Wing Ding (4 page)

T
he next afternoon Stump and Slingshot swung by my house on their way to catch the team bus to our game against the Haymakers.

“We're in for a real blast of wind,” said Mom. “You sure I can't give you boys a ride?”

I told her we wanted to take our bikes.

In fact I would've pedaled through a ring of fire before I accepted a lift. My mom knew this. Her offer wasn't really serious. More of a gentle tease than anything else. She knew how I felt about messing with tradition: only bad things could happen.

Things like striking out with the game on the line.

Or coming down with the yips.

I sure hoped the Magic 8 Ball was wrong about Stump. One way or another, we'd find out for sure today. The game would be the real test.

“Okay, then. Good luck, guys!” Mom appeared in the doorway. “I'll see you in the second inning.”

My friends laughed. They knew my parents always showed up late, home or away. This was another long-standing tradition. Years ago, my folks happened to miss the start of one of my games after my dad misplaced the car keys. He was always forgetting where he put things. But that's another story. On the day in question, I ended up clobbering a ton of hits. Ever since then, Mom and Dad avoid the first inning of all Rounders games. They don't want to jinx me by being on time.

“Thanks, Mom. See you later,” I said.

“Much later,” said Slingshot with a laugh.

We rode to Rambletown Field together to meet the team bus for away games. It was a
tradition. In baseball you don't mess with tradition.

We mounted our bikes and headed off to Rambletown Field. Mr. Bones dashed alongside us.

Everything looked normal as we pedaled into the parking lot.

Looks can be deceiving.

The first sign that something was wrong was the deafening roar that greeted us. It was no ordinary ballpark roar, the kind fans make when the home team does something good. Nope. Not even close. This sounded more like some terrible orchestra made up of chain saws, dirt bikes, and snowmobiles.

It was the grasshoppers.

Real snowmobiles would have been nice. They would have meant winter, when locusts don't swarm.

We sure hadn't seen any locusts last winter. Of course, we hadn't seen any grass, either. So much snow had fallen that the baseball
diamond was still buried on opening day. Over at Rambletown Elementary School, snowplows had piled the white stuff into a jagged mountain in the parking lot. High up on the summit of it, the faces of four presidents had appeared as if by magic. Cross my heart and hope to die. We had John Adams, Calvin Coolidge, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy. And we didn't have a single locust. Presidents were way less obnoxious than grasshoppers.

Upon hearing the deafening buzz, my heart sank. I realized I'd been hoping that the grasshoppers would be gone.

We jumped off our bikes at the rack near the entrance to the field. The rest of the team was already aboard the bus. As I snapped my Kryptonite lock into place, Mr. Bones edged toward the diamond. By the way he moved, low to the ground, body tense, I knew he planned to attack. Man, he hated those grasshoppers even more than I did.

Quickly I turned and whistled. We didn't
have time to mess with grasshoppers right now. Mr. Bones shot me a surprised look over his shoulder: “What?! You're just going the let them buzz around like they own the place?!”

“C'mon, boy,” I encouraged him, flashing a big fake smile. “This way!”

Good dog that he is, he veered away from the field. You would have thought I had commanded him to go into a burning house to save a cat, the way he tucked his tail. I made a mental note to reward him with an extra treat when we got home after the game.

“Glad you boys could join us,” Skip Lou said from behind the big wheel as we climbed into the bus. “I was beginning to think you had better things to do. Grab a seat and let's go.”

Mumbling apologies for being
almost
late, we followed Mr. Bones down the aisle. Along the way, we slapped hands with our teammates.

Mr. Bones led us to the big bench seat all the way in the back, his favorite perch, and leaped up next to Gabby Hedron.

She had her notebook open on her knee and a camera looped around her neck on a black strap. Her brown ponytail stuck out the back of the red Rounders cap she wore. So much for the press not taking sides.

“Nice story in the paper,” I told her. “I can't wait to read the one about the grasshoppers leaving.”

“I hope we smoke them,” Gabby said.

“Hey,” Slingshot said. “That's not a bad idea! Maybe if we build a huge bonfire, the smoke will drive away the grasshoppers.”

“I'm talking about the Haymakers,” Gabby said. “The Haymakers totally bug me.”

“Don't mention bugs,” Stump groaned. “I'm sick of bugs.”

Skip Lou cranked the bus into gear and we picked up the road to Hog City. The place lay only a short distance from Rambletown, but going there always felt like entering a different world.

The people of Hog City were loaded, and
their stuff was like a jumbo meal from Burger Clown. It was supersized. The huge brick houses, the park-sized lawns in front of them, the wide roads, the boss cars rolling over them: big and perfect and made to impress.

And then there were the baseball players. To a person, the Haymakers were gigantic. Every kid on the team looked like a grown man.

A big, bearded grown man.

That's right. Half these guys had facial hair.

You didn't often see a bunch of eleven-year-olds sporting chinstraps. But the Haymakers were no ordinary kids.

Think Paul Bunyan with a baseball bat instead of an ax and you begin to get the picture. Think Blackbeard the pirate. The Haymakers were so bristly, they could've opened a brush factory. And they could've used the brushes to tame their beards.

Now we were on our way to play them.

Lucky us.

“What's up, Stump?” Gabby suddenly asked.
“You're squirming all over the place.”

“Worried about the game, I guess,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

“You need to chill,” Slingshot said. “We've beaten the Haymakers before. If I'm not mistaken, we're the champs. Hey, Gilly, how about some tunes?”

Gilly always brought his radio with him on bus trips. It was a big black box the size of my grandfather's suitcase. The thing could crank. You didn't even need earbuds to hear it.

Our first baseman grinned, and a second later the smooth voice of Louie the Lip filled the bus. I had to hand it to the Lip. The dude was a goofball, but his voice was butter. Whenever I heard it, I got hungry for popcorn.

My friends felt differently.

“Man!” said Kid Rabbit. “This is the worst station on earth! My parents listen to this junk!”

Out of nowhere a balled-up sock flew across the bus and lightly bounced off Gilly's ear. He only smiled more widely and jacked up the volume.

The Lip crooned:

“The music may stink,” I said, “but you've got to admit the kite festival is cool. Stump, Slingshot, Velcro, and I are going after practice tomorrow. Who else is in?”

Everybody's hands shot up in the air.

Suddenly the bus gave a violent lurch. At first I thought Skip Lou had lost himself in the music. He loved old-time stuff. He'd been known to chair-dance to it while driving. But then I saw a clump of what looked like feathers flash past the windows.

“Was that chickens?” asked Gasser.

Gabby swiveled around and started snapping pictures through the rear window.

“I saw them, too,” shouted second baseman Ellis “the Glove” Rodriguez, bouncing into the aisle for a better view.

“Stay in your seats,” Skip Lou hollered as the bus lurched hard the other way and a polka-dotted bedsheet billowed past. “We're in for some turbulence.”

“Isn't that what the pilot says right before the airplane crashes?” the Glove asked.

“Luckily this is a bus,” Gabby said, still snapping away.

The guy on the radio sang about summer wind as more stuff flew through the air.

Leaves. Branches. Plastic grocery bags. Small animals.

A white shirt appeared out of nowhere and swam alongside the bus. A pair of blue jeans raced after it. Next came a flock of dark socks that dipped and weaved like sparrows. A small
woman holding a large basket brought up the rear of the freaky parade. She gripped the basket in front of her with both hands like a steering wheel.

As she swooped beside the bus, our eyes met. She gave a little wave with her pinky finger, and then she was gone.

“That was weird,” said Gasser, speaking for all of us.

We were still struggling to wrap our minds around what we'd seen when a roadside sign came into view. The sign bore raised gold letters set against a creamy white background. Firmly attached to a pair of thick wooden posts, it stood fast against the wind.

 

WELCOME TO HOG CITY
A COMMUNITY OF DISTINCTION

 

Instantly we erupted into a chorus of
oinks
and grunts. Our traditional salute upon entering our rivals' Richie Rich hometown.

The barnyard outburst fired up Mr. Bones. He put his front paws up on the window and howled like a wolf.

“Easy, boy.” I laughed. “It's just a joke.”

“The Haymakers are no joke!” shouted Ducks from the front. “Beat Hog City!”

We picked up his rallying cry, and a chant of “Beat Hog City!” rocked the bus as we rolled through town. Passing a golf course greener than a dollar bill, we entered Satchem Park, home of the Hog City municipal athletic fields.

Home of the mighty Haymakers.

T
he wind met us like the defensive line of the Chicago Bears as we clambered off the bus. We lowered our shoulders and shoved back. It took some doing, but eventually we forced our way out.

I looked around. I didn't see a single grasshopper. Of course there wouldn't be any. Nothing bad ever happened in Hog City. The ball field, only slightly grander than Yankee Stadium and flying just as many championship banners, lay directly in front of us. The grass looked perfect. As always.

Shaking my head, I moved toward the diamond amid a crowd of Haymaker fans.

Kids wearing baseball jerseys, grown-ups with little blue robot phones clipped behind their ears, and tough-looking nannies pushing strollers loaded with fat-faced toddlers streamed toward the ballpark. Every other person carried a big brass cowbell.

I fell in next to a chubby kid waving a Haymaker pennant. Or maybe the enormous pennant waved him. In the squall, it was like a kite and he was the tail.

“The ball should really carry today, huh?” I said, trying to be friendly. “I mean if this wind keeps up.”

The kid stuck out his tongue and blew a wet raspberry. He couldn't have been more than six years old.

“Tough crowd,” remarked Velcro, who was making his first trip to Hog City. He glanced around. “What's with all the cowbells?”

“It's a Hog City thing,” I shrugged. “You'll see.”

“You mean he'll hear,” snorted Ocho, as we pushed toward the diamond.

Hog City baseball fans loved cowbells. They swung them like battle-axes at every game. Thank goodness they didn't have real battle-axes. Those people hated to lose at least as much as the actual players did. Probably more. They'd do anything to win. At the moment several of them, crowding in from behind, were trying to give me flat tires.

“Cut that out,” I snapped, whirling around.

The pudgy kid with the pennant stopped short. He raised his face to mine and blew another raspberry. Several grown-ups reached out and fondly ruffled his blond hair, as if he'd just said something unbearably cute.

“You leave little Augie alone, you big bully!” someone shouted.

“Me!?” I cried. “I'm just trying to get to the field.”

“Why bother?” another voice called. “We're going to pulverize you!”

I threw up my hands. You couldn't reason with a mob. Turning, I pressed forward with the Rounders.

Ten feet from the entrance, a woman jumped in front of us.

“Stop right there,” she commanded, holding up her hand, palm out, like a cop directing traffic.

A real cop would have been nice. He could have gotten those obnoxious Haymaker fans off my heels.

Even if the woman hadn't planted herself directly in front of us, she would have been hard to miss. For one thing, rings the size of donuts encrusted her fingers. For another, she was attached by a pink leash to a large Afghan hound whose long, silky hair was done up with pink bows. I've seen beauty queens on TV who looked less stuck-up than that dog.

“What is it?” I asked. I wished I had remembered my sunglasses. Her bling blinded.

“That's far enough,” she snapped. “You're scaring Princess Pinky Muffin.” Her dog drew back its thin lips.

I couldn't tell if the hair on the dog's back
stood up because of the wind or because it meant to bite me. Despite the pretty little bows and ridiculous name, the animal didn't look especially sweet.

Neither did the owner.

“I understand you have bugs.” The woman shuddered. “Your whole town is infested with them. Ours is a community of distinction. We won't have it overrun with vermin.”

The way she said it made it sound like the vermin she was talking about walked on two legs.

“This is exactly why I can't stand this place,” Gabby muttered. “Bunch of snobs.”

“They're grasshoppers,” I said, my face reddening. “It's not like we've got cooties or anything.”

“Says you,” snorted the woman.

Just then Mr. Bones bounced forward and tried to sniff the Afghan. In perfect imitation of her mistress, the animal sprang backward, her whole body quivering.

“AAAIIIEEE!” the lady screeched. “A rat! It's a rat! Someone do something!”

“You have rats in Hog City?!” I asked, snapping my head around.

“It's your rat,” she accused bitterly. “You brought it with you. First insects, now rats.” She pointed at Mr. Bones, whose long nose twitched as he inched closer to the goofy hound. Mr. Bones is a dog who likes to be petted and likes to lick faces. He does not easily accept rejection.

“That's no rat,” I said, laughing. “That's Mr. Bones, my dog. Here, boy!” He leaped up and licked my face, then raced around the crowd three times before settling at my feet, mouth open and tongue lolling.

A few cowbells rang out.

“Dog,” sniffed the woman. “What kind of dog? It doesn't look like any dog I ever saw.”

“He's a…he's a…” In truth, I had no idea what kind of dog Mr. Bones was. He was an ordinary lovable mutt, was all.

Suddenly I felt a sharp poke in the ribs. I
wheeled around and there stood Gasser, his pointy elbow planted in my side. “Why, ma'am, he's a royal Oxford sniffing spaniel,” the center fielder said. “Very noble lineage. Bred to sniff the food of kings. You know, for poison.”

“Oh, of course! A royal Oxford sniffing spaniel. I should have recognized the breed at once.” The woman crouched down and made kissy sounds at Mr. Bones, who lunged forward and planted a wet one right on her mouth.

“Pffft,” she said.

“I couldn't agree more,” said Gasser. “Now if you'll excuse us, we have a game to play.” He tugged my arm and we hurried away to the diamond. I felt like I was going to burst, I was trying so hard not to laugh.

“Royal Oxford sniffing spaniel! How in the world did you come up with that?”

“I don't know,” said Gasser with a snort. “Maybe because I live on Oxford Street. And look at Mr. Bones. His nose is as long as my arm.”

“Don't listen, buddy,” I said as we crossed
over to the visiting team's bench area on the third-base side. “It's a good nose.”

To the steady snap of Haymaker pennants whipping in the breeze, we started getting loose for the game. The flags nearly drowned out the cowbells. Which really said something. Because the overall effect of the bells was somewhere between a cattle stampede in a Swiss meadow and a thousand fire alarms going off all at once.

Down at field level, the wind didn't gust quite so fiercely. Even so, we did not attempt any jumping jacks. We just couldn't risk it. We knew if we leaped too high, we'd launch ourselves into the air currents. Then there would be no telling where we might touch down again. Halfway to Kalamazoo, most likely.

I grabbed a ball and asked Stump if he wanted to get in a few practice throws.

“Sure,” he agreed.

We spread apart for some soft toss. At least I did. Stump gunned the pill harder than long division. His throws sliced through the breeze
like arrows. After each one, his arm did something funny. It twitched like a chicken wing.

Or maybe like a grasshopper wing.

“Relax,” I told him. “We're going to treat these guys like an order of Chinese food. We're going to take them out!”

“Easy for you to say,” he grunted. “You didn't blow yesterday's game.”

“Get over it,” I said. “Those guys sure would.” I nodded toward our opponents across the diamond. “Check out Hoot Fewster. Think he'd let one bad throw bother him?”

Looking at Hog City's burly first baseman was kind of like seeing the ocean for the first time. The sheer vastness shocked you. The letters across his chest were so big, they probably could be seen from outer space.

“Hoot's never made a bad throw in his life,” Stump said. “He's an All-Star, you know.”

As we marveled at Hoot's bulk, the big guy plucked a can of soda from his personal cooler. The can must have been slick, because it slipped from his giant fingers and skittered
down the dugout steps. Hoot pounced on it and gave it a good shake, I guess to teach it a lesson for running away.

Then Hoot opened the soda.

“Uh-oh,” I said into my glove.

Instantly a foamy jet of brown liquid gushed like a geyser into his face. His baseball cap blew eight feet in the air. Roaring as if the soda had pulled a fast one, he crushed the can like a grape.

“So maybe he's not the sharpest blade in the drawer,” Stump said. “But he's great at baseball.”

“So are you,” I replied. “You made the All-Star team, too.”

“Don't remind me,” he said. “I'm nervous enough about
today's
game.”

Before I could answer, the ump pulled his mask over his face.

“PLAY BALL!” he barked into the howling gale.