Steal That Base!

by Kurtis Scaletta

  “I’m too hungry to be nervous,” said Sammy. He looked at me and patted his stomach.

  “On it, Sammy,” I said. “I’ll go get your corn dogs.”

  I ran out of the locker room and out to the plaza. The gates were now open, and the fans were swarming in. A lot of people were carrying Spike bobbleheads. Kids shook the toys and made the porcupine’s oversized head rock back and forth.

  The woman at the food stand saw me and waved me up to the counter. I didn’t have to wait in line. That was one of the perks of working for the team.

  “Corn dogs, coming right up!” she said even before I ordered. She knew that Sammy Solaris had corn dogs before every game.

  The smell of hot food made my stomach rumble, but I’d promised Mom I’d eat healthier today.

  I forgot to tell the woman at the counter that. She set down three corn dogs and winked. Two were for Sammy, but the extra corn dog was always for me.

  I hurried back to the Pines’ locker room and gave Sammy all three dogs.

  “You get an extra today,” I said. “My mom made me lunch.”

  “But that’s not the tradition,” said Sammy. “I eat two corn dogs before every game. Not one corn dog. Not three corn dogs. Two corn dogs.” He held up two fingers.

  “Well, just imagine what you can do if you eat three,” said Teddy.

  “Don’t mess with tradition,” said Wayne.

  “Traditions have to start somewhere,” said Teddy. “Maybe you’ll hit for the cycle. Maybe you’ll steal a base.”

  Sammy’s eyes got wide. “You think so?” He dipped one of the dogs in mustard and took a bite.

  “You never know until you try,” said Teddy.

  “I tried stealing yesterday,” said Sammy. “It didn’t go so hot.”

  “But you only had two corn dogs.”

  “Don’t mess with Sammy’s system,” said Wayne. “He eats two corn dogs, and he gets a lot of doubles and homers. It works for him.”

  “I do need to steal a base, though,” said Sammy.

  “You don’t need to,” said Wayne.

  “Yes, I do,” said Sammy. “On the last off day, I visited my niece’s softball team. I was giving them a pep talk, and I told them they could do anything if they set their mind to it. Later on my niece asked me, ‘Uncle Sammy, did you ever steal a base?’ I said no. She asked me why not, and I said I wasn’t that kind of player. So she said, ‘If you put your mind to it, you can do it, right?’ What could I say? I said, ‘Yeah, of course I can.’

  “So she said, ‘Do it this weekend, Uncle Sammy,’ and I said I would. That’s why I tried it last night.”

  “Sweet story,” said Wayne. “But a corn dog isn’t going to help you run faster, unless you’re chasing a corn dog truck.”

  “You’re hilarious,” said Sammy.

  “Just sayin’,” said Wayne.

  “You’ve never stolen a base?” Tommy asked in surprise. “I’ve only been with the team a month, and I’ve stolen five!”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know,” said Sammy. “You’re a jackrabbit out there. I just need to steal one base this weekend so I don’t let down Wendy. That’s my niece.”

  “Tell her you hit a lot of homers,” said Myung Young. “Those are better than stolen bases.”

  “He’s right,” said Danny O’Brien. Or maybe it was Brian Daniels. I always got those two guys confused. Their names were similar, and they looked the same: unruly red hair and big freckled noses. “Tell Wendy you just set your mind to hitting home runs,” said Danny or Brian.

  “It’s not just Wendy,” said Sammy. “I want to prove to myself that I can steal a base.”

  “So take one from the equipment room,” said Wayne.

  Sammy glared at the catcher.

  Zane shrugged. “I’m just sayin’ . . .”

  “You’re no help,” said Sammy. “But I know who will be. I’ll get Chad the batboy to help me.”

  I popped my head up. “Who, me?” What was I supposed to do?

  “Yeah. You gave a magic baseball card to Mike Stammer. That card helped him turn an unassisted triple play.”

  “Sure did,” said Mike. “I haven’t had a single error charged against me since I got it.” He patted his hip pocket to show he still had the card I’d given him.

  “The baseball card isn’t magic,” I said. “It’s just a reminder that . . .”

  “Listen, batboy.” Wayne leaned in and whispered in my ear. “If Mike thinks it’s a magic card, then it’s a magic card.”

  “I don’t need a card as powerful as Mike’s,” said Sammy. “It just has to be a little bit magic. Stealing a base is a lot easier than turning a triple play all by yourself.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to try,” said Mike. “Who else do you have in that binder?”

  “Rickey Henderson,” said Brian or Danny. “That’s who you want. Henderson stole more bases than anyone else in the history of baseball.”

  “Or Ty Cobb,” said Myung Young. “He was famous for stealing bases.”

  “I don’t have a Ty Cobb card,” I said. “Ty Cobb played a hundred years ago. His cards are worth a fortune.”

  “How about Ichiro Suzuki?” asked Tommy. “Or maybe Juan Pierre? Those guys steal a lot of bases and they’re still playing. It can’t be that hard to find their cards.”

  “Good choices,” said Myung.

  “I do have an Ichiro card, but I don’t have it with me,” I said.

  “Hey, look,” said Sammy. “I’ll take Kenny Lofton or Carlos Beltran. Anyone who ever stole a base.”

  “I don’t have any baseball cards with me,” I said. “I can go to the gift store and buy a pack. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get one of those guys.”

  “Nah, I think the card has to be from that red binder of yours,” said Sammy. “That’s what makes it magic.”

  I started to say, “They’re not magic,” but then I remembered what Wayne had whispered to me.

  “Let me settle this!” Grumps’s voice rattled the lockers. The Porcupines’ manager stomped over to the group. He wagged a finger in Sammy’s face. “If I don’t give you the sign, you better not try to steal a base.”

  “But you never give me the sign,” said Sammy.

  “Exactly,” said Grumps. “You’re a slugger That’s your role.” Grumps patted Sammy’s shoulder. “Just go out there and slug, all right?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Sammy. He didn’t look happy about it.

  I grabbed my lunch and set off for the other dugout.

  “Good luck, Sammy,” I whispered on my way out.

  he Attica Finches were warming up, so I had to walk the long way around the diamond.

  “Chad . . . Chad . . . Hey, Chad!”

  I turned. There was a porcupine right behind me. Spike came close enough to whisper. “Remember the little girl outside?” Abby said. “I promised her a bobblehead?”

  “Yeah. Her name is Petunia.”

  “Petunia!” Abby snapped her fingers. “I couldn’t remember her name.”

  “How can you forget a name like Petunia?”

  “I just remembered it was a flower. I was thinking Rose, Lily, or Violet.”

  “Those are normal names,” I said. “I’ve never heard of anyone named Petunia that wasn’t a cartoon character. And a pig.”

  “I think it’s a pretty name,” said Abby. “But I don’t have a bobblehead to give her.”

  “You didn’t get one? But you’re Spike!”

  “I know! But the bobbleheads are all gone. Every last one.”

  “Well, maybe Petunia got into the ballpark before they ran out.”

  “No way,” Abby said. “She and her dad were way at the back of the line, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I thought about the bobblehead back in my locker. I really wanted to keep it. I wanted to collect things from my time with the Porcupines. I already had a signed baseball that Mike Stammer gave me.

  “I shouldn’t have said I’d get her a bobblehead,” said Abby. “She
’ll say Spike broke a promise. It’ll be in the newspaper. ‘Junior Mascot Lies to Little Girl.’”

  “It won’t be in the newspaper,” I said.

  “Well, what if she goes home sad? What if she never wants to come to another game?” Abby’s voice rose higher. “What if she ends up hating the Porcupines?”

  “You’re right. This is serious . . . Hmm. I have a bobblehead you can give Petunia. I mean, if you can’t find one any other way. I have to go work the Finches’ dugout, but I can get it during the seventh inning stretch.”

  “Promise?” Abby asked.

  I gulped. “Sure.”

  “Thanks, Chad! You’re a hero!” Abby remembered she was in costume, and shouldn’t shout. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  • • •

  There was a note taped to the fence in front of the Finches’ dugout.

  The web was still there, and so was the spider. I saw it hiding under one of the links in the fence. Dylan would be happy.

  The Finches finished practicing and came back into the dugout.

  One of the players sat down and pulled the brim of his cap over his eyes. “Last night’s game went way too late.”

  “Tell me about it,” said another player.

  “Yawn.”

  “Zzzz.”

  Two seconds later, everybody had to jump up for “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and then it was time to play ball.

  Lance Pantaño was pitching for the Pines. He struck out the first batter.

  “Nice breeze blowing back here!” Ernie Hecker hollered from the stands.

  The next batter for the Finches took an awkward swing at the first pitch and bounced the ball to the shortstop. Mike Stammer fielded the ball and threw to first for the out. He’d been great on defense lately. There were rumors that he would get called back up to the big leagues any day now.

  Lance got ready to throw his next pitch, but nobody was in the batter’s box.

  “Wake up Jonny!” a Finch shouted.

  “Yo, Jonny!” A player reached out and tugged on his teammate’s foot. “You’re batting.”

  “What? Oh.” Jonny got up, pushed his cap back, rubbed his eyes, and headed for the plate.

  “You’ll need this.” I handed him his bat.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

  “Hey, pitcher!” Ernie Heckler hollered. “Take it easy on this guy. He looks like he just woke up.”

  Jonny yawned and tapped his bat on the plate. The pitch sailed past him. Jonny didn’t even lift his bat off his shoulder.

  “Umpire, make sure that guy is still alive!” shouted Ernie.

  Jonny stepped back and watched another pitch zoom by.

  “Strike two!” the umpire shouted. Jonny had forgotten to ask for a timeout. He swung at the third pitch but missed it by a mile. He headed for the dugout and started to sit down.

  “That’s three outs, Jonny,” said the Finches’ manager. “Time to play defense.”

  “Oh, right.” Jonny put on his catcher’s gear and headed toward the plate.

  “Stay awake out there,” shouted the manager. “Don’t let them catch you napping.”

  Usually that’s just a saying, but with this guy it could happen! It might be a good day to steal a base—even for Sammy Solaris.

  I ate my lunch while the Porcupines batted. The pasta salad was OK, but it was no corn dog. The baby carrots would have been better with nacho cheese.

  Sammy batted fourth in the inning. Tommy Harris was on third and there were two outs. The pitcher walked Sammy on four pitches. It was baseball strategy. If Sammy got a hit, Tommy would score. But since the bases were not loaded, Tommy couldn’t score on a walk.

  Now would be a good time to steal second. If the catcher’s throw to second base wasn’t perfect, the runner on third could come home. They call that a double steal. I looked over at Grumps standing in the Porcupines’ dugout. Sometimes he’d slap his legs and his shoulders and tug on the brim of his hat. It was a sign to the base runner. It might mean “steal a base” or “run on contact.”

  There was no sign this time. Grumps just stood there and stared at Sammy Solaris. I knew that look from Mom and Dad. It meant: Don’t even think about it.

  Sammy didn’t budge.

  Wayne Zane flied out on the first pitch. Then Mike Stammer struck out, and the inning was over. Sammy Solaris didn’t get one foot closer to stealing a base.

  Victor Snapp’s deep voice bellowed over the speaker system. “Please welcome the Porcupines’ senior and junior mascots . . . Pokey and Spike!”

  The crowd cheered. The two porcupines rolled out in a golf cart and stopped in the infield.

  Spike jumped out of the cart and set down a giant boom box. The little porcupine pushed a button and rap music blared. Spike danced and the crowd clapped.

  Pokey covered his ears and shook his head. He climbed out of the cart and punched a button on the boom box. The music died.

  The crowd played along. They booed Pokey.

  Pokey covered his ears but finally gave in and turned the music back on. Spike started dancing again. Everyone cheered.

  “I’m with the big porcupine,” Ernie Hecker shouted. “This song is terrible!”

  Spike looked up to where Ernie was sitting and thumbed his porcupine nose. The crowd loved it.

  ustavo Perez, the Finches’ first baseman, poked at the dugout fence. The spider dropped to the turf and scurried away.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Trying to smoosh that spider,” Gustavo said. “Did you see where it went?”

  “No—don’t!”

  “Look, kid, spiders get smooshed sometimes. And I don’t like spiders.”

  “I know, but Dylan likes that spider.”

  “Who’s Dylan?”

  “He’s the other batboy. He’s the one who wrote that note.” I pointed at the paper taped to the fence.

  “‘It is not the kind of spider that bites people,’” Gustavus read aloud. “How does your friend know?”

  “Because he’s really good at science,” I said.

  “Spiders eat insects,” the Finches’ pitcher said from the bench. His name was Todd Farnsworth. “I’ll bet this one gobbles up gnats and mites. Would you rather have gnats and mites in your face, Gus?”

  “No,” Gustavo admitted.

  “Then leave the kid’s pet spider alone.”

  The Finches’ catcher was sitting next to him. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Maybe that thing can play in the outfield,” he said.

  We all looked at him.

  “It can catch flies. Get it?”

  “Go back to sleep, Jonny,” said the pitcher.

  Not much happened for the next two innings. In the bottom of the fourth inning, a couple of the Finches’ bench players asked me to fetch some sunflower seeds.

  “Three bags of sunflower seeds,” I told the woman at the food stand.

  “That’s all the Finches want?”

  “Yep.”

  “They’re named for birds and they eat like birds,” she said. “Anything for you?”

  “Sure.” I remembered what Mom had told me. “I need something halfway good for me.”

  “We have tropical fruit kebabs.”

  “Tropical fruit ke-whats?”

  “Tropical fruit kebabs. They’re new.” She took a skewer from the cooler and handed it to me. It had pineapple chunks and bananas and jumbo marshmallows and some orange-colored fruit that wasn’t oranges.

  “What’s that?” I pointed at one of the orangey chunks.

  “Mango.”

  I nibbled at a piece of mango. “It’s good.”

  “Take some kebabs back to the players,” she said. “Nobody’s ordering them, and the fruit won’t keep.” She loaded a cardboard tray with fruit kebabs.

  I took it all back to the dugout and set the tray down on the bench. I nibbled on my own tropical fruit kebab and watched the game.

  There was nobody out, and Sammy was on first base after a clean si
ngle to left field. He took a step off the base and looked at the Porcupines’ dugout for the sign. Grumps gave him his stone-faced look again. Sammy stepped back on the bag.

  It was for the best, because Wayne got a hit and Sammy got to second anyway.

  Later in the inning either Danny O’Brien or Brian Daniels hit a double.

  “He’s faster than a skyscraper!” shouted Ernie Hecker as Sammy lumbered home. It was a run for the Porcupines! The crowd cheered.

  When the inning ended, I crossed the field to pick up a bat. Sammy stopped me. “Hey, Chad, never mind about that magic baseball card. I can’t use it. Coach won’t let me steal a base.”

  “Maybe he would if the situation was right?”

  “No way. He won’t ever give me the sign. I’ll just have to tell my niece that you can do anything if you put your mind to it and Grumps lets you do it.”

  “I’ll find you a card anyway,” I promised.

  “Thanks, Chad.” Sammy headed back to the Porcupines’ dugout.

  Either Brian Daniels or Danny O’Brien grounded into a double play, and the Finches came back to the dugout to bat. It was the top of the fifth inning.

  Todd Farnsworth, the Finches’ pitcher, picked up one of the fruit kebabs.

  “Where did these come from?”

  “The kid brought them,” a player said. “Try one. They’re good.”

  “I never liked marshmallows, but I could go for some fruit,” said Todd. He slid off a marshmallow and started to toss it toward the trash.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” said Gustavo. “That’s the best part.” He took the marshmallow and popped it in his mouth, then grabbed a skewer and took off more marshmallows. He popped them all into his mouth at once.

  Todd ate a couple of pieces of fruit off the skewer. “These are great! You guys should try them.” He pushed the tray down the bench.

  Several of the players took one.

  Gustavo mumbled something.

  “We can’t hear you, Gus,” said the shortstop. “Your mouth is full of marshmallows.”

  Gustavo pointed at the shortstop’s fruit kebab, then at himself.