Then she picked up a baseball and said, “I’ll be glad to, Mr. Dodger. Can you show me how to make a touchdown?”
But believe it or not, the first half of practice went well. Dodger took the bat and made us take turns playing the infield and catching throws back to the plate. Even though Lizzie hadn’t really played before, our infield skills were pretty similar, because of course my coaches always plunked me in right field, as far from the ball as they could put me. Dodger hit maybe a hundred grounders, and Lizzie and I only booted maybe thirty of them. Truthfully, we even kind of laughed together when one of us missed a play—which was a totally different experience from getting made fun of all through my team’s practices. Maybe because I wasn’t as nervous about getting teased, I really think I started improving after a while.
Then Dodger stopped hitting balls, stood up straight, and said, “It’s time to put my Top Secret Coordination Improvement Plan into action.”
As I trotted in from my position between second and third base, I asked, “And that would be …?”
“Here, bud,” Dodger said. “Take this.” He whipped off his eye patch and held it out to me. My first thought was YUCK! I could only imagine what kind of horrible wound might be behind that thing, not to mention what my mom would say about putting on a chimp’s used eye patch. When I got closer to him, though, I noticed that the eye that he’d just uncovered looked totally normal. It was also blinking repeatedly. Dodger said, “Wow, it sure is bright out here!”
“Uh, Dodger? You can see out of that eye?” I asked as I gingerly took the patch from him.
“Oh, sure, when I have to.”
“Then why would you wear the eye patch?”
“It’s for my image, bud. Makes me look tough!” He leaned closer and whispered, “Plus, the lady chimps love it.” He raised his voice again. “Now put that thing over one eye and get back out in the field. Once you learn to throw and catch with the patch on, you’ll totally rule without it!”
This sounded crazy. “Dodger, what makes you think this will make me a better player?”
“Well, remember the fat guy from the Yankees who ate all the hot dogs? It worked for him. We used to play some ball out behind his orphanage when he was a kid, and he couldn’t hit to save his life until he tried the patch trick.”
Whoa. If it was good enough for the Babe, it was good enough for me.
I hustled back into the field and slipped the patch on between my left eye and my glasses. It felt very weird, and I totally missed the first five or six grounders that Dodger hit to me. After that, I got better—not great, but better. Lizzie even got all excited to try the patch. Dodger said, “Wait, let’s try some pop-ups first.”
And that’s how I wound up with a bloody nose.
Fortunately, the magical ball field came with a first-aid kit. Dodger stuffed a twisty cotton thing up each of my nostrils, then busted out with an ice pack, which he made me hold against one side of my rapidly swelling nose. As Dodger started raking the infield (he said we still had a couple more days to practice before my big game), Lizzie and I walked home on the blue carpet, which had reappeared right when we needed it. She said, “Well, that was a lot of fun. I mean, until the end part, obviously.”
Through my blood-caked cotton nose plugs, I replied, “Yeh, id was.”
She ignored my little speech problem and said, “I can’t wait to do it again! Not necessarily the bleeding scene, but the rest of it. D’you think we could play again tomorrow? I could probably convince my mum that we needed to collect specimens for our terrariums. And, no offense, we still need to work on your ball-whacking.”
“Ball-whacking?”
“You know, with the bat?” she clarified.
“Oh,” I said. “Batting. It’s called batting.” She had a point. My team would hate me even more than they already did if I blew the last game and ruined our first-place finish. So it might be a good time for me to learn how to hit.
We reached the edge of my backyard. Through our dining-room window, I could see my mom and Lizzie’s sitting at the table drinking coffee, with their heads bent over a big chart that said PLANNED SAFETY IMPROVEMENTS across the top. I could read the top three:
1. Pad the playground: No ouchies!
2. Shatterproof lunch trays!
3. Buy helmets for dodgeball!
Jeepers! Every kid in school knew my mom was the safety nut. If we all had to wear helmets for stupid dodgeball and run around on padding for recess every day, that would really help my popularity—not!
Anyway, Lizzie put a hand out and stopped me from walking into the moms’ line of sight. “Hold on,” she said. “Your mum will go absolutely mental if you walk in there with these bloody cotton thingies hanging out of your nose.”
Again, Lizzie had a point. But I was afraid to pull the plugs out. I reached up and gently wiggled one experimentally. The slightest pressure made it feel as though an angry weasel were clawing its way up my nose into my brain.
Lizzie sighed, reached into her school backpack, and pulled out a wad of tissues. “Here, let me,” she said.
“Uh, are you sure? It’s going to be really gross.” Plus, what if she made it hurt even more? And then what if I passed out in front of her? She would scream. My mom would freak and dial 911. I would wake up in a jet-powered helicopter, racing to the nearest hospital with a trauma center, and—
Lizzie sighed. “Honestly, Willie, it’s no big deal. I already know boys are gross.” She grinned reassuringly, wrapped a couple of tissues around her thumb and first finger, and slowly reached up to pinch the end of one cotton thing. With great care, she eased it out of my nose. When it was in the clear, she let out a long breath. “See,” she said, “no problem.” She dropped the bloody cotton and tissues on the ground, got new tissues, and repeated the whole process with my other nostril. Then she said, “Okay, sir, it looks as though, with proper nursing care, you should pull through.”
“Thank you,” I said weakly.
“Don’t mention it. By the way,” Lizzie said, “I like your friend Dodger. I can’t believe you have a real imaginary friend! I mean, a real friend who’s imaginary. I mean, a—well, a blue chimp with powers! This is so cool! How did it happen?”
“Well, it’s kind of a secret. I mean, I don’t know if Dodger would want me to tell.”
“Come on, Willie. Didn’t he already show himself to me?”
I wasn’t sure what I should do. And how did I know I could trust Lizzie? I knew Dodger thought she was special, but that didn’t mean—
“Will, you can trust me. Dodger can be our own private secret! And I can keep a secret. That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”
Just then, the moms looked up and saw us, so I was saved from answering. Lizzie picked up the bloody little pile from the lawn and we started walking across the yard. When we got to the back porch, where my dad keeps the garbage cans, she slipped the whole thing behind her back into one of the cans without even breaking stride. I had to admit, it was a slick move.
Man, my life was getting weird.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grounded
I ALMOST GOT THROUGH the living room without my mom noticing my nose situation. I mean, she looked at me and Lizzie when we came inside to say hello, but she was figuring out some kind of big PTA budgeting problem on the calculator, so I don’t think anything registered right away. Unfortunately, Amy was lying on the couch doing her homework, and she noticed instantly as I tried to glide toward the stairs without attracting too much close attention. “Oh, Willie!” Amy shrieked. “What happened to your nose? It’s horrible!”
That got Mom’s attention. She jumped up, grabbed me by both arms, and said, “Are you all right? Oh, my buddy!” I could have died of humiliation right there on the spot.
I mumbled, “I’m fine, Mom. It’s just a—”
Before I could finish, Mom pulled my head to her chest in a bone-crushing hug. I caught a momentary glimpse of Amy smirking with mischievous satisfac
tion, and then the flood came. A thick gout of blood splashed onto the white sweater Mom was wearing. She pushed me to arm’s length and then started yelling. She yelled while Lizzie tried to explain that we had just been playing catch; Lizzie looked down at the floor and bit her bottom lip. Mom yelled some more while she dragged me to the bathroom and stuffed twisted tissues up my nose. She yelled while she dragged me down to the laundry room and poured stain remover all over the front of the sweater. She stopped yelling long enough to tell Lizzie, “William has to be careful when he plays—he’s very delicate!” I could have sworn I saw Lizzie rolling her eyes at that one as Mom turned back to me and asked, “Why weren’t you wearing your batting helmet?” I said, “Mom, people don’t wear batting helmets to play catch.” She fired back, “They do if they plan to use their face as a mitt!” On that embarrassing note, Lizzie and her mother left. Lizzie gave me a little look of sympathy as she stepped out the door, like you would give to your puppy as you were dropping it off in the kennel. But at the same time, I had this feeling she was trying not to laugh. Then Lizzie was gone, and Mom yelled some more. She told me that, since I kept getting hurt whenever I tried to go anywhere, I was grounded until I “earned back her trust.” I tried pointing out to her that I had actually injured my forehead while closed up in the safety of my own room, but it didn’t matter.
When your mom is as ridiculously overprotective as mine, nothing you say matters.
My nose was throbbing. I always hated to let my mom know I was in pain, because I didn’t want her to decide I needed emergency surgery every time I had a hangnail, but I gave in this time and asked her for some aspirin. She told me that aspirin thins the blood, so she couldn’t give it to me while I was bleeding. So I staggered upstairs to my room with a gigantic handful of tissues and a baggie full of ice cubes, and lay down on my bed. Staring over the ice bag at the ceiling, I thought about my confusing day. I had really been having fun with Dodger and Lizzie. Also, it was a relief that someone else had seen Dodger, because truthfully, I had been a tiny bit worried that I was going crazy. Even though I couldn’t believe I was thinking it, I wanted to play with the two of them again.
It figured: for the month after Tim left, when I had zero friends and zero to do, I had been in no trouble at all. Now that I might have things to do and people (well, a girl and a blue chimp, but still) to do them with, I was probably going to be grounded until I died of old age.
Suddenly Dodger was sitting in the swivel chair at my desk. He swung to face me. “So, Willie, I think our first practice went pretty well. That Lizzie has some real potential.”
I forgot all about my troubles for a second, glad to be talking baseball. “As what? A second baseman? A catcher? What do you think?”
Dodger snorted. “Dude, as a buddy for us! She’s funny, and she has a cool accent. And she isn’t all girly about blood.”
Which, I had to admit, seemed to be a key quality if you were hanging out with Dodger.
“Plus, she sticks up for you. AND she passed the Special Person Test with the garbage on the ground. Wow, am I glad Part One of the Three-Part Plan is, like, Mission Accomplished. Now we can concentrate on getting your mom to trust you more. You’re pushing eleven years old, dude. It’s time for you to cut loose from the old apron strings! Get your groove on! Find your freedom! Climb every mountain! Ford every stream! Roam the world in search of adventure!”
“Uh, Dodger, when we got home, my mom saw my nose. She kinda flipped out. I’m grounded. Now I can’t even roam the block in search of adventure!”
Dodger laughed. “Excellent,” he said.
“Dodger, did you hear what I said? I’m grounded. I can’t leave the house. Look around you—do you see any mountains or streams in here? Or any freedom?”
He scanned my room. I noticed that his eye patch was back in place, and so was his usual uniform of surfer shorts. “Nope, bud, all I see is apron strings. Lots and lots of apron strings. But that’s good. The tighter a string is, the easier it is to cut.”
What was that, some kind of chimpanzee riddle? A wave of pain flowed through my nose, and I lost my train of thought before I could ask. In the meantime, Dodger looked at the closet and caught sight of this dry-erase easel board that I had used to teach Amy her alphabet when she was in kindergarten. He dragged it out, rummaged around in the little attached plastic case for a marker, uncapped one, and started lecturing me:
“Willie, what we need to do is find a way for you to face danger and prove to your mom that you can take care of yourself.”
“Well, couldn’t I just avoid danger? If I stay safe for a while, won’t that show her I can … I don’t know … be safe?”
“Too slow, dude. You’ve spent ten years being safe, and where has it gotten you? Other guys your age are out playing football with no helmets, helping their dads use Weedwackers and lawn mowers, burning stuff with magnifying glasses. And here you are, chillin’ with a chimp. No, little man, it’s definitely time for action.
“Anyway, as I was saying, I have brainstormed a list of excellent danger sources.” He started writing as he listed them. “They are:
1. Poison
2. Cliff
3. Explosion
4. Fire
5. Electrocution
“Now, the trick is, we need to come up with a way you can prove you’re careful and trustworthy while doing something dangerous. So I think we can rule out POISON, because I can’t think of anything good you can do with it. Same goes for … let’s see … CLIFF … and EXPLOSION … ooh, and ELECTROCUTION is never any good. So the only one left is your answer: FIRE. We are going to win your mom over by harnessing the terrible power of FIRE!”
Jeepers, this sounded promising. Why hadn’t I thought of impressing my mother with a nice bonfire? Or perhaps a lovely volcano in our backyard? Why didn’t I just handcuff myself to my bed, throw away the key, and save my mom the trouble of grounding me for life? “Dodger?” I asked. “Couldn’t I just wish for my mom to trust me? And you could, like, make it happen?”
Dodger frowned and said, “Dude, you’ve got to trust me. Just think: You’ve only known me for, like, two days, and I’ve already solved a third of your life’s problems. So let’s do this my way. I ask you, what could possibly go wrong?”
Ha.
Before I could even begin to list the many, many things that could go wrong when one combined the concept of Dodger with the concept of fire, my bedroom door swung open. My mom stepped in, took one look at the dry-erase board, and started screaming.
The next day at school, I tried to explain the whole ugly scene to Lizzie, who refused to stop laughing. She especially loved the part where my mom saw Dodger’s list of excellent danger sources and went completely bonkers. I kept saying, “What’s so funny?” and, “I’m serious!” None of that had any effect at all, though. Lizzie would just get quiet for a brief moment and then start in again, like, “The thing your mum said about using your face as a mitt—that was completely brilliant! My mum and I laughed for about three blocks. I mean, not about your nose getting smashed or anything, just about your mum’s reaction. So, are you up for some baseball training after school, then? You still need to practice thumping the ball with the bat before the weekend.”
I don’t know which part of “I’m grounded” she didn’t understand.
When I got home, my mom and sister were out at their weekly mother-daughter Brownies meeting. My dad was home, though, working like he always does in his basement office. He ordered me to go right to my room and do all of my homework before my mom got home at five o’clock. As he put it, “Please get your work done—and don’t break anything. Mom will kill us both if you get in any more trouble this week.” So, being the good boy that I am, I went straight to my room and did my homework. After a while I got tired of this really boring fractions worksheet I was doing and started daydreaming about how great life could be if Dodger gave me three wishes. I pictured myself driving my very own sports car up the driveway of m
y mansion, headed for my private video arcade for a few quick days of gaming on the way to Yankee Stadium for my major league debut. The radio was tuned to a sports station, and the announcers were discussing my amazing abilities:
Well, Jon, it’s a beautiful day at the stadium today, a perfect day for the youngest shortstop in big-league history to begin his Hall of Fame career.
Yes, Susan, this should be one to remember. Willie Ryan has already earned the awed respect of a nation with his incredible two-week climb through the minor leagues. It’s hard to believe that just two Tuesdays ago, this kid was a batboy for a single-A farm team.
You know, Jon, it really is hard to believe. Baseball historians will be talking about this for decades, trying to understand it. Me, I’m just trying to pick out my favorite Willie Ryan moment so far. Was it the three home runs he hit in that last game in Philadelphia?
Maybe, but that wasn’t much of a challenge for him, since he only had his eyes closed when he hit those. I kind of liked the wild pitch when he stole first, second, third, and home before the catcher even had time to pick up the ball.
I have to admit, that wasn’t bad. But what about the time when he was playing left field and jumped twenty feet straight up to spear that line drive—without a mitt?
Yes, folks, it’s been an amazing half-month since fifth grade let out for summer vacation. And now a nation awaits this game. A gasp goes up from the crowd: Willie’s personal batboy, Derek Jeter, has just come onto the field carrying the young star’s equipment. The question on everyone lips is this: If things go well today, do you think Willie Ryan’s mom might let him take off that stupid helmet?
I rubbed my eyes and tried to get back to my worksheet. But I couldn’t stop thinking. I had to plan my wishes just right if I was going to fix everything and give myself a perfect life.
Suddenly, I heard a POOF! This was followed by some gruesome munching noises. I turned toward my bed and was startled to see Dodger sitting there with his whole forearm in a white bag. There was powdered sugar all around his mouth, and when he pulled his hand out of the bag I found out why: He was holding a fistful of doughnut holes.
Dodger and Me Page 5