Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle (5 page)

A
CLAP OF
thunder makes me jump. I glance at the clock on the wall. It's 10:05, a whole five minutes after game time. By now, the other kids are probably standing around waiting for me. After all, I am the pitcher.

The basement has a door leading to the outside. If I open it right, slow but steady, I can avoid it making a groan, and Shirley will never know I'm gone.

I run straight through the puddles that have gathered on the sidewalk. Soon I'm standing on the Rattles' front lawn.

I am alone.

The sight of the empty field knocks the wind out of me, just like when John Marcos accidentally kicked a lowflying ball straight into my stomach two summers ago. But that breathless feeling from the ball went away after a few minutes. This one stays with me, growing deeper with each new crack of thunder.

No one else cared enough to come. A few measly thunderbolts and some flashes of lightning kept them all away.

I glare up and down the block, searching for a sign that someone will join me. But the street is empty. I pay special attention to the old house right across the street, where Muscle Man lives.

Talk about luck. He couldn't have planned better weather. The pouring rain gives him more time to figure out a way to weasel out of this.

Of all people, he should have been here. Even if no one else showed up, he should be standing in the rain along side me. He was the one who threw down the challenge.

“Come on, Muscle Man!” I shout to his house, which is shut up tight. “Right now! Come on out and show the world what you're made of!”

A rattle of thunder and a few quick flashes of lightning are my only answer.

“Let's go! You got a game to play!”

The ball sits in a puddle by first base, exactly where John Marcos threw it down the night before. I pick it up and bounce it a few times.

At the next house over, a door opens. Mrs. Grabowsky steps outside. “Tammy, sweetie, go home. No one is playing today.”

“Oh, no. You're wrong, Mrs. Grabowsky. They're just late, but they're coming.” I bounce the ball again. It makes a
splat
sound against a puddle.

“Go home. You'll catch your death of cold,” she says.

“Is MaryBeth coming out?” I pop up the ball with my knee and catch it on the way down.

Mrs. Grabowsky shakes her head. “No, MaryBeth is not coming out.”

“Too bad. Tell her she's going to miss a good game.”

“Tamara Ann Simpson, if you don't go home this minute, I'm going to call your mother.”

It figures. That's what happens when you're a trouble person. People pick on you for doing nothing. All I'm doing is minding my own business, waiting for the game to start.

I slam the ball into the biggest puddle I can find. It sends water flying up so hard that even I jump.

“You'd better be out here tomorrow, Muscle Man, or I'll come and get you,” I shout across the street with Mrs. Grabowsky watching me.

“I mean it, Tamara. This is your last chance.” Mrs. Grabowsky has her hands on her hips now, and I know I don't have much time left.

Before she can make any phone calls, I head home.

I stay down in the basement for most of the day, listening to Tim's Jimi Hendrix records and doing laundry, anything to keep away from Shirley.

Every so often I sneak back outside and glance down the block at the Rattle's front lawn. But the only thing gathering on Ramble Street is a bunch of puddles.

W
ORD TRAVELS FAST
on Ramble Street. Even a day of torrential rain couldn't stop the entire block from hearing about Muscle Man's challenge.

The morning after the storm, we're ready for him. At 9:30, eleven of us are standing on the Rattle's front lawn. It's been a long time since I've seen us all together.

Big Danny and John Marcos stand in the center of the group. The others swarm around them.

Tony Mogavero pedals by with those punky kids at his side. As soon as Big Danny explains the situation to him, Tony drops his bike. “Catch you later,” he tells those two kids from Catholic school, and just like old times, he's back with us.

I almost get knocked over by one of the Donovan twins. He's too busy shoving his brother to even say sorry. After eleven years, Matthew and Michael Donovan haven't figured out that both of them can't occupy the same space at the same time.

“Come on, guys, cut it out.” Benny Schuster is friends with both of them and probably says those words a hundred times a day.

MaryBeth floats around the crowd with her little sister, Janie Lee, showing off their matching outfits and silky hair. It reminds me that I should have at least redone my pony tail this morning.

I stand next to Conchetta Marchetta for a while. You can always count on a Marchetta to show up for a big event. Conchetta is a nice girl. Dull. But nice. I try to talk to her about summer and sprinklers and stuff, but after about thirty seconds, I run out of things to say.

By 9:50, I can't wait any longer. I work my way into the center of the crowd. “Maybe we should call for him.”

“He's got ten minutes,” says John Marcos. “He's not even late.”

“Yes, let's be fair and give him a chance.” MaryBeth bats her eyelashes at him.

“I'm always fair,” I protest.

John Marcos pays no mind to either one of us. Instead he walks over to where Billy Rattle is showing off his new transistor radio.

I kill time by standing next to MaryBeth, listening to some story about that uncle of hers who works for Grumman and the
Apollo 11
mission.

“Tammy, did you hear anything I said?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say, not taking my eyes off of Muscle Man's house.

“We're having a big party at my house on moonwalk night.” MaryBeth puts her hands over her mouth like she's said something terribly wrong. “Oh, Tammy, I'm so sorry.”

I shrug like I don't care at all. It's not like I expect an invitation. Whenever the Grabowsky's have a party, my family's not invited. Oh sure, if there's a party where they invite everyone on the entire block, we get to go. But when it comes to a house party where only certain people are invited, the Simpsons never make the grade.

MaryBeth always seems to let it slip, though, whenever her family is having a party. We never have any kind of a celebration at my house. If we ever do, I've made a solemn vow that I'll accidentally let her know too.

“Oh, Tammy, are you mad?” asks MaryBeth, in a make-believe sad voice.

I shrug again and walk away from her. I end up standing next to Big Danny, who's finishing a swirly cone.

“Where'd you get that?” I ask. Mr. Softee's first drive down Ramble Street is normally after lunch.

“We ‘ave a whole boonch of ‘em in the freeza.” His mouth is too full to say any more. “It's my ‘ird one.”

“Hey, what time is it?” I notice he's wearing a watch.

“Five minnuz afta.” He pushes the entire rest of the cone in his mouth, and I know he's not good for answering another thing until the mess that's in his mouth goes down his throat.

I walk over to where the crowd has gathered around Billy Rattle's new radio.

“He's late,” I announce to no one in particular. “We should go get him. He's probably not coming unless we do.”

It's almost as if Muscle Man hears what I'm saying from across the street, because at that moment the door opens.

Muscle Man steps outside, his face plastered with that stupid smirk. His brother, Greg, steps out next to him. The two of them cross Ramble Street.

“So, I hear you're playing kickball,” Greg grunts.

Except for that time at Mrs. Kutchner's front door, I've never seen Greg up close. He looks like Muscle Man, except older and without the stupid grin. Since they moved into the neighborhood, Greg is never around much. He's thirteen, old enough to ride his bike and go anywhere he wants. And I guess Ramble Street is never where he wants to be.

Big Danny and John Marcos explain things to him.

“He said he can beat all of us,” I add, impatient to get to the end of the story and to see what Greg and Muscle Man are up to.

Greg gives Muscle Man a now-you-did-it glare.

“Well, if he says he can do it, then he should do it,” says Greg.

Muscle Man's expression never changes, even though, in my opinion, his brother has just thrown him to a pack of hungry wolves.

“I'm gonna be on your team too,” Greg adds.

I rub my hands together. Things are turning out better than I thought. His brother is on
our
team. Against Muscle Man. I begin to feel sorry for Greg at having to live with this kid.

“Let's call it. Does someone have a coin so we can flip to see who's up first?” I look straight at Billy Rattle, the money guy.

“You know, since it's all of us against one, I think that we should let this guy be up first.” Greg puts his brother in a playful choke hold. Muscle Man grins.

“That seems fair,” chimes in MaryBeth, and I don't know who I want to smash first. Muscle Man for his grin or MaryBeth for her stupid comment.

She's wrong, anyway. It's not fair. That's not how we do it. We always flip a coin to see who's up first. Having Muscle Man up first, without a coin flip, is not fair. He's getting special treatment.

I wait for someone to protest.

Instead John Marcos tosses me the ball. “Okay,” he says to Greg, “he's up first.”

I sigh and take my place on the field.

There are too many of us to play our positions, so most of the kids gather in the outfield. Three or four crowd up around second base.

I stand on the pitcher's mound and bounce the ball, waiting for everyone to get ready. I've never seen so many of us in the field at once. John Marcos gives me a nod.

It's time to begin. Good thing too, because if it takes another minute, I'm sure I'll burst. I can't wait any longer.

I take one look at Muscle Man standing in front of home plate, and I throw my first pitch.

I
START WITH
a line drive, fast and straight up the middle.

It goes exactly where I want it to go, right over home plate.

Muscle Man fails to give it the respect it deserves. He's so busy smiling at me that he hardly pays attention.

My pitches are nothing to smile about. They are fierce. I've pitched to the big kids and even to my brother, Tim, and Vinnie Pizza. I can tell by the way they wrinkle their foreheads and by the way they stop joking around that I've got a good arm.

This kid is practically grinning. Here he is, playing the most important game of his life, one that's sure to prove him to be a slithering liar, and he hardly seems to be trying. By the time he even attempts to kick, the ball has rolled past him.

“Strike one,” shouts John Marcos.

John's official position is catcher, but he's also the unofficial umpire. John Marcos is fair,
too fair,
in my opinion. He has no problem selling his own team down the river when he thinks the other team is in the right. There are no arguments about who is safe and who is out when John Marcos is involved. His words are like gold. And he called it a strike.

“Great pitch, Tammy,” shouts Muscle Man. The stupid kid doesn't even know when he's about to get trounced.

“Yeah, well if you like that one, try this one,” I pitch him another. Same pitch. Straight up the middle.

Muscle Man hardly looks at the ball. He's making funny faces at little Janie Lee Grabowsky, who's over near first base.

He misses again.

“Strike two,” shouts John Marcos.

“Good pitch again,” says Muscle Man, and the blood inside me sizzles.

I throw another, but this one slides out of my hand and wobbles as it heads toward home plate. Not my best pitch. A little slow. Probably, the blood bubbling up inside me caused my arm to stiffen.

Muscle Man kicks it. The ball heads straight back to me. It bounces, or I'd have caught it and he'd have been out instantly.

I don't know why the kid even bothers running, because it's pretty obvious that he's toast. Before he steps off home plate, I already have the ball in my hands.

“Throw it here,” shouts Billy Rattle, the first baseman. “Come on, Tammy. What's taking you so long?”

Normally, Billy Rattle and I work well together. He can catch anything I throw to him, and he never has to shout at me to do it. But this is more than a game of kickball. This is about teaching someone a very important lesson.

So, instead of sending it to Billy Rattle, I toss the ball to Janie Lee Grabowsky. She's standing not three feet away from first base. For a second, she stares at me like I made some horrible error. But as soon as she realizes what's at stake, she springs into action.

The little kid knows exactly what to do. She runs to first base and waits for him.

The humiliation is complete. Muscle Man is tagged out by a five-year-old.

I bet then and there the grin I have on my face is as stupid as Muscle Man's.

“You're out,” John Marcos shouts.

I head back to the pitcher's mound, feeling like I'm the top dog at the pound. Nothing can stop me.

It's time for my tricky pitch, the one that Vinnie Pizza taught me. I throw the ball underhand, fast and strong. It heads straight toward home plate and then hits a certain patch of lawn at the last minute, causing it to zig slightly to the left. That pitch can take even the really good players by surprise. It's one of my best moves.

Muscle Man misses.

“Strike one,” shouts John Marcos.

When you've spent as much time pitching as I have, you get a sense of how the game is going to go in the first few innings. The kids in Janie Lee Grabowsky's kindergarten class would have given me more problems than Muscle Man. This game is going to be a cinch.

I don't need the other twelve players to beat this kid. I can strike him out in no time. For the first time in months, my headache goes away.

Instead of pain, my head swells with joy.

I make up a little song and sing it under my breath. “Strike one. Strike one. The fun has just begun.”

My next pitch is an exact replay of my last one. It always gets them, that zig. For some players, I can do it a hundred times before they learn how to kick it back. For Muscle Man, I bet I could pitch it a thousand times.

“Strike two,” shouts John Marcos.

“Boy, your pitches are good today,” Muscle Man gives me an enormously stupid smile. “Good job, Tammy.”

“You ain't seen nothing yet!” I shout back at him.

My next pitch is perfect. Fast. Smooth. And impossible to hit.

It sails past him. He doesn't even see it.

“Strike three. Second out,” says John Marcos.

Before John throws back the ball, Greg McGinty signals to him that it's time to talk. He runs over to where John Marcos stands behind home plate.

I wait.

Normally these things don't take too long, but John and Greg keep blabbing.

“Come on, guys, we're burning daylight.” I turn around and look at my team, waiting for one of them to join in and back me up.

Big Danny pulls a candy bar out of his shirt pocket. MaryBeth Grabowsky plays with her hair. The Donovan twins are in left field, elbowing each other over who gets to stand in the best position. Conchetta Marchetta ties and reties her sneakers. A few other kids stare up at the sky. No one says anything about hurrying.

Greg points to Muscle Man. A few times John Marcos shakes his head and waves his hands around. I try to lean in to listen, but their conversation is soft. I can't hear a word.

I think about joining them. I'm the pitcher after all, and I'm entitled to walk over there to see what's up, but to be honest, I'm a little scared of Greg McGinty.

He's big. He grunts. He's Muscle Man's older brother, and he can probably tell in a heartbeat that Muscle Man's mere existence causes me grief.

A dozen years go by before Greg McGinty heads back to the field, and John Marcos walks over to me.

“Take it easy on him.” John looks at the ground when he speaks.

“Are you kidding me?” I look at the ground too. It's how we always talk on the field. This way, no one knows what we're talking about.

“Look, we don't want this to be a simple strikeout. Let him kick the ball. Come on, Tammy, it's thirteen against one. It's only fair.”

John doesn't wait for my answer. He said his piece and expects it to be done.

I bounce the ball hard and don't bother to catch it when it flies up over my head.

Only fair. Hmph.

The kid was stupid enough to challenge the entire block, and now we have to be easy on him?