Wing Ding (3 page)

L
ater that afternoon, Stump and Slingshot showed up at my house. I knew they were coming. We always got together the day after a game to rehash the action. Between the grasshoppers and Stump's throwing error, we'd have a lot to talk about.

But their arrival took Mr. Bones by surprise.

When the bell rang, he raced to the door like a lifetime supply of dog treats waited on the other side.

I opened up and he hurled himself onto the porch, his tail wagging furiously as he jumped up and licked my friends' faces.

The guys wore shorts and T-shirts and
carried their gloves. Their bikes lay in the driveway. I grabbed my mitt and a ball, and we went down to the front yard to play catch.

The grass was green and soft underfoot as we spread out, not a locust in sight. Apparently the bugs were still content with the smorgasbord down at Rambletown Field. They hadn't felt the need to branch out. A nice breeze chased clouds across a deep blue sky. The wind puffed steadily.

“So, Mr. Resident Insect Expert, what's your game plan?” I asked Slingshot. “For the Haymakers tomorrow, I mean. First we take care of the Haymakers, then we take care of the grasshoppers.”

Pitching against the powerful Haymakers required only slightly more courage than fending off an army of mutant zombies. Those guys came at you relentlessly. If you messed up, they'd eat you alive. Kind of like the way the locusts were eating our field.

“Same plan as always,” Slingshot said,
flipping the ball to Stump. “I just have to do my best and trust my stuff.”

“Definitely,” agreed Stump. “Trust your stuff.” He caught the ball and zinged it to me.

“Yowch!” I yelped. “You trying to burn a hole in my hand or something?”

Stump smiled with satisfaction, his green eyes steely under the brim of his low-pulled cap.

I looped a lazy fly to Slingshot, who made a basket catch and kept the ball moving.

Stump gathered himself and whistled another hot one my way. For a friendly game of catch, he sure was firing bullets. I've eaten ballpark hot dogs with less mustard on them. And I happen to like mustard. Not to mention hot dogs.

“What's going on?” I demanded.

“Nothing. I'm just throwing.”

“Hard enough to kill me,” I said.

The next time around, Stump managed to put even more zip on the ball. Fortunately I
caught it. If I'd missed, I think it would have punched a hole through the front of the house. The thing whizzed like a meteor.

A real meteor would have been nice. They say a huge one was what killed off the dinosaurs. A nice little space rock would take care of the grasshoppers.

“All right, that's it,” I said. “Explain.”

Stump dropped his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, kicking the grass. “I just need to know I still have it.”

“Still have what?” Slingshot asked.

Stump sighed. “My arm. My throwing arm.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “You have a strong arm, and I have the sore hand to prove it.”

“Wait a minute,” Slingshot said. “Is this about what happened yesterday? Forget it! There was no error on the play. Bug invasion, remember? People were screaming. Everybody was already running off the field. No one was paying any attention to your throw.”

“I was paying attention,” said Stump quietly.
“I didn't even know about the swarm until after I fired the ball into the stands.” He shook his head. “I can't get it out of my mind.”

“You better get it out of your mind,” I said. “We need to focus on the Haymakers.”

We drifted back to the porch and sat down on the top step. Mr. Bones picked up the baseball in his mouth and cocked his head. He wanted to keep playing.

Stump was a great shortstop, always had been. He was like a one-man Bermuda Triangle. Balls hit his way just disappeared into his glove. Nobody covered more ground than he did. And nobody pulled the trigger quicker on a double play or got the ball faster to first.

“It happens,” Stump insisted. “Haven't you ever heard of the yips? A guy wakes up one day and all of a sudden he can't hit the side of a barn. Nothing has changed—he does everything the same way he always has. Only difference is, now the guy stinks.”

I'd heard of the yips, all right. The word was
slang for a mysterious twitchiness that sometimes infected athletes, making them muff routine plays. The yips were a rare and terrible thing. They could crop up in any sport. If a basketball player started bricking free throws he had always drained with his eyes closed, that was the yips. A golfer who suddenly could hit the ball anywhere except into the hole? The yips again.

But the yips were worst by far for baseball players. A yipified infielder turned every peg into an adventure. You never knew what the ball would do. The scary thing was, no one ever saw the yips coming. Or could predict when they would go away. Sometimes the condition disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Other times, it lingered all season…or longer. The harder a stricken player tried to get his groove back, the worse he would get. It was a sad and painful thing to see.

“Forget about the yips,” Slingshot said. “One bad throw is not the yips. Besides, we've got
the Haymakers to worry about. They're trouble enough.”

“Not to mention locusts,” I added. I brought up my conversation with Skip Lou. How he'd said the Haymakers were trying to use the grasshoppers as an excuse to steal the All-Star Game.
Our
All-Star Game.

Slingshot shook his head in disgust. “Why am I not surprised?” he asked, adding, “There's no way we're going to let that happen. We'll think of something.” Stump didn't say a word. I'm not sure he even heard us. All he could think about was his error.

“You admit it was a lousy throw,” he said.

“Drop it!” I said. “We need a new subject.”

“Good idea.” Slingshot agreed. “Let's take a rest from baseball.”

Stump heard that.

He snapped to attention, eyes bugging so wide, you would have thought Slingshot had suggested we rob the Third National Bank or something crazy like that.

“What else is there?” he sputtered. His mind was like a monorail. It had only one track.

“Kites,” I said. I told the guys about the plug for the Rambletown Kite Festival I'd heard on the radio that morning. I spoke quickly, so that Stump wouldn't cut me off before I finished. He was still trying to wrap his brain around the idea that it might be possible, now and then, to think about something other than baseball. “We should enter as a team,” I concluded. “Get all the guys to do it.”

“Great idea,” Slingshot said.

“Whatever.” Stump sighed.

I didn't say anything out loud, but I was thinking that aside from just being fun, the kite festival would be a good distraction for Stump. Help him blow off some steam before the All-Star Game. He really needed to lighten up.

“Only one problem,” said Slingshot. “I don't have a kite.”

“Got any money?”

He fished a black nylon wallet out of his
back pocket and looked inside. “Nine dollars in lawn-mowing cash. I spent the rest on the new Grand Slam Baseball for Gamebot 3000.”

Stump perked up. “Good investment,” he said of the computer game.

I pursed my lips. I didn't actually know how much a kite cost. There was only one way to find out.

“Let's ride down to the Toy Box. See what kind of selection they have.”

“You need one, too?” Slingshot asked.

I was pretty sure we had an old kite in the garage somewhere. My family had picked it up at the beach a couple summers back. Looked like an owl. Every seagull on the beach had been terrified of it.

“I'm set,” I said. “But it'll be fun to go anyway. I love that store. C'mon, we'll pick up Velcro on the way.”

I opened the door, poked my head inside, and asked my mom if we could ride our bikes into town. She was cool with the plan.

“Be back in an hour,” she said.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said.

Stump, Slingshot, and I mounted our bikes and pedaled for town. Mr. Bones trotted alongside us, his tongue flapping in the breeze like a pink sock on a clothesline.

W
e swung by Velcro's house on our way to the Toy Box and found him in his yard fielding pop-ups off a pitchback.

Mr. Bones raced over and greeted him with his usual lick to the face.

“Pffft,” said Velcro.

Slingshot glanced around. “Good thing you don't have a fence here,” he teased. “Or did you knock it down already, chasing fly balls?”

“No pain, no gain.” Velcro laughed.

Actually, he hadn't run into anything in weeks. If he kept it up, he was sure to make the All-Star team next year.

I told him we were on a mission to get kites
for the festival and asked if he could come.

He popped into the house to check with his mom and emerged a second later, flashing the thumbs-up sign.

The four of us jumped onto our bikes and rode the last half mile into the center of town, passing the library, the bank, a couple restaurants, and the hardware store. Along the way people waved and wished us luck in the All-Star Game. Holding up copies of the
Rambletown Bulletin
, a few shouted anxious questions about the locusts.

“Cross your fingers for wind,” I called to them.

As if on cue, the breeze kicked up, unleashing a gust that tried to stop us in our tracks. I took it as a good omen. I hoped the grasshoppers over at the baseball field were paying attention.

The Toy Box occupied a skinny red brick building between a burrito place called Bueno y Sana and Serio's Market. We left Mr. Bones with our bikes on the sidewalk and went inside,
a brass bell on the door announcing our arrival.

I inhaled the familiar wood-polish smell of the old shop with its scuffed floorboards and its narrow aisles, lined floor to ceiling with shelves loaded to bursting with board games, plush animals, magic kits, remote-control cars and airplanes, paint sets, balls, scooters, and model rockets. Man, I loved that place. I'd gotten my first bike there, and my first baseball bat and glove.

“Wow!” said Velcro. “I've been wondering what was in here.”

“Pretty much every cool thing in the world,” I said, picking up a Magic 8 Ball from a bin by the door. Suddenly I had an idea. “Hey, Stump,” I said. “Ask it about the yips. This'll prove you're fine.”

Stump grimaced. “I'd rather not,” he said.

“Oh, c'mon,” said Velcro. “I'll do it for you: Does Stump have the yips?”

As I turned over the ball to see the answer, the store owner walked up and greeted us. “Hi,
guys. Anything I can help you find?”

I glanced at the white triangle floating in blue ink.

“Kites,” I said decisively. “For the festival.”

“Ahh,” he said. “Everybody wants kites today. A fellow came in just a minute ago, looking for one. Right this way.”

I dropped the Magic 8 Ball back into the bin, and we followed him down a jam-packed aisle.

“You boys ballplayers?” the owner asked. We told him we were. “I thought I recognized you. The kid in the back must be a friend of yours. Hey, what's going on down at the field? The pictures in the paper look horrible. How are you going to get rid of those pests before the big game Sunday?”

A step in front of me, Stump twitched, his right elbow nearly flicking over a Lego tower. “I hate those bugs,” he muttered.

“There's a good chance the wind will blow them away,” Velcro said, sounding more hopeful than convinced. “Right, Slingshot?”

Slingshot nodded.

We reached the sporting-goods section, and the man showed where to find the kites. We couldn't believe our eyes. Who knew there were so many different kinds? Along with standard diamonds, there were giant box kites, mile-long dragons, and kites designed to look like bats, birds, biplanes, comets, caped super-heroes, and just about anything else you might possibly see in the sky.

A real superhero would have been nice. He could've rounded up the locusts for us.

Standing with his back to us, a tall kid wearing a baseball cap looked over a fabric replica of the
Star Wars
Death Star. He pulled the package off the hook and turned to take it to the counter.

When I saw his face, I stiffened.

He was no friend of ours. More like the exact opposite. Before us stood Flicker Pringle, all seven feet of him, star pitcher for the Hog City Haymakers. Unlike many of his teammates, Flicker was clean-shaven, but everything else
about him was filthy. Especially his stuff. And his temper.

Flicker was famous for feeding hitters a starvation diet of nasty sliders, diving splitters, and heaters so fast they made a switchblade seem slow. That was when you could see his fastball at all. Usually you just heard a frightening
whoosh
as it rocketed under your chin. League leader in wins, strikeouts, and earned-run average, Flicker would be starting the All-Star Game. It would be strange to be on the same side as him.

“What's he doing?” Velcro hissed.

“Buying a kite, it looks like,” I whispered. “Be cool. No big deal.”

“Why, look who's here,” Flicker sneered when he recognized us. “The Rambletown Grasshoppers!”

“Rounders,” Stump corrected him. “The name's the Rounders.”

He jiggled nervously as he spoke.

“Whatever,” said Flicker. “Too bad about your field, huh? Don't worry, we'll put on a
good All-Star Game in Hog City.
We're
used to it.” Pushing past us to the counter, he added, “But first we'll kick your butts tomorrow.”

“Dream on,” said Slingshot.

Flicker ignored him as he paid for his kite. On his way out of the store, the Haymaker bully paused long enough to fire off one last shot. Fixing Stump with a cocky smirk, he asked, “What's up with your wing, pal? I hear it's dinged. Got you throwing like a crooked stick. Good luck with
that
in the All-Star Game.”

“Sticks don't throw!” I called out lamely, but he'd already disappeared through the door.

Ugh!

So much for our fun little outing to the Toy Box. Stump practically vibrated, he was so upset.

The shop owner looked on in confusion. “Not a friend?” he asked.

“Not so much,” Velcro said.

“Forget him,” I said. “Let's get what we came for.”

“I'm not in the mood anymore,” Stump mumbled. “I'll wait for you guys outside.” He stormed out of the shop.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I said.

“Nah, he'll be fine once he cools down,” Slingshot said. “I, for one, am still stoked about the festival. Help me find the biggest kite nine dollars can buy!”

After we looked over about a zillion options, Slingshot picked a diamond-shaped plastic one, black with a grinning skull and crossbones printed across its underside. Velcro found a giant red lobster whose long tail would swing freely as it flew. By the time they finished choosing, we felt pretty excited again. The festival would be a blast.

Almost as much fun as making Flicker Pringle eat his words tomorrow.

Thanking the owner, who wished us luck again in getting rid of the grasshoppers, we jingled out the door. We found Stump sitting on the sidewalk, back against the wall as he stroked
Mr. Bones, who sprawled across his lap.

“Any luck?” he asked.

Slingshot and Velcro showed him their kites. “Sweet,” Stump said without much enthusiasm.

We mounted our bikes and headed home. With a building breeze pushing from behind, we practically coasted the whole way. Just before I split off, Stump called to me.

“Hey, Walloper,” he asked. “What did the Magic 8 Ball say, anyway? You never told me.”

Rats. I was hoping he'd forgotten.

“Magic 8 Ball?”

“Yeah, when you asked it about the yips.”

“It's just a dumb toy,” I said.

“I knew it!” Stump yelled. “It answered yes, didn't it?”

I shook my head. “It definitely didn't say that.” I pedaled away before he could ask any more questions.

In fact, what the Magic 8 Ball had said was “Without a doubt!”