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Authors: Kevin Markey
Tags: Retail, Ages 8 & Up
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the kooky cold weather, I suddenly felt very warm inside.
On the way back into school, I surveyed the wild scene and spotted Principal Gorton. She still waved her hands, but she’d given up blowing the whistle. Instead, she shouted, “Hot chocolate! Getcher hot chocolate here!”
For the first time since spring break ended, she looked happy.
CHAPTER 15
T he fund-raiser was a huge success.
Our attempt to practice at Rambletown Field Thursday afternoon was anything but. The lumpy mounds of snow ringing the diamond looked like a bunch of white camels. And the ground was so crusty and hard you could twist an ankle just by looking at it.
Even Skip Lou had to admit that pretending to play baseball in those conditions made less sense than change for a nickel. Shaking his head, Skip gathered us around for a quick conference.
“Listen up, guys,” he started. “I hate to say it, but until this snow melts we’re going to have tomove inside. It won’t be perfect, but anything’s better than careening all over a giant slippery slide.”
He was right about that. We all had the bumps and bruises to prove it. Especially Orlando.
“Let’s head back to school and set up in the gym,” Skip continued. “We can run some really fun drills on the basketball court. Glove and Tugboat, you guys grab the equipment bags. Everybody else, get your stuff and let’s go.”
We followed him off the diamond. Our breath puffed white in the wintry air as we chugged single file back to school. Banked snow squeezed the sidewalk, leaving a cleared path about as wide as a Habitrail. A hamster could have scooted along it with ease, if it was an extraskinny hamster.
Reaching school, we threaded past sightseers ogling Mount Rambletown. I counted three TV news crews. The smiles on the reporters’ faces looked frozen in place as they gazed into their cameras. The gusting wind ruinedtheir perfect hair. Between takes, they stamped their feet and hugged themselves for warmth. I felt bad that we had no hot chocolate for them today.
We trudged behind the school to the back entrance to the gym, where Skip unlocked the wide double doors and flipped on the lights one after another.
“You guys stow your coats and stuff on the bleachers,” Skip directed. “I’ll get a basket of training balls from the equipment room. Be lined up on the baseline under the basket when I get back.”
Our wet boots squeaked on the shining wooden floor as we tramped across the basketball court. It sounded like a choir of songbirds. Real songbirds would have been nice. They would have meant spring had sprung.
“I’ll bet you never played baseball on a hoops court in Florida,” I said to Orlando as I yanked off my snow pants. Underneath, I wore a pair of gray sweats.
“Never,” he agreed. “Then again, I never skidded into the outfield wall ten times in one day either.”
Skip returned, rolling a wheeled basket of baseballs. Except they weren’t real baseballs, I knew. They were lighter, made of some sort of soft, rubbery material that bounced harmlessly off walls and lights and human bodies. We’d used them in T-ball and Coaches Pitch when I was a kid. Skip pushed the cart to the sideline and walked onto the court.
Apparently we wouldn’t be getting to the balls just yet.
“Let’s start with some sprints,” Skip said from the free throw line.
A groan went up from the team.
“Suicides?” Stump asked.
In the front row of bleachers, Gasser stretched out his broken leg and grinned. “Bummer! I do hate to miss this,” he lied.
Skip Lou explained the rules. Probably he didn’t need to. So-called suicide sprints werelike black jelly beans. One taste and you never forgot how awful they were.
“I thought you said this would be fun,” Ducks complained.
“Patience,” Skip said. “Ready?”
I crouched low, my right hand touching the floor for balance. Skip blew his whistle and off we thundered like stampeding cattle.
The Glove took an early lead with
On the way back into school, I surveyed the wild scene and spotted Principal Gorton. She still waved her hands, but she’d given up blowing the whistle. Instead, she shouted, “Hot chocolate! Getcher hot chocolate here!”
For the first time since spring break ended, she looked happy.
CHAPTER 15
T he fund-raiser was a huge success.
Our attempt to practice at Rambletown Field Thursday afternoon was anything but. The lumpy mounds of snow ringing the diamond looked like a bunch of white camels. And the ground was so crusty and hard you could twist an ankle just by looking at it.
Even Skip Lou had to admit that pretending to play baseball in those conditions made less sense than change for a nickel. Shaking his head, Skip gathered us around for a quick conference.
“Listen up, guys,” he started. “I hate to say it, but until this snow melts we’re going to have tomove inside. It won’t be perfect, but anything’s better than careening all over a giant slippery slide.”
He was right about that. We all had the bumps and bruises to prove it. Especially Orlando.
“Let’s head back to school and set up in the gym,” Skip continued. “We can run some really fun drills on the basketball court. Glove and Tugboat, you guys grab the equipment bags. Everybody else, get your stuff and let’s go.”
We followed him off the diamond. Our breath puffed white in the wintry air as we chugged single file back to school. Banked snow squeezed the sidewalk, leaving a cleared path about as wide as a Habitrail. A hamster could have scooted along it with ease, if it was an extraskinny hamster.
Reaching school, we threaded past sightseers ogling Mount Rambletown. I counted three TV news crews. The smiles on the reporters’ faces looked frozen in place as they gazed into their cameras. The gusting wind ruinedtheir perfect hair. Between takes, they stamped their feet and hugged themselves for warmth. I felt bad that we had no hot chocolate for them today.
We trudged behind the school to the back entrance to the gym, where Skip unlocked the wide double doors and flipped on the lights one after another.
“You guys stow your coats and stuff on the bleachers,” Skip directed. “I’ll get a basket of training balls from the equipment room. Be lined up on the baseline under the basket when I get back.”
Our wet boots squeaked on the shining wooden floor as we tramped across the basketball court. It sounded like a choir of songbirds. Real songbirds would have been nice. They would have meant spring had sprung.
“I’ll bet you never played baseball on a hoops court in Florida,” I said to Orlando as I yanked off my snow pants. Underneath, I wore a pair of gray sweats.
“Never,” he agreed. “Then again, I never skidded into the outfield wall ten times in one day either.”
Skip returned, rolling a wheeled basket of baseballs. Except they weren’t real baseballs, I knew. They were lighter, made of some sort of soft, rubbery material that bounced harmlessly off walls and lights and human bodies. We’d used them in T-ball and Coaches Pitch when I was a kid. Skip pushed the cart to the sideline and walked onto the court.
Apparently we wouldn’t be getting to the balls just yet.
“Let’s start with some sprints,” Skip said from the free throw line.
A groan went up from the team.
“Suicides?” Stump asked.
In the front row of bleachers, Gasser stretched out his broken leg and grinned. “Bummer! I do hate to miss this,” he lied.
Skip Lou explained the rules. Probably he didn’t need to. So-called suicide sprints werelike black jelly beans. One taste and you never forgot how awful they were.
“I thought you said this would be fun,” Ducks complained.
“Patience,” Skip said. “Ready?”
I crouched low, my right hand touching the floor for balance. Skip blew his whistle and off we thundered like stampeding cattle.
The Glove took an early lead with
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