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Authors: Kevin Markey
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Orlando running a close second. The Glove led us in stolen bases every season. It would be interesting to see if Orlando could stay with the fleet second baseman.
I reached the free throw line, slapped it, and changed directions. Ocho and Stump breathed down my neck as I darted back to the baseline. I tagged it and immediately turned again and raced to center court. By the time I got there, Orlando and the Glove had already passed me heading the other way, still neck and neck. On dry ground, Orlando clearly didn’t have any trouble with speed.
“One to go,” Skip shouted as we took off on the last leg, a brutal full-court sprint. “Dig! Dig! Dig!”
I made it to the far end of the court, turned, and kicked for home. I was still a short jump shot from finishing when Orlando and the Glove crossed the line dead even. I followed them in third, narrowly edging out Stump, Ocho, and the rest of the guys.
“Great wheels, everybody,” said Skip Lou as we gasped for air. “With speed like that, we’ll be terrors on the base paths this year. Grab some water and then we’ll split up into teams for Wall Ball.”
Orlando’s head jerked up. “Wall Ball?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” Gasser said with a laugh. “The idea is to hit a ball off the wall, not run into it. You’ll be fine.”
After a brief rest we formed two equal squads. Half of us, the Blues, grabbed our gloves and spread out along one end of the basketballcourt. The other half, the Reds, lined up at the opposite end, where Skip Lou had set up a batting tee. One at a time the Reds—Slingshot, Tugboat, Ducks, Ocho, and Kid Rabbit—whacked a ball off the tee. If it got past us and hit the wall, they scored a point.
Stump hoovered up a hot grounder. Gilly snared a liner in his big first baseman’s mitt. I knocked down a dangerous flare, and the Glove made a nice backhanded stab on a tricky bounder.
But Orlando stole the show, leaping high to spear a rocket off the bat of Tugboat an inch in front of the gym’s bruising cinder block wall. He landed cleanly on his feet and soft-tossed the ball back to Skip Lou, smiling as if to say he could make that play any day of the week.
As long as snow didn’t cover the ground, I believed he could.
We played for a solid hour. At the end of it, the Reds had scored six times, and we had bounced seven hits off the wall. But the bestnumber of all was zero. Which was the sum total of Orlando’s collisions.
Practice broke up with all of us feeling a little better about our chances against the Haymakers. And a whole lot better about our new center fielder’s prospects for survival.
CHAPTER 16
S now fell heavily all night, and on Friday morning there was no question about school. It was like an old stamp: canceled.
Normally I would have been thrilled. Not much beats a snow day. But we’d already had so many that they were no better than yesterday’s Rambletown Bulletin . They were old news. At this rate, we’d have so many makeup days, we’d still be going to school in July. Maybe it would have warmed up by then. I hoped so. I didn’t want to be huddled under blankets to watch the Fourth of July fireworks.
I joined my mom and dad at the breakfasttable and poured myself a bowl of Pirate Crunch.
“You lucky duck,” said Dad. “I wish I could take a snow day. Unfortunately, the office doesn’t close.”
“You’re the lucky one,” I said. “I’m sick of snow days. I’m sick of snow.”
My dad nearly fell off his chair.
“Sick of snow days? Whoever heard of such a thing? It’s blasphemy.”
“Whoever heard of such a miserable winter?” I said. “If it doesn’t let up, baseball season will never start.”
“Good point,” Dad said. He opened the morning paper and turned to the weather page. “Look here,” he announced. “Changing to sunny by this afternoon. Tomorrow’s supposed to be even warmer.”
“See, honey,” said Mom. “There’s hope yet.” She leaned across the table and
I reached the free throw line, slapped it, and changed directions. Ocho and Stump breathed down my neck as I darted back to the baseline. I tagged it and immediately turned again and raced to center court. By the time I got there, Orlando and the Glove had already passed me heading the other way, still neck and neck. On dry ground, Orlando clearly didn’t have any trouble with speed.
“One to go,” Skip shouted as we took off on the last leg, a brutal full-court sprint. “Dig! Dig! Dig!”
I made it to the far end of the court, turned, and kicked for home. I was still a short jump shot from finishing when Orlando and the Glove crossed the line dead even. I followed them in third, narrowly edging out Stump, Ocho, and the rest of the guys.
“Great wheels, everybody,” said Skip Lou as we gasped for air. “With speed like that, we’ll be terrors on the base paths this year. Grab some water and then we’ll split up into teams for Wall Ball.”
Orlando’s head jerked up. “Wall Ball?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” Gasser said with a laugh. “The idea is to hit a ball off the wall, not run into it. You’ll be fine.”
After a brief rest we formed two equal squads. Half of us, the Blues, grabbed our gloves and spread out along one end of the basketballcourt. The other half, the Reds, lined up at the opposite end, where Skip Lou had set up a batting tee. One at a time the Reds—Slingshot, Tugboat, Ducks, Ocho, and Kid Rabbit—whacked a ball off the tee. If it got past us and hit the wall, they scored a point.
Stump hoovered up a hot grounder. Gilly snared a liner in his big first baseman’s mitt. I knocked down a dangerous flare, and the Glove made a nice backhanded stab on a tricky bounder.
But Orlando stole the show, leaping high to spear a rocket off the bat of Tugboat an inch in front of the gym’s bruising cinder block wall. He landed cleanly on his feet and soft-tossed the ball back to Skip Lou, smiling as if to say he could make that play any day of the week.
As long as snow didn’t cover the ground, I believed he could.
We played for a solid hour. At the end of it, the Reds had scored six times, and we had bounced seven hits off the wall. But the bestnumber of all was zero. Which was the sum total of Orlando’s collisions.
Practice broke up with all of us feeling a little better about our chances against the Haymakers. And a whole lot better about our new center fielder’s prospects for survival.
CHAPTER 16
S now fell heavily all night, and on Friday morning there was no question about school. It was like an old stamp: canceled.
Normally I would have been thrilled. Not much beats a snow day. But we’d already had so many that they were no better than yesterday’s Rambletown Bulletin . They were old news. At this rate, we’d have so many makeup days, we’d still be going to school in July. Maybe it would have warmed up by then. I hoped so. I didn’t want to be huddled under blankets to watch the Fourth of July fireworks.
I joined my mom and dad at the breakfasttable and poured myself a bowl of Pirate Crunch.
“You lucky duck,” said Dad. “I wish I could take a snow day. Unfortunately, the office doesn’t close.”
“You’re the lucky one,” I said. “I’m sick of snow days. I’m sick of snow.”
My dad nearly fell off his chair.
“Sick of snow days? Whoever heard of such a thing? It’s blasphemy.”
“Whoever heard of such a miserable winter?” I said. “If it doesn’t let up, baseball season will never start.”
“Good point,” Dad said. He opened the morning paper and turned to the weather page. “Look here,” he announced. “Changing to sunny by this afternoon. Tomorrow’s supposed to be even warmer.”
“See, honey,” said Mom. “There’s hope yet.” She leaned across the table and
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