Wing Ding (9 page)

A
t precisely twenty-eight minutes before nine o'clock that evening, my doorbell rang. The time was critical. Sunset that night occurred at 8:32. I was counting on the dusk to provide cover on our mission.

I was waiting for the chime. Mr. Bones was not. When I opened the door, he blasted through like he was wearing a jet pack.

Slingshot pulled a matador and sidestepped past him into the mudroom.

“Ready?”

“Definitely,” I said. “Where's everyone else?”

The pitcher jerked his head in the direction of my front yard. I peered out the door. The
whole team plus Gabby stood on the porch. Mr. Bones danced around, leaping and licking, tail wagging a mile a minute. Every last person carried a grocery bag. Slingshot handed one to me, its top rolled tight.

“This is it? It's lighter than I expected.”

“They came out beautifully,” he said, “ugly as sin. Better get a move on.”

I whistled Mr. Bones back into the house. “Sorry, pal,” I told him. “It's best if you don't come with us.” His ears flopped. His tail drooped. “I'll make it up to you, I promise,” I said, patting his head.

Then I called to my mom and dad.

“I'm off.”

“No later than nine thirty, Banjie,” Mom said from the kitchen. “And, Son?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck.”

We set off in a pack, keeping to the wooded side of the street, ready to dive behind a tree or a shrub whenever the headlights of an
approaching car pierced the gathering darkness. When the coast cleared, we began moving again. Whipped by the ever-howling wind, treetops cast weird dancing moon shadows across our path.

“I am so sick of this wind,” I complained. “It's driving me crazy!”

My teammates murmured in agreement. Everybody had had enough of it.

“It's like some kind of a curse,” said Billy Wishes.

“Scientifically speaking, wind is nothing but air pressure,” Slingshot said. “Air moving from high pressure to low pressure.”

“Say what?” I asked.

“Think of it like a balloon,” he explained as we advanced through the night, a secret army. “If you squeeze a balloon, the pressure pushes outward and makes the balloon bulge.”

“I get that,” I said. “But what squeezes air?”

“Temperature. Cold air is heavier than warm air. The extra weight pulls it down. Warm air,
on the other hand, thins out and rises. It weighs less. Scientists call this low pressure.”

“I remember learning about this stuff in earth-science class,” said Velcro. “As warm air rises, surrounding cool air rushes in to replace it. That's wind.”

“Exactly,” said Slingshot. “Nothing cursed about it.”

“So,” said Gabby, “In theory, you could stop wind by balancing the pressure. Like if two fans were aimed directly at each other, they would cancel each other out. No wind.”

“I guess what we need is a giant fan,” I said.

“In theory,” said Slingshot, stopping dead in his tracks. We had reached Stump's street. The Glove and Tugboat peeled off and hid behind a clump of bushes.

“Just pop out for a second when they get close,” I reminded them. “Don't give him a good look. Only enough to get him thinking.”

The rest of us moved on down the block. At Stump's house, Ocho, Gasser, and Kid Rabbit
moved across the lawn and disappeared behind trees. Slingshot peered at the glowing hands of his watch. “Eight forty-five,” he announced.

We hurried up the walk and knocked on the door of the large, old house. Stump's mom answered instantly. She had the same red hair as her son, although hers didn't stand straight up.

“Come in, come in,” she urged. “They'll be back any minute.”

“Hi, Mrs. Plumwhiff,” I greeted her. “Where to?”

“I think the basement would be best, don't you, Walloper?” She winked. “I'll send him down to pick up the laundry.”

I nodded. Stump's house was more than a hundred years old. It had the creepiest basement I had ever seen. Shadowy, damp, full of cobwebs. When we were little, just going down there used to scare the bejeezus out of us.

Mrs. Plumwhiff showed us down a creaky wooden staircase and into a walled-off laundry
area. In a crowd, with the lights on, the place wasn't too awful. Then she withdrew, wishing us luck. A few seconds later, the main lights flicked out and the door at the top of the stairs closed with a thud.

“Positions, everybody,” I ordered.

My teammates fanned out against the walls, hiding in whatever nooks and crannies they could find. As soon as they were set, I pulled the cord of a dim overhead light, plunging the basement into total darkness. In the inky murk, plastic bags crinkled as lightly as mice creeping across a floor. I reached into the one I carried and pulled out my mask, slipping it quickly over my head.

Seconds later the door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and the main basement light flared on. Footsteps sounded on the worn wooden treads. Stump was coming down. My heart beat like a drum, pounding so loudly that I feared it would give us away.

When Stump reached the last step, the lights
suddenly went out again.

“Hey!” cried Stump. He hesitated, then I heard him shuffle slowly forward, feeling his way into the laundry room.

Into our trap.

The overhead light snapped on.

“Boo!” we shouted at once, leaping from every corner.

“Aahhh!” hollered Stump. Still gripping the light cord, he sprang backward. The room went dark again. “AAAAGGGHHH!” he yelled even louder than before.

“Stump!” I cried. “Stump! It's us!”

“Turn on the light!” shouted Billy Wishes. “I don't like this!”

Someone found the cord and pulled it. The small room burst into light, revealing Stump sitting on the floor. His stand-up red hair stood taller than ever. It looked like it had tried to leap clean out of the basement.

“You guys scared me out of my wits,” Stump panted. “What's the big idea?”

“Sorry, bro,” I said, whipping off my papiermâché mask. “It had to be done.” I took his hand and pulled him to his feet. Only then, glancing around at my friends, did I see how gruesome our swampy green grasshopper heads really were, with their clenched jaws, bulging black eyes, and bristling antennae. “You can take them off now, everybody,” I said.

One by one, they did.

“Did it work?” Billy asked. “Are you cured?”

“Cured?” Stump asked, still dazed.

“Of the yips,” explained Billy. “We figured out that the yips are like hiccups, only they're in your arm instead of where you breathe. And the best way to get rid of hiccups is to get scared real good.”

Stump stared at him. His jaw dropped. Then he started to laugh. “The yips are like hiccups,” he repeated. “Hey, that's pretty good! Maybe it's all the adrenaline rushing through my body, but I do feel sort of different. Man, you guys surprised me!”

“We figured nothing could be scarier than grasshoppers,” chimed in Velcro. “I mean, the trouble started when those things flew down onto the field. That's when you got the yips.”

“I knew it,” exclaimed Billy. “I knew it would work! You'll play great in the All-Star Game!”

“I'm sure going to try,” Stump said.

As we talked, the guys who'd hidden outside bounded down the stairs.

“What'd we miss?” Kid Rabbit panted.

“More of you!” shouted Stump. “You were in the bushes, right? I knew I saw something out there! Freaked me out. My dad told me it was my imagination!”

I was glad Stump was being such a good sport about it.

“Say,” I asked him, “what did Pepper McGraw whisper to you this afternoon?”

“Pretty much the same thing you guys have been saying. That the yips are all in my head. He said my aim would come back if I stopped thinking so much about it. That's
what finally worked for him.”

My eyes widened. “You mean…”

“Yep, he once came down with his case of the yips. A bad one. Full body twitches and everything.”

Wow. Pretty good company.

Slapping Stump on the back, we climbed the stairs out of the basement. Mr. and Mrs. Plumwhiff waited for us at the top.

“Your friends are good guys, Stump,” his mom said. “They planned this whole thing by themselves.”

“You call that good?” Stump asked. “They nearly killed me.”

But he was smiling. So were his folks.

“Now you kids better run home,” his mom said. “Your parents will be waiting. And Stump needs to rest. He has an All-Star Game tomorrow, you know.”

We knew, all right.

We said our good-byes and headed back to our own homes.

I didn't know if our trick really had worked. We'd have to wait for the game to find out for sure. But I did know our old pal looked happier than he had in a long time.

A
ll night long, the wind screamed like kids on a roller coaster. The windows rattled. The house timbers creaked. The constant noise made it hard to sleep. I tossed like a salad before finally drifting off, worries about the yips and the All-Star Game racing through my head faster even than the air whipped across the night sky.

The relentless gusts must have bothered Mr. Bones, too. Curled up in his usual position at the foot of my bed, he let out a hiccuppy yowl from time to time. His legs churned as he chased something in his dreams. Grasshoppers, most likely.

In the morning I awoke feeling tense. Pulling on my All-Star uniform helped settle my nerves.

Arching white letters on the crisp red jersey announced that I played for the East. The right sleeve bore a blue patch in the shape of a five-pointed star. I'm not ashamed to admit I took a minute to admire myself in the mirror. I felt proud to wear that uniform.

Feeling better, I went downstairs. My dad had beaten me to the kitchen. I found him bunkered behind a tottering wall of pots and pans. Ceramic bowls overflowing with grated cheese, chopped peppers, diced ham, and who knows what else rose from the countertop practically to the ceiling. Enclosed within his fortress, he cracked half a dozen eggs into a stainless-steel mixing bowl and furiously beat them with a wire whisk.

“Today's the day!” he greeted me. “The All-Star Game!”

Seeing him walled off like that reminded
me of the story of Troy and the hollow horse.

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” I said.

“Huh?” he asked distractedly. “You want a Greek omelet? We can do that.” He poured his goopy mixture onto a sizzling griddle, then clattered the mixing bowl into the sink. “Feta cheese, olives, onions,” he mumbled. “I've got them here somewhere.”

Dad was like the United Nations of breakfast. He had omelet recipes from every country on earth.

As much as he liked making them, I liked eating them.

Mr. Bones loved them even more.

My dog plopped down next to his dish and swept his tail back and forth across the floor like a broom. The tiles near his feeding station always shined.

I opened the newspaper and turned to the sports section.

A banner headline above a story by Gabby read:

I tossed aside the paper. A hard story, but basically fair. Only one part confused me.

“Dad,” I asked, “Who is Eddie Shoemaker?”

“He was a professional jockey,” Dad said without looking up from the stove. The omelet had reached a delicate stage and required all his attention. “You know, raced horses. Little guy. Rode like the wind.”

I let the wind reference pass. Wind wasn't something I wanted to dwell on. “What about Churchill Downs?” I said. “What's that?”

“Famous horse track. Home of the Kentucky Derby, the biggest horse race in the world.”

“Do jockeys really whip their horses?” I asked. It sounded cruel.

“I don't know. I guess so.” Dad turned the omelet on the griddle, then looked my way. “They carry these springy little sticks called riding crops. Why all the interest?”

“Just an article in the sports pages. I think I get it now.”

“About horse racing?”

“About baseball,” I said.

“There are no horses in baseball.”

“No,” I agreed, “but the sport sure can whip you if you're not careful.”

Dad shot me a funny look but let it drop. Returning his attention to breakfast, he carefully levered the omelet onto a plate with a pair of spatulas. What he really needed was a crane. Pale yellow and quivery, the thing was the size of the Goodyear blimp.

“Breakfast is served,” he said.

“Oh, good,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen. “I'm just in time. Morning, guys.” Only then did she see the state of the counter. Pots and pans scattered everywhere, bowls spilling ingredients like dirty secrets. She shook her head. She sighed.

Then she started giggling.

“What?” asked Dad, lugging his creation to the table. “Genius at work. Don't worry about it. Your only job is to eat.”

“My kind of work,” Mom said.

Face flushed, Dad carved the zeppelin into
gargantuan portions and served them up.

“Eat,” he said. “There's hits in omelets.”

We were about to tuck in when a string of firecrackers exploded in the kitchen. That's what it sounded like. Actually, it was Mr. Bones's stomach grumbling.

“Sorry, pal,” I apologized.

I sliced off a hunk of omelet and dropped it into his bowl. The grumbling stopped and the lip smacking began. We followed his example and chowed down.

Eating made me feel better. With each bite, my anxiety about the game lessened. By the time I finished, I was full of more than eggs. I was full of hope about Stump and the yips and the wind and the locusts. It's impossible to worry too much on a full stomach.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I needed that.”

After breakfast Mom automatically started in on the dishes. Dad pretended to be mad.

“Out,” he commanded. “Out of my kitchen. I said I'd clean up and I will.”

“My birthday's not until next month.” Mom laughed, surrendering the sponge.

I helped Dad scrub. While we worked, Mom entertained us by reading interesting bits from the paper:

With the dishes done, I said good-bye to my folks and headed off to Rambletown Field on my bike. I couldn't wait to see how the new turf had held up through the night.

“See you in the second inning,” my parents called from the porch as I pedaled into a
stiff breeze. A very full, very happy Mr. Bones waddled along behind me. The extra weight of the jumbo omelet probably was a good thing. It kept him grounded in all that wind.