Anyway, by about four-thirty, the musical rehearsal was underway.
Hoooooot! went Druscilla’s flute.
Honnnk, Scott played on his kazoo.
Blaaat! squawked Sheila’s trumpet.
CRRRRAAAAAAASH! That was Moon’s cymbal. Yes, cymbal. His mom had driven him over in a station wagon with his entire drumset.
It was definitely not Mozart Season in the Porter house.
“Uh, very … solid, everybody,” said Maestro McGill. “But maybe you can try to play together? With some kind of rhythm? I’ll move my arm to the beat, okay?”
Stacey raised her arm. The players watched intently. With a deep breath, she began.
Hoooooot!
Honnnk.
Blaaat!
CRRRRAAAAAAASH!
Hoo, boy.
Have you ever seen The Music Man? I have. It’s about this crooked salesman (who’s secretly a good guy) who takes money from parents, saying he’ll set up a boys band. When he has to actually conduct the kids, he makes up something called the Think System. He turns to the band and says, “Okay, kids, think the ‘Minute Waltz.’”
Well, Stacey saw the show with me.
“Come on, guys,” she said, “think ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat.’ ”
This time, the hoots, honks, blats, and crashes had kind of a rhythm.
They played that until Stacey could stand it no longer. Then Dru insisted on trying “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
That one went better. Stacey said you could actually make out a tune, sort of. But then Scott started making baaah-ing noises with his kazoo every time they got to the “lamb” part of the song, and they laughed hysterically.
* * *
Practice that day, by the way, was a definite improvement. Abby asked if she could help out again, and I let her. Almost all of the kids wore their uniforms (Linny claimed he’d lost his, and Buddy said he’d mistakenly used his to clean tar off the driveway).
So I was in a pretty decent mood when I arrived home. Then I heard all the squawking next door, so I ran over there to see what was going on.
“Kristy!” Dru squealed when I walked in. “Listen to us!”
“They’ve really improved,” Stacey insisted as they started playing again.
Improved? The noise almost curled my hair.
“Great!” I said.
“She likes us!” Dru cried out. “So can we be your official band, Kristy?”
Stacey was giving me a very sharp look. A you-better-say-yes look. Which, I thought, was pretty bold for a BSC member on probation.
But how could I say no? I’d never seen Dru so happy. “I’d be honored,” I replied.
“YAAAAAAAAAY!” the kids cheered.
“But wait!” Dru said. “What’s our name?”
“The Official Band?” Moon suggested.
“Peanut Butter and Jelly?” said Sheila.
“Huh?” Scott grunted.
Sheila shrugged. “It’s something everybody likes.”
“I know!” Stacey volunteered. “The Krusher Quartet.”
“Perfect,” I said.
“But they’re not the Krushers,” Dru protested. “For Diapers you have to use a D word. Like Duo.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “That’s two players. We have four.”
Dru thought for a moment. Then a huge smile spread across her face.
“I have it,” she said. “Our official name is The Diaper Double Duo!”
Everyone agreed that was the best.
Well, everyone but me. I still liked the Krusher Quartet.
“ ’Atta girl, Patsy!” I yelled. “Good eye!”
“Come on, that was a strike!” complained the Basher pitcher.
“Was not!” Scowling, Patsy gripped the bat tightly.
Mr. Davis leaned over to me. “Has anyone worked with her on the placement of her fingers?”
“Well, yeah —”
But he was already headed toward home plate. “Sweetheart, hold the bat like this….”
Game three of the World Series was underway. It was the bottom of the second, and we were already losing, 7–2. For the first time, everyone was in uniform, which made me feel relieved. Also, Abby had offered to attend the game and help out. That was nice, too. She didn’t annoy me nearly as much as she used to.
Mr. Davis, however, was another story.
He arrived just as the game was starting. He spent the top half of the inning gabbing with the parents of the Diapers on the sidelines. Then he approached the parents of the Bashers. He picked up and played with every baby he saw. He handed out his card a lot.
Then he turned his attention to the game.
“Hold your arms back.” Mr. Davis pulled on Patsy’s arms. “Now, don’t splay those fingers.” He pushed her fingers together on the bat. “There.”
When Mr. Davis was finally done, Patsy looked like the Tin Woodsman in the Wizard of Oz, before Dorothy oils him. Awkward and stiff.
“Way to go, Patsy, way to go!” cried the Diaper cheerleaders.
She missed the next pitch by a mile.
“That’s okay, Patsy,” I said. “Keep it loose.”
Patsy hit a weak grounder to first and was out.
Matt, our best hitter, was up next. He smashed a home run.
The Diapers and their crowd went wild. Mr. Davis shouted, “Yeah! What a swing! You see, Patsy, if you’d been on first, it would have been a two-run homer!”
In the top of the next inning, Abby and I stood together on the Diapers’ side, near Mr. Davis. One of the Bashers hit a sharp line drive into centerfield. Jake was in perfect position to field it, but it scooted under his legs.
“Run after it, Jakey!” I yelled.
He did. But by the time he threw the ball in, the batter had run all the way home.
“You were daydreaming, centerfielder!” Mr. Davis shouted.
Jake looked crushed.
The next Basher batter hit a screamer up the third base line. Hannie didn’t have a chance at it.
“Bad positioning, third baseman!” Mr. Davis called out to her.
“Player,” said Abby.
Mr. Davis smiled politely. “Excuse me?”
“Third base player,” Abby repeated. “Hannie is not a third baseman.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Davis. “Of course.”
Abby looked at me. I looked at her. We almost cracked up.
Well, we survived that inning pretty well, and the next one. But in the fourth inning, the Bashers scored eight runs. We were, to put it bluntly, horrible.
When the inning ended, the team looked as if they had given up.
“They’re creaming you guys!” was Mr. Davis’s comment as the team lined up to bat. “You don’t want to lose, do you? You used to be winners!”
Ugh. Nothing like being positive, huh?
“That’s all right,” Abby butted in. “I saw a heads-up play in right field that cut off a run, right, Bobby?”
Bobby grinned. “I went like this with my glove, but the ball went like this, so I had to go like this!” He pantomimed the play.
“And that was a great dive at shortstop, Karen!” I said. “You almost got it.”
Karen looked sheepish. From the dive, the front of her uniform shirt was covered with dirt.
“I guess that makes you our first official Dirty Diaper,” Abby remarked.
The kids laughed.
“Harrumph,” said Mr. Davis. “Who’s up?”
Suzi Barrett shuffled to the plate.
Well, Mr. Davis had plenty of advice for Suzi. And for the next batter, and the next.
None of it helped. In fact, I’d never seen the Krusher/Diapers play so badly. Their hearts just weren’t in it.
I tried to keep their spirits up. My coaching philosophy is: Build up, don’t knock down. Reward good playing. Avoid the word Don’t. And Abby was with me one hundred percent.
But Mr. Davis kept putting his two cents in. He began calling for all kinds of fancy strategies — hi
t-and-run plays, fielding at double-play depth, sacrifice bunts. None of the kids knew what on earth he was talking about.
Toward the end of the game, he became more and more frustrated. He called Margo a slowpoke. He told Nicky he’d “never make the majors.” None of this helped the quality of playing.
Our cheerleaders kept trying to start a rally, but even they gave up after awhile.
The final score was Bashers 30, Diapers 9.
You have never seen a glummer-looking bunch of kids. As they dragged their feet toward the sidelines, they didn’t say a word to each other.
“Okay, guys, let’s do the Basher cheer!” I said.
We did, but it sounded more like a loud mumble.
My team definitely needed a pep talk. Mr. Davis was off shaking parents’ hands, so now was a perfect time.
I gathered the kids around. Then I took a deep breath and motioned Abby over, too. “Okay, we’re behind two games to one,” I said. “But we’re not out of it yet.”
“Far from it,” Abby added. “And I know you guys can do better. I saw some great plays out there.”
“And some good run-scoring,” I said. “With a little work, we’ll be back to our brand of Krusher ball.”
Ooops. The word Krusher had flown out of my mouth. And just as Mr. Davis was walking toward us.
He was smiling, sort of. “Team meeting, eh?” he said. “Good. We need one. You know, this isn’t the team I saw in that first game, boys and girls. That team had guts. This one was weak. This one decided to give up without a try.”
Abby and I gave each other a Look.
“You have the best uniforms, the best equipment,” Mr. Davis went on. “So what happened? You all just rolled over and played dead. I’m not here to sponsor losers. Is that what you are, losers?”
The Diapers’ heads were drooping downward.
“Prove me wrong,” he went on. “Win the next game. Give it all you’ve got. Because if you don’t, the series is over! Understand?” He let his words hang in the air a moment, like a bad odor, and then said, “Okay, see you next week, kids. Oh, and one other thing. Those uniforms look terrific, so keep them nice and clean.”
The players slunk away. Half of them looked as if they were going to cry.
I was numb. Stunned. Was this what a sponsor was supposed to do?
With a half smile, Mr. Davis turned to Abby and me. “You have to get their attention, you know? Give them a little nudge now and then.”
“Nudge?” Abby repeated. “That was no nudge. That was like hitting them with a sledgehammer.”
Mr. Davis’s smile vanished.
My jaw nearly hit the first base line.
She was joking. Had to be. I looked at her, hoping for a punchline.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Davis asked.
“Did you think you were inspiring them or something?” Abby asked. “You have been awful to them all day. No wonder they lost. And after that little talk, I’d be surprised if they ever want to pick up a softball again.”
I was speechless. I could feel the blood draining from my face.
“I — well, you certainly have your opinions, don’t you?” Mr. Davis said. “When you sponsor a team someday, I’m sure you’ll handle it your way. I happen to know what my team needs.”
“Your team?” Abby shot back. “It’s Kristy’s team. And they don’t need you, Mr. Davis. They were doing just fine without you. Right, Kristy?”
Earth to Kristy.
They were both glaring at me.
My heart was racing. “I guess. I mean, we were doing okay.”
Mr. Davis let out a snort. “Sure, with your battered equipment and ragged uniforms. And then I came along and made you look professional, gave you the top-notch treatment you deserved. And for free, if I may remind you, young lady. It was all at my expense.”
“Well, it wasn’t really free, Mr. Davis,” I said. “I mean, sure, before you came along we didn’t have nice stuff. But we did have a name we liked, the Krushers. And we had lots of fun. And no outsider told us what to do. We had to give all that up, didn’t we?”
“That was your choice,” Mr. Davis said.
I nodded. “You’re right.”
It was my choice, and I knew it. But Mr. Davis had never told me he’d planned to take over the team. He never said our players would have to wear uniforms with dumb-looking logos. If I’d known those things, I’d never have made that “choice.”
“Well, then,” Mr. Davis said briskly, “I’m glad we —”
“And it’s my choice to give you your stuff back,” I said.
Mr. Davis looked at me as if I’d just spoken to him in Greek. Abby was beaming.
“We don’t need you, Mr. Davis,” I said firmly. “We’ll return the uniforms, and you can take the equipment right now.”
I thought Mr. Davis was going to explode. His mouth flapped open and shut a few times. Then, finally, he said, “Very well. My best wishes for the remaining games.”
We left him there to pack the stuff in his van.
My knees were shaking. “Did I say that?” I whispered.
“He deserved it,” Abby whispered back. “You did the right thing, Coach.”
“You, too. You were great.” I grinned. And suddenly I knew exactly what to do next, too. “Abby, the kids love you. Would you like to be my assistant coach?”
Abby put her arm around my shoulder. “I guess that means I’m an official Krusher.”
“Yyyyyyes!”
Krushers. Kristy’s Krushers. It’s such a cool name.
When Linny heard the news, he was ecstatic. So ecstatic that he celebrated by throwing his Diapers’ uniform on the barbecue.
It’s a good thing Mr. Papadakis caught him. Linny was grounded for the rest of the week.
Well, he was given parole on one afternoon, the Tuesday afternoon of our fourth World Series game against the Bashers.
Which we won, 19–17.
Yes, folks. You heard me right. Yyyyoooourrr Krrrrusherrrrrs were on the march! The series was tied, two games to two.
What a difference. Our old bats felt just great. And boy, was it nice to see Krushers on those ragged shirts.
Abby, by the way, was a real champ. She bandaged a few boo-boos, coached the runners and batters and fielders well, and soothed a couple of sore egos.
Bart, however, was not happy. At the end of the game he told me I should call Mr. Davis and apologize. He said I should support local businesses, that I owed it to the community to be sponsored by Davis Diapers.
Uh-huh. He just wanted us to stay depressed and beatable.
What a dork. (But I still like him.)
* * *
The final, deciding game was on Saturday.
I was wired. I could hardly sleep the night before. Two slices of grapefruit were all my stomach could handle for breakfast.
Sure, we had won on Tuesday. We’d been in great spirits. Back to normal. But I was still worried.
We had been un-Diapered for only a week. What if Mr. Davis had left permanent psychological scars? What if our win had been a fluke? What if some of the Krushers still thought of themselves as Diapers in their hearts?
Do you think I was going overboard?
Mrs. Stevenson drove seven of us to the game. That’s right, seven. Abby, David Michael, me — and the four members of the Krusher Quartet! (They, too, had officially changed their name.)
Yes, our band was making its debut. Moon and Scott were wearing jackets and ties. Dru and Sheila were dressed in brand-new outfits.
Anna was going to meet us there. She had been appointed the conductor of the quartet.
I wasn’t so sure the band was a great idea. Especially since we already had cheerleaders. I thought all the noise might be distracting.
Abby called me a worrywart.
Besides, Dru looked so happy. I decided to go with the flow.
The sidelines filled up soon after we arrived. It seemed as if half of Stoneybrook turned out for the b
ig event. Our cheerleaders were thrilled to have a band on the sidelines. Every time they performed a cheer, Moon banged out the beat.
The Bashers got off to a quick 3–0 start in the top of the first.
But when the Krushers came to bat, we released our secret weapon: “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
The Bashers didn’t know what had hit them. Half the infielders were trying not to laugh. The pitcher looked as if he had a stomachache.
Bart asked me, “Is this, like, legal?”
I said, “I think it, like, is.”
He was not amused.
By the fourth inning the score was 10–10. Matt had hit his usual two home runs. Linny hit one, too, and Jake contributed a bases-loaded triple.
Each big hit, of course, was an excuse for the band to play. They alternated their song list well throughout the game. Which wasn’t hard to do with only two songs.
(It wasn’t until Jake’s triple that I realized the band’s other song was “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” I’d thought it was “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”)
Abby was fantastic. She knew just how far to push each player. She praised them when they deserved it, encouraged them when they goofed up. No one missed Mr. Davis.
But the Bashers weren’t playing dead. They kept pulling ahead of us. When we came to bat in the bottom of the last inning, we were losing, 23–19.
Did I tell you Jackie Rodowsky’s nickname was The Walking Disaster? Well, it is. And for good reason.
He led off the inning by sneezing as the pitch was hurtling toward him. His whole body jerked forward. The ball hit him on his behind.
“Ow!” he cried.
“Hit by pitch. Runner takes first base!” the ref commanded. (That’s a rule of the game.)
The next batter was Margo Pike. She smacked the ball past the first base player. The Bashers right fielder ran to field it — and fell.
Margo was in shock. She stood rooted to first base.
“Go! Go!” Abby and I shouted.
She did. All the way home (where she collided with Jackie).
Now the score was 23–21, Bashers.
After a couple more hits and a couple of outs, Hannie Papadakis was up with two runners on base.
“Oh, noooo.” David Michael groaned. “Can’t Matt be up?”
Kristy and the Dirty Diapers Page 8