by David Teague
E.E. Smiley just shrugged.
“Atta girl!” cried Hector Smiley. “Atta girl!”
From the mound, E. E. Smiley gazed at Oscar. Oscar shot back a thumbs-up. “You did it!” he called. She smiled brilliantly, and waved, and turned to face the next Boston Brave batter.
“Oh, do you know my granddaughter?” asked Hector Smiley.
“She’s one of my best friends,” replied Oscar.
But Hector Smiley had already begun to fade from beside him. On the mound, E. E. Smiley became thin and ghostly. In a matter of seconds, Oscar and Lourdes found themselves sitting in a deserted ballpark, the night pressing in on them from every direction, in the darkness before dawn.
“She did it,” said Oscar. “She really did it!”
Lourdes gave him a high five.
In the seat where Hector Smiley had been sitting lay the watch, ticking away in the starlight.
“Yessssssss,” said Oscar quietly, scooping it up. “Now we just have to beat the Yankees, and I have to give nineteen seconds back to the universe.”
In the dimness, he turned the watch over and peered at the inscriptions weaving in and out of each other on the back. A new one leaped out at him. Oscar read it in a whisper. “‘How did it get so late so soon?’”
“By the way, she’s right about your eyes,” Lourdes said as they walked home. The suns were rising in the morning sky by now.
“What about them?” asked Oscar.
“You always close them at the last second.”
“No I don’t,” said Oscar.
“Yes you do,” said Lourdes.
“No, I don’t,” said Oscar. “But maybe we can get some batting practice in before the game tonight.”
“You never quit, do you?” said Lourdes. “Sure, we’ll practice, but first, let’s ask my mom to make breakfast for us.”
Mangoes
Lourdes’s kitchen blazed with sunlight and smelled lush with the aroma of tropical fruit. At the counter, a small woman sliced up mangoes with a knife.
“Mom,” said Lourdes, “this is Oscar Indigo. Oscar, this is my mom.”
“Hello, Mrs. Mangubat,” said Oscar.
“Hi, Oscar! I’m cutting up some mangoes for breakfast,” said Mrs. Mangubat. “Don’t ask how I got them. It’s an international secret!” She winked. “Want one?”
Oscar had never had a mango before. They seemed to come in a little bowl of their own rind. “What do I do?” he asked when she handed him one.
“Spoon it up out of the skin. Aren’t they good?”
“This,” Oscar exclaimed once he’d tried one, “is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“These aren’t even the best. You should go to the Philippines. Try them fresh,” said Mrs. Mangubat. “Lourdes and I will take you next time we go, and you’ll see! For now, I’m off to work. Bye!” Oscar couldn’t help but laugh at how different Lourdes was from her bubbly mother.
“And now,” Lourdes said, once they’d finished the mangoes and her mom had pulled out of the driveway, “about your little habit of batting with your eyes closed.”
“I said it before, I don’t do that!” said Oscar. “My eyes are always open!”
“We’ll see about that,” said Lourdes. “Come on.” She tucked a bat under her arm, grabbed a glove and ball, and opened the back door for Oscar.
Lourdes pulled an old soccer net behind Oscar like a backstop. Then she walked far enough away so that it seemed like she was on the mound and turned to throw him a slow, easy pitch. Oscar swung. And missed. The ball hit the net behind him.
“See! You blinked,” cried Lourdes.
“I didn’t!” protested Oscar.
“What did the ball look like when it went by?” asked Lourdes.
“I don’t know. Like a baseball,” said Oscar.
“Which way was it spinning?” asked Lourdes.
“What? How am I supposed to know that?” said Oscar.
“By keeping your eyes open,” said Lourdes. “Tell me, honestly, what happens when you’re at bat, Oscar?”
“I get scared,” said Oscar. “I’m afraid I’ll miss. I hear a roar in my ears and everything gets blurry. And I whiff. Every stinking time.”
“Then don’t get scared,” said Lourdes.
“Easy for you to say,” said Oscar.
“Take three deep breaths,” said Lourdes. “Imagine how awesome it’s going to feel when you get a hit. And then watch the ball until your bat hits it, just like E. E. Smiley said.” She reached into her pocket and came over to Oscar. “Also, let’s prop your eyes open with these toothpicks.” She snapped one in half and reached for Oscar’s left eye.
“Wait,” protested Oscar. “You’re making a joke, right? The great no-nonsense Lourdes Mangubat is kidding around?”
“You never know with me,” answered Lourdes. But she was smiling, and Oscar knew she was teasing. “Just don’t close your eyes. I’ll keep the toothpicks in my pocket in case.”
Lourdes walked back to her spot. “Now. Let’s try again.” Oscar took three breaths and thought about how awesome it would be to hit her next pitch. And not to have his eyelids propped open with toothpicks. Just in case Lourdes wasn’t joking. Lourdes let her pitch go. Oscar waited. And watched. And swung. And saw his bat hit the ball. And watched the ball fly over Lourdes’s head into the trees behind her yard. It lodged in a tall one with tentacles.
“Wow!” Oscar cried.
“That’s better,” said Lourdes after she wrested the ball away from the tree. “And now, if you can get Taser to throw you a fastball like that, you might even be able to blast a home run.”
“How?” asked Oscar. “When I hit it the other night, after I stopped time, while it was dangling in the air, the ball barely made it to the edge of the infield.”
“That’s because the ball wasn’t moving when you hit it,” said Lourdes. “Watch carefully, and hit this.”
She wound up and threw a smoking fastball. Oscar watched closely and met the ball with his bat. Blam! It ricocheted off like a meteor. It flew over the trees and disappeared.
“How did I do that?” asked Oscar wonderingly.
“You didn’t. We both did. The momentum of my pitch plus the force of your swing added up to a shot over the trees. If you can get Taser to throw you a fastball tomorrow, then boom, Taser’s hummer will bounce right off your bat and take the ball over his head, over the wall, out of the park.”
“How do I get Taser to throw the ball that hard?” asked Oscar. “How do we even know Taser will be pitching? He’s not supposed to. He’s been on the mound the past two games in a row.”
“His mom will figure out something. She always does,” replied Lourdes. “So you have to get the better of him. You need to make him mad. Act like you think you can hit his pitch. Act like you think you’re as good as he is. It makes him furious. And when he gets angry, he gets careless, and he throws a fastball over the middle of the plate. You’ve seen him do it.”
“I sure have,” said Oscar. “I guess I can act like I think I’m as good as he is. Because I am as good as he is.”
“Darn right,” said Lourdes.
And so Oscar Indigo, after the best batting practice of his life, figured out how to beat the Yankees.
All he had to do now was figure out how to put the nineteen seconds back.
In the meantime, he thought it would be a good idea to fix as many of the things he’d wrecked as possible. Starting with his mother’s job.
Mr. Rossini
Oscar left Lourdes’s house and decided to make a quick detour on his way home. To Rossini’s. It was still morning, so the restaurant wasn’t open, but Oscar could see Mr. Rossini, old, gray, and as round as a croquet ball, inside at a table by the window, sliding white napkins into gold rings.
Oscar tapped on the window.
Mr. Rossini waved him inside.
“Mr. Rossini,” said Oscar. “You should come to the big game tonight.”
“Footbal
l?” he asked hopefully in his thick Italian accent.
“No,” said Oscar. “Baseball.”
“Foo,” said Mr. Rossini. “In Italy, we laugh at that. And then fall asleep. What a slow sport!”
“But you might like it,” persisted Oscar.
“I might,” allowed Mr. Rossini. “Though I never done before.” After a pause, he said, “Hey, Oscar. I miss seeing you and your mama around here. I especially miss your mama’s singing!”
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” said Oscar. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I have something for you to listen to.” After leaving Lourdes’s house, Oscar had racked his brains trying to figure out how to get those nineteen seconds back. Perhaps, he thought, if he undid all the damage they had done, he could fix things. He didn’t know how to fix that second sun, but he could start small: by getting his mom a job to make up for the one she’d lost.
Oscar played the recording he’d made of her sorrowful singing from the night before. The sad refrains filled up the quiet restaurant.
“That is quite beautiful,” said Mr. Rossini.
Oscar smiled and left Mr. Rossini lost in a reflective daze.
Oscar was on a roll. Oscar was going to fix the universe.
Game Three of the Series
There were so many TV trucks crowded around Mt. Etna Diamond that Oscar’s mom had to park six blocks away. Three news helicopters hovered overhead, and the whap whap whap of their rotors made Oscar feel like he was about to play baseball in a combat zone. Even higher overhead, three hundred feet above the choppers, the Goodyear Blimp circled.
While Oscar stared upward in wonder at all the aircraft, Taser Tompkins shouldered him to the dirt. Robocop snickered. “Nice going, genius,” said Taser. “The story of the underdog Wildcats and their little home-run hero is going viral. Now the whole country will be watching when the Yankees smash you guys like electric guitars.” They turned and stamped away toward their dugout, but not before Robocop kicked dirt on Oscar’s uniform pants.
Slowly, Oscar climbed to his feet.
“Oscar, have you got a second?” cried a woman’s voice over the roar of the helicopters.
Oscar squinted through the dust to see Vern and Suzy, earpieces in place, hair flying, as they raced toward him with their microphones. This time, they weren’t just figments of his imagination. They were really at the game.
“Tell us your secret, Oscar Indigo,” requested Vern.
“How have the Wildcats made it this far?” prodded Suzy. “The whole country wants to know.”
“A lot of dedication,” replied Oscar. “And a little luck.”
“And gallons of OscarAde!” shouted Bobby Farouk, bombing the interview.
“And what is OscarAde?” asked Suzy as security guards politely but firmly removed Bobby from the picture.
“Our team’s favorite sports drink,” replied Bobby, popping back in. “It contains a secret ingredient.”
“What’s the secret ingredient? Your fans will want to know,” said Vern.
“Ask Oscar,” said Bobby. “He makes it. Gotta go.” This time, the security guards meant business.
“Oscar?” prompted Vern, pointing the mike at him.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret, would it?” replied Oscar cagily.
“I guess not,” said Vern, scratching his head in disappointment.
Once he and Suzy finished the interview, they made their way toward the broadcast desk. Butterflies took flight in Oscar’s stomach. The Wildcats had to win this. But even with high spirits and practice—could they really beat the Yankees? And for that matter, could he find a way to put those nineteen seconds back where they belonged? Wherever that might be? Evidence that the universe was crumbling rapidly lay all around. The double suns burned in the sky. His mom was yelling in the stands—until Mr. Rossini went up to her and began a quiet conversation . . . well, maybe that was a good sign. Still, Oscar had his work cut out for him.
Mr. Llimb and Mr. Skerritt met him at the dugout gate. “Any luck?” they asked.
“Some.” Oscar showed them the watch he’d been holding on to since he’d retrieved it from Hector Smiley’s seat at the do-over baseball game. “Managed to get this back, which is a starting point, I guess.”
“Good!” Mr. Llimb exclaimed. “Why don’t you hold on to that until T. Buffington Smiley arrives . . . as long as you’re not tempted to—”
“I’ve learned my lesson.” Oscar blushed. “I’m not pushing the button ever again. Is T. Buffington Smiley coming?”
“Yes, he has some important information for you and your team,” Mr. Skerritt said. “He should be here soon. He had one last wave to ride before he left the beach.”
“Hopefully he can tell me how to get those nineteen seconds back. I’m starting to get worried!” fretted Oscar.
Sounds of the team getting ready called his attention back to the field.
“Anyway, before you go join your pals, we bought something for you,” said Mr. Llimb self-consciously. “See, Mr. Skerritt and I picked out a new pair of baseball shoes. We didn’t know what style you’d like. So we just guessed.” He shyly brought a shoe box from behind his back and revealed a pair of glistening, black, handmade spikes, highlighted by five red stripes apiece.
“Just a little something you probably wouldn’t have bought for yourself,” threw in Mr. Skerritt.
“They’re spectacular!” said Oscar. “I love them!”
“Knock ’em dead, ace,” said Mr. Llimb.
“I guess I better make a speech,” said Coach Ron as the team collected up in the dugout. “Ahem. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—”
“Coach,” interrupted Oscar, “I’ve got this.”
“I have this whole thing about General Custer,” Coach Ron said, gesturing distractedly at his notes. “And how he stood up to adversity. I think it’ll get us through all our problems.”
“It won’t, Coach, because I’m the problem,” said Oscar. The team was silent. “The problem with our team, and with everything else. I’m the reason the whole universe has gone nuts.”
“No way,” said Steve Brinkley.
“Way,” said Oscar. “Because I cheated. I didn’t hit that home run. I used a device that stops time to make it look like I’d hit a home run. But there were some significant repercussions—namely, I broke the universe and now we’re in trouble.”
“Wait a minute,” said Axel Machado. “Are you the reason there are two suns and no bees and tsunamis every day on the shore?”
“Well,” said Oscar, “yes.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Axel. “You’re such a nice guy.”
“Tell them, Lourdes,” said Oscar. “It’s important for the team to know.”
“He did it,” confirmed Lourdes. “It’s hard to believe, but he did. I know for a fact.”
“This changes everything,” said Kevin. “I mean, we don’t even deserve to be tied 1–1 with the Yankees. I’m sorry, Oscar, but we might as well give up! We’re losers. We’ll always be losers even with Lourdes and OscarAde. Go tell Suzy and Vern so they can break the story, and let’s go home.”
The team sat quietly. No one could really deny what Kevin had said. News helicopters hummed in the silence. Oscar didn’t know what to say. He only wished T. Buffington Smiley were there to give him advice. And just like that, footsteps sounded outside.
“Hello?” T. Buffington Smiley stepped into the dugout, saying, “Sorry I’m late! You haven’t given up, yet, right? I have last-minute information that might help.”
“Who is this guy?” asked Coach Ron.
“Let me introduce Professor T. Buffington Smiley,” said Oscar. “He’s a famous scientist.”
“Hi, all! Sorry I’m late. Pterodactyls. What I came to say is that, firstly, you actually do deserve to be tied with the Yankees,” said T. Buffington Smiley. “See, I did a little computation. It wasn’t even that hard. You cheated to win game one, we all know that.” Osc
ar could feel himself blushing. “But they cheated to win game two!” Professor Smiley finished triumphantly.
“Right! They lied so Taser could pitch! I knew it! Remember, kids?” Coach Ron was beside himself.
“Which puts you even at 1–1,” said T. Buffington Smiley. “And now, here is what I came to say: You need to win.”
“Of course we do!” said Kevin.
“No, the fate of the universe depends on it. Oscar might not have told you the whole story, because he doesn’t want to worry you, but I will. To fix this thing, you need to achieve victory. If you guys don’t beat the Yankees fair and square and Oscar doesn’t figure out how to put back the nineteen seconds he took, our universe will go downhill with lightning speed. Taser Tompkins and Robocop Roberts and the rest of the Yankees and everyone like them will always win, every game they play. And that’s just for starters, because in addition, there will be hordes of invading pterodactyls and sinister trees waving tentacles, and unhappy parents will never leave their dead-end jobs, and absent fathers will miss important games, and the second sun will slowly cook earth until nothing can live on it, and then our universe will break off the cosmic plant that sustains it, and we’ll all—”
“We get the picture, Professor Smiley,” said Oscar.
“There’s one more thing,” said the professor. “Oscar, by watching the waves and interpreting their motions, I have been able to deduce that you need to replace what you took when time was stopped. You, Oscar, need to hit your own home run.”
“OK, Professor,” said Oscar. “I’m on it.”
“Now. Go out there and win!” said T. Buffington Smiley.
“We’re the Wildcats! We’re the best! We will!” cried Oscar. And with that, he launched into the team cheer as all the Wildcats joined in:
“East Mt. Etna, East Mt. Etna, East Mt. Etna, wow! Ain’t nobody gonna keep the Wildcats down!”
Oscar at the Bat