by David Aretha
“What if we don’t find this guy?” I replied. “Today or ever? What if Brian got everything wrong, or what if Utley denies being involved?”
“I’m afraid Omar’s gonna go into hiding forever, like Steve Bartman,” Kevin said. “I’m afraid we’ll never see him again.”
Our concerns made my Dad even more determined.
“Let’s keeping searching,” Dad said. “Let’s get this guy.”
We continued looking, marching at a faster pace. The task seemed impossible; more than forty thousand fans were packed inside. Meanwhile, we were almost out of time. With Josh Hamlin on the mound—the Cubs’ fastest-working pitcher—the game was speeding along. It entered the sixth inning, still 2–0.
Kevin and I needed to take a bathroom break, which at Wrigley Field is never a pleasant experience. Instead of urinals, the men’s rooms have long, metal troughs that you pee into. I peed into one side of a trough, Kevin peed into the other side, and a guy wedged in between us.
Now, normally when you go pee in a men’s room, you keep your head down. You focus on the task at hand and avoid making eye contact with strangers. But Kevin and I were in a different mindset that day. I peeked up at the guy between us. Kevin did the same. Oh my gosh, I thought. I leaned forward and looked at Kevin, who was equally shocked. Peeing between us was—without a doubt—Blake Utley!
Kevin was too panicked to talk. But somehow, I was able to utter the words.
“Are you . . . ,” I said to Utley, “the guy who knocked the pop out of Omar’s hand?”
Utley’s eyes grew big and his jaw dropped. He was shocked that some kid would know his secret. Yet for a strong moment, I could read the look of guilt on his face.
Utley didn’t answer me. He zipped up his zipper, buttoned the top of his jeans, and headed toward the exit.
I can’t speak for Kevin, but I had never used a men’s room without washing my hands. On this day, I made an exception. When Utley saw that we were following him, he sprinted out the door. We ran after him. My dad, who was waiting outside the men’s room for us, caught my eye.
“That’s him!” I shouted to Dad. “Blake Utley!”
My dad morphed into linebacker mode, pursuing the POI. Utley was fast, but he struggled to slither through the crowded concourse. Dad, Kevin, and I remained hot on his tail. All the while, Dad was calling security on his walkie-talkie.
“We’re after him!” Dad blared. “Section 115!”
Utley busted through the Connie’s Pizza line, causing yet another kid to spill his pop. We kept after him. Then, out of the blue, three security guards—including Bob Murphy—jumped in front of his path.
Utley slammed on the brakes and ran back our way. He thought he could plow through us two kids and my old man, but boy was he wrong!
My dad charged into him like an All-Pro defender greeting a ballcarrier, and Kevin and I piled on. Together, we brought him to the ground. My dad held him down until the security guards took over.
“Are you Blake Utley?” Bob asked.
“Yes,” Utley said as the guards pulled him to his feet.
“You’re coming with us,” Bob said. “And you have a whole lot of explaining to do.”
As Bob and his men took Utley away, the three of us followed.
“Are you kids okay?” Dad asked us.
We were fine, but Dad looked a bit shaken up.
“That was my first tackle in twenty-five years!” he said proudly.
Utley had gone down in the top of the seventh inning. By the eighth, “breaking news” spread like wildfire. Dad, Kevin, and I huddled in front of a TV near the Connie’s Pizza booth. The Cubs game was on ESPN, and these words scrolled below:
The Cubs have announced that eleven-year-old Omar Ovozi was NOT responsible for spilling Pepsi on Andres Cabrera during the September 22 Cubs–Reds game.
“Oh, my gosh!” I cried, excitedly.
“Yes!” Kevin shouted, pumping his fist.
We read on:
Reds fan Blake Utley, age twenty, has admitted to knocking the cup out of the boy’s hand. Utley said he intentionally tried to spill soda on Cabrera’s face so that he would not catch the ball.
“Yeahhhhh!” Kev and I blared, jumping up and down and smacking each other with double high-fives.
“I hope Omar is watching this,” Dad said.
“If he is,” Kevin said, “he’s probably like this.”
Imitating Omar, Kevin stretched out his arms, wiggled his fingers, and busted out a couple karate moves.
“That’s so Omar!” I said, cracking up.
Meanwhile, more good news was brewing. With two men on in the eighth, Cubs’ slugger Manny Costada rocketed a shot into left field. We ran toward the seats to witness the historic blast. Amid a deafening roar, the ball sailed out of Wrigley and onto Waveland Avenue.
The Cubs were up 3–2! Fans from two to ninety-two jumped up and down, pumping their fists in the air. Kevin gave me a big “guy” hug, and Dad emitted a loud “woooo-hoooo!”
Should the Cubs win, anything associated with the “Curse of Omar” would be completely forgotten. Happy days would return to Wrigleyville.
And the Cubs did win. Chicago closer Bobby “Lights Out” Lackey struck out the side in the ninth. And what a scene! Cubs players mobbed their pitcher. Delirious fans—believing that this could be the year—sang the Wrigley victory song “Go, Cubs, Go!”
Outside the park, thousands of fans from nearby neighborhoods poured into the streets.
“We’ll never be able to get out of Chicago!” my dad shouted amid the noise.
As it turned out, we didn’t need to. The National League Division Series would start on Wednesday, and the Cubs invited us to attend Game 1. In fact, they treated us like heroes. They paid for Dad, Kevin, and me to stay in the world-famous Drake Hotel. They got ahold of the Ovozis and flew them in for the game.
We were in the Drake’s lobby when Omar and his parents arrived. Omar walked through the front door wearing a Cubs cap. When he saw us, he threw his arms up in the air and broke into a huge smile.
“Dudes!” he shouted
We ran up to him, slapping high-fives.
“Man, I don’t know how to thank you guys,” Omar said.
“Eh, it was nothin’,” I said, as my dad rolled his eyes.
“So what happened to you?” Kevin asked. “Did they throw you in the nut house?”
They didn’t throw him in the nut house, Omar explained. But he did have to undergo psychological counseling. The “cure” was Blake Utley’s admission of guilt—coupled with the Cubs’ victory.
Omar was sky-high prior to Game 1. The Cubs let him throw out the ceremonial first pitch. Amid chants of “O-Mar! O-Mar! O-Mar,” our fellow Baseball Geek fired a perfect strike to the catcher. Omar threw his hands in the air as if he had just won the World Series. Fans waved signs, including “Chicago Loves the Cleveland Kids!”
Afterward, we took our seats behind the left-field fence. And in the seventh inning, guess who got to sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game?” Bob Murphy led us to the WGN broadcast booth to lead the crowd in that familiar song. I was scared and just kind of mumbled the lyrics in the background. But Kevin and Omar are a couple of hams. Like Harry Caray of old, they leaned out of the booth, swayed back and forth, and boomed the words into their microphones.
It’s root, root, root for the
Cub-bies, (we didn’t dare say Indians!)
If they don’t win it’s a shame,
For it’s one! Two! Three strikes you’re out
At the ollllld balllll gaaaame!
And then Omar added the tack-on line that Harry used to say: “Let’s get some runs!”
The fans went crazy, and many of them stared up at us and beamed big smiles. The three of us were elated.
“You deserve this,” Kev said to Omar,
“after all you’ve been through.”
To top it off, the Cubs were routing the Phillies 6–2 thanks to four RBI from Andres Cabrera. We returned to our left-field seats, where we planned to enjoy the rest of the game.
But for some reason, the baseball gods can never just leave us alone.
In the top of the ninth, Phillies slugger Ryan Howard blasted a towering fly ball to left. It sailed over the fence for a home run, bounced high off a concrete step, and landed right in Kevin’s hands.
“Throw it back!” the fans chanted. “Throw it back!”
“What are they saying?” my dad asked.
“It’s a Cubs tradition,” I told him. “When an opposing player hits a home run, the fans are supposed to throw it back onto the field. It’s kinda like, ‘We don’t want your stinkin’ home run.’”
Not wanting to disappoint the fans, Kev reared back and chucked the ball onto the field.
There was only one problem. Left fielder Cabrera had his back turned to us, and Kevin’s throw hit him right in the noggin! The Cubs’ superstar dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes!
The crowd gasped, and then went stone-silent. All eyes turned to Cabrera, who was kneeling on the grass with his head down, and then to Kevin, whose expression said “uh-oh. . . .” Finally, after a moment that seemed like an eternity, Cabrera jumped to his feet and waved his cap to the crowd. He was all right, and the fans burst into applause.
My fellow Geeks and I plopped in our chairs, emitting a collective “phew!”
“Remind me,” Omar said, “never to come back to Wrigley Field.”
Note To Our Readers
About This Electronic Book:
This electronic book was initially published as a printed book. We have made many changes in the formatting of this electronic edition, but in certain instances, we have left references from the printed book so that this version is more helpful to you.
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All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, downloaded, uploaded, transmitted, deconstructed, reverse engineered, or placed into any current or future information storage and retrieval system, electronic or mechanical, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Speeding Star.
Copyright © 2015 by David Aretha.
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No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
Wrigley Field™ is a registered trademark and is owned by the Chicago National League Ball Club, L.L.C. This story has not been authorized by Wrigley Field™ or the Chicago National League Ball Club, L.L.C.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Aretha, David.
Foul ball frame-up at Wrigley Field / David Aretha.
pages cm. — (The Baseball Geeks adventures ; book 2)
Summary: When eleven-year-old Omar is unfairly blamed by the media for a Chicago Cubs loss at home, his fellow Baseball Geeks try to clear his name.
ISBN 978-1-62285-123-2
1. Wrigley Field (Chicago, Ill.)—Juvenile fiction. 2. Chicago Cubs (Baseball team)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Wrigley Field (Chicago, Ill.)—Fiction. 2. Chicago Cubs (Baseball team)—Fiction. 3. Baseball—Fiction. 4. Blame—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.A6845Fo 2014
[Fic]—dc23 2012049039
Future editions:
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62285-124-9
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-62285-126-3
Single-User PDF ISBN: 978-1-62285-127-0
Multi-User PDF ISBN: 978-1-62285-168-3
This is the EPUB version 1.0.
To Our Readers: This is a work of fiction. References in this story are made concerning historical and current baseball players, otherwise any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Speeding Star
Box 398, 40 Industrial Road
Berkeley Heights, NJ 07922
USA
www.speedingstar.com
Cover Illustration: © Ingvard the Terrible
Read each title in The Baseball Geeks Adventures
Come to speedingstar.com for more information!
* * *
A HALL Lot of Trouble at Cooperstown
The Baseball Geeks Adventures Book 1
When Joe, Kevin, and Omar take a trip to Cooperstown to save Kevin’s dad, will the boys be able save themselves from the “trouble” they get into?
ISBN: 978-1-62285-118-8
* * *
Foul Ball Frame-up at Wrigley Field
The Baseball Geeks Adventures Book 2
After Omar is “framed” for an incident that was out of his hands, can Joe and Kevin save their friend from becoming one of the biggest curses in history?
ISBN: 978-1-62285-123-2
* * *
The Treasure Hunt Stunt at Fenway Park
The Baseball Geeks Adventures Book 3
Joe, Kevin, and Omar want a shot at the Treasure Hunt Round. But can the Geeks beat the Little League Champs before they “stunt” the Geeks’ chances of winning it all?
ISBN: 978-1-62285-128-7
* * *
Bossing the Bronx Bombers at Yankee Stadium
The Baseball Geeks Adventures Book 4
When the Geeks are invited to watch a game from a luxury suite, Joe, Kevin, and Omar find themselves in a bad situation when they start making some “bossy” calls.
ISBN: 978-1-62285-133-1