that got hit in the arm.

The whole thing was totally humiliating. It was bad enough that Frankie was hitting people. But he wasn’t even throwing the ball hard enough for it to hurt anyone. The guys weren’t even blinking.

I shook my head and glanced over to the sidelines. That’s when I saw the cameraman. He had just spotted me in the field. And he was pointing his camera in my direction!

Oh, geez! Oh, no! He said he would only be filming T.J.!

Quickly, I put both my hands over my face so that no one would recognize me on the news.

Unfortunately, just as I covered my eyes, I heard
the loud crack of the bat.

Somebody had hit the ball … 
hard!

I looked up. A kid was running to first base, and all the guys on my team had turned to stare at right field. Right field? Wait … that was me!

A pop fly was headed my way! And I didn’t even know where it was!

Quickly, I looked up into the sky, but the sun was directly in my eyes! I was doomed! I was finished! I was dead meat! Any second a hard ball was going to smack me right in the head, and I had no idea where it was even coming from!

I had to do something to protect myself!

In a flash, I took my glove off my hand and put it on my head.

THUD!

The ball hit my glove! Then it rolled off the top of my head and landed on the ground next to me!

Frankie Rogers started going nuts. “He dropped it! He dropped the stupid ball!” he screamed.

Man, did that make me mad. Frankie Rogers, of all people! Yelling at
me
for making a mistake!

“I did not!” I shouted back at him. “How can a person drop something when he didn’t even catch it in the first place? Just because something lands on your head does not mean that you caught it!”

“It does too!” shouted Frankie. “You caught it on
your head, and then you dropped it!”

Man, was I ticked. I kicked at my glove.

“If a bird poops on your head, you don’t say that you’ve caught it, do you, you jerk?” I yelled.

Unfortunately, I was so busy yelling, I had totally forgotten about the ball. By the time I threw it in, two runs had scored and the batter was safe at third.

I looked at the sidelines. My coach was waving at me.

Odd
, I thought. But just to be polite, I waved back.

“He’s not waving, Frankovitch, you moron!” shouted Ricki Delaney, the center fielder. “He’s shaking his fist!”

I squinted my eyes and looked closer. Yup. That was a fist, all right. The guy was furious. For the first time in my life, I was actually grateful to be out in right field.

It took a few minutes for things to settle back down. But finally, Frankie got ready to face his fourth batter.

Slowly, old T.J. Stoner walked up to the plate and took a few practice swings. Then he spit in his hands, grinned, and pointed at me with his bat.

Panicked, I began backing up. No. Please. No. If I dropped another one, I was done for.

Frankie pitched the ball.

T.J. leaned back and swung it with all his might. It was a hard grounder, and it was screaming my way! It streaked past the first baseman and tore into right field!

Stay calm, Alex! Stay calm! Just do what you did in practice today! You can do it! You can get T.J. Stoner out!

I did everything right. I swear I did. First, I ran up to meet the ball. Then I stooped down to block it. And I didn’t take my eye off it. Not even for a split second!

It’s almost here! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!

But just as the ball was about to roll into my glove, it hit a clump of grass and took a crazy bounce to the right.

“NO!” I screamed.

I made a diving leap, but it was no use. The ball sped away and rolled all the way to the back fence.

The crowd went wild. T.J. was on his way to an inside-the-park home run. And he wasn’t even hurrying. I watched him as he rounded second base. He looked over his shoulder at me and tipped his cap. Man, did he make me sick!

Once again, I had completely forgotten about the ball. It didn’t matter, though. I couldn’t have thrown it all the way home even if I’d wanted to.

Ricki Delaney finally threw it in. But T.J. was already safe.

By now my coach’s face was so red he looked like a chili pepper. For a minute, I actually thought he might explode. I needed help
 … big time
.

I looked up to the clouds. “Please, God, please.… whatever you do, do not—I repeat, do
not
—let our team get up to bat again until my coach settles down. If I have to go in now, he will kill me, God. I know he will. And if you think I’m a problem down here, just imagine what it would be like to have me running around up there with you. You’d never have a minute’s peace, God. Think about it.”

Right after that, Frankie Rogers threw nine strikes in a row.

I looked up again. “I’ve done something to upset you, haven’t I, God? You’re still mad about me wearing a gorilla suit in last year’s Christmas play, aren’t you?”

There was no more stalling. I had to go in.

My coach still hadn’t taken his eyes off of me. He had a scary grin on his face, and he was pounding his fist into his hand.

I kept my head down and raised my eyes. “Someday we’ll all look back on this and have a good chuckle,” I muttered as I passed by.

“Ohhhh, believe me, Alex,” he growled through
clenched teeth, “you and I are going to have a whole lot of chuckles right after the game. But right now you’re up. So get your butt over there.”

My heart stopped. “Up? No, Coach! How can I be up? I don’t bat fourth! I never bat cleanup!”

The coach pointed. Davy Washington, our cleanup hitter, was being led off the field. “Stomach problems” was all the coach would say.

Meanwhile, the guy who usually bats fifth was all doubled over on the bench. He was breathing into a brown paper bag.

My legs felt like rubber. But somehow I managed to put on a batting helmet and head in the direction of the batter’s box.

In the stands, Fran and Ethel were cheering …

On the sidelines, the camera was still rolling …

And on the mound, T.J. Stoner was grinning his head off.

This was easily the most terrifying moment of my life. There was no escape. None. No joke would save me now.

I stepped up to the plate. As I did, T.J. turned and hollered to the rest of his team. “EASY OUT! EASY OUT!”

In unison, the entire infield took four giant steps in. I swear it was almost like they had rehearsed it.

“GET READY FORA BUNT!” yelled T.J. again.

“Great. Perfect. Give my strategy away, why don’t you?” I muttered. But I didn’t have a choice. It was either bunt the ball or not connect at all.

T.J. threw his first pitch.

“Steeerrriiiikkke one!” shouted the umpire.

I turned and looked at him.

“Why do umpires always yell ‘strike’ so loud, do you think?” I asked. “Whenever it’s a ball, you guys practically whisper. But as soon as you see a strike, man, you belt it out for the whole world to hear. Why
is
that?”

The umpire told me to
watch myself, pal
.

I turned and got ready for the next pitch. I had already made up my mind. I wasn’t going to just stand there and let another ball go by. If I was going to strike out, I was going to do it swinging. Or, in my case,
bunting
.

T.J. wound up and threw again. I stuck out my bat and got ready. As the ball whizzed over the plate, I bunted it sharply down the first baseline.

I took off running!

I couldn’t believe it! I’d actually made contact with a T.J. Stoner pitch!

Now if only I could get on base! If I could get on base, all my problems would be over! I’d be a hero! And no one can be mad at a hero. Not even my coach.

The first baseman ran like crazy to get the ball. Meanwhile, T.J. sped over to cover first.

My teammates were screaming their lungs out! I just had to make it!

The first baseman picked up the ball and got ready to make the toss.

I was almost there! Just three more steps to go!

The toss came. T.J. reached out his glove for the catch!

He had to miss it! He just
had
to!

I flung my arms all around. “BOOGA BOOGA!” I screamed in his face. “BOOGA BOOGA!”

T.J. looked shocked. For just an instant he took his eye off the ball. And that’s all it took! It shot right past him, and rolled into the outfield.

I WAS SAFE AT FIRST!

But wait!

The coach was waving me on!

As the right fielder scrambled for the ball, I headed for second.

“Legs, don’t fail me now!” I yelled as I hit full speed. I didn’t look back until I was safely on the bag.

The crowd in the stands went totally nuts. Fran and Ethel practically ran onto the field. This was the proudest moment of my life!

“I DID IT! I DID IT!” I screamed. “I MADE IT TO SECOND! ME! ALEX FRANKOVITCH! I’M ON SECOND BASE!”

The second baseman told me to shut up. But no one could ruin this moment for me! Not the second baseman! Not T.J. Stoner! Not anyone!

I was waving my cap to the crowd when I first saw T.J.’s coach. He ran onto the field and began yelling at the umpire. Then the next thing I knew, my coach was out there, too.

I had no idea what they could be arguing about. The play had been so simple. I had bunted … T.J. had missed it … and I had ended up on second. I still couldn’t believe it! Wow! I started jumping up and down on the bag.

Suddenly, I saw the umpire walking toward me. He did not look happy.

Okay, don’t panic, Alex. Maybe he’s not really coming to second base at all Maybe during the excitement, someone threw toilet paper streamers onto the outfield, and the umpire’s walking out there to clean them up
.

But a few seconds later, the umpire stopped right next to me. Then he leaned right down in my face and screamed, “YOU’RE OUT!”

My mouth fell wide open. “Out? How could I be out? I bunted!”

“You interfered with the play at first base,” he said.

“I did not! I didn’t even
touch
T.J.!”

“You put your hands in his face and shouted ‘booga booga,’ said the umpire. “I call that interference. Not to mention unsportsmanlike conduct.”

Just then, my coach ran up behind the umpire and handed him the rule book. “Show me!” he demanded. “Show me where it says you can’t say ‘booga booga!’ Where is it, huh? What page is the ‘no booga booga’ rule on?”