Mike took a couple of pitches and then banged a double to left field. The crowd cheered.
Sammy Solaris came up to bat. The crowd cheered and stomped. Sammy was the best hitter on the team. He fouled a ball back into the stands, took a pitch, and then knocked the ball into the outfield.
Mike sprinted, taking a big turn at third and heading home. The Humdinger center fielder fired the ball toward the plate. Mike had plenty of time to score, but he hesitated. He who hesitates is lost, and Mike was definitely lost. The catcher tagged him out. The crowd groaned.
It wasn’t even the jinx this time. Mike was jinxed on defense, but he had always been good on offense. He was losing trust in himself, just like the rest of the Porcupines were.
If he didn’t break that jinx soon, Mike was done for as a ballplayer.
t was the Humdingers’ turn to bat again. Brian Somerset was first up. He hit a single and spent most of the inning standing on first base.
I still needed to fetch his baseball card from the Pines’ locker room anyway. Too bad I was stuck in the Humdingers’ dugout.
The shortstop was chomping on a big wad of gum. Every few seconds he would blow a bubble. He’d let it get bigger and bigger and then . . . POP!
“Could you please knock that off?” asked Grankowski.
“Knock what off?” the shortstop mumbled around his gum.
“Snapping your gum. It’s getting on my nerves,” Grankowski replied.
“Fine, I’ll stop popping bubbles,” said the shortstop. He blew a really big bubble, but this time he didn’t pop it.
“That’s even worse,” Grankowski grumbled. He looked away.
The shortstop removed the gum, bubble and all, and carefully attached it to the center of Grankowski’s cap.
Every other guy in the dugout cracked up.
“What’s going on?” Grankowski reached up and accidentally poked the bubble. POP!
“Great. Now my cap is ruined.” He took it off and looked at the blotch of gum.
“Oops,” said the shortstop.
This was the perfect chance to go get my binder!
“We’ve got a bubblegum removal kit,” I said. We really did—I’d seen it in the Porcupines’ equipment room.
“Go get it!” said Grankowski.
“And get me some more gum,” added the shortstop.
I bolted through the Humdingers’ locker room, out onto the concourse, and around to the Porcupines’ side of the ballpark. I found the gum removal kit first, then ran into the locker room and grabbed my binder.
Wally caught me.
“What are you doing here during the game?”
I was breathing too hard to talk. I made like I was chewing gum, pretended to spit it out and stick it on my own cap, then showed him the spray bottle and scraper.
“Fine, fine. Get back there.”
• • •
I went to work cleaning Grankowski’s cap.
I remembered my interview with Wally.
Sometimes being a batboy is fun, he’d told me, and sometimes it isn’t. He could have added, sometimes it’s sticky and gross.
“You shouldn’t have to do that,” said Brian Somerset.
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “Hey, can you sign a card for me?” I pointed at the binder. “It’s on the fourth page.”
“No problem.” He found the card and slipped it out, signed it, and put it back. “Nice collection,” he said.
“I have a lot more at home,” I bragged.
I finished de-gumming the cap and gave it back to Grankowski.
“You’re a hero,” he said.
The half-inning ended, and the Humdingers went back out to the field. I got my binder to see what Brian Somerset had written on the card.
“For a super batboy from a former batboy!” it said. It was now one of my favorite cards of all time. I decided to move it up front, but I wondered which card to move to make room. I looked carefully at the first page in my binder.
Bill Buckner’s card was there. It was one of the cards Uncle Rick had given me. I could see on the card that Buckner’s fielding stats were fine. It wasn’t fair that he was known for one lousy play. Right next to Buckner’s card was a card for Rafael Furcal. The back of Furcal’s card said he once turned a triple play all by himself. That’s why I put his card in my binder. There’s nothing as rare in baseball as an unassisted triple play. It’s only happened fifteen times in the major leagues so far.
The funny thing was, Furcal had a lot of errors in his stats. He was a good fielder, but he also made a lot of mistakes. He was the opposite of Bill Buckner. Furcal would always be known for one great defensive play.
Victor Snapp made an announcement: “Kids who want to run the bases after the game, sign up with our new junior mascot, Spike, on the concourse in section E!”
The announcement sent hordes of young kids running to the stairs. It sounded like a herd of very small buffalo stampeding overhead.
“Be right back,” I said to the Humdingers in the dugout. I slipped Furcal’s baseball card into my front pocket and set off to find Spike the Porcupine.
• • •
Little kids crowded around Spike. The junior mascot had a clipboard and wrote down names, but there were so many kids shouting at him that he couldn’t keep up. He held up a single finger to mean “one at a time.” A kid grabbed his hand and tried to bite it.
I waded through the crowd. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” I said. “Official Porcupines business.” I pointed at my uniform to show them I was with the team.
“You’ve got food on your shirt!” one kid reminded me.
“I know. Excuse me.”
“Psst,” I said to the junior mascot. “Psst, Abby.”
She couldn’t hear me whisper over the mob.
“Hey, Abby!” I shouted.
That got the little porcupine’s attention.
“Chad? I can’t talk when I’m in costume,” Abby said. “Wait a minute—how did you know it was me?”
“Lucky guess . . . and I remembered what you said about your job on the last day of school. Can you please do me a favor? Go to the Pines’ dugout and give this to Mike Stammer.” I gave Abby the Rafael Furcal baseball card.
“Mike who?”
“Mike Stammer. He’s the shortstop.”
“He’s short?”
“No! He’s the—oh, never mind. His name is Mike Stammer. His last name is on his uniform.”
Abby took the card, felt around for a pocket, but then realized her porcupine costume didn’t have any. She tucked the card into the clip on her board. “OK, but remember, I can’t talk to him,” she said.
“I know. Thanks!” I left her in the sea of kids and hoped she’d remember Mike’s name.
I also hoped that Mike would get what I was trying to tell him. Maybe a baseball card couldn’t break the jinx—but maybe it could. He would see that even a player who got a bunch of errors wasn’t jinxed on every single play—and if he wasn’t jinxed on every play, he wasn’t jinxed at all!
he Pines were winning by a score of 2–0 at the top of the ninth inning. The closer, Ryan Kimball, was brought in to save the game.
Ryan glared at the Humdinger’s batter, Brian Somerset, and spun a crazy breaking ball past him. Ryan had a kooky delivery: His elbows stuck out every which way, and he did a little kick at the end that made it look like he was dancing. His nickname was “Hokey Pokey,” but I wouldn’t dare call him that to his face. Hokey Pokey or not, the guy could pitch.
Brian swung and missed. Wayne Zane zipped the ball back, and Ryan threw another pitch, hard over the plate. Brian held off that one: Strike two! The crowd started to cheer.
Brian had been nice to me, and it wouldn’t hurt the Pines if he just got a base hit. I found myself quietly rooting for him—even if he was a Humdinger.
Ryan threw another fastball. Brian knocked it straight over the left field wall. I gulped. I just wanted him to hit a single, not a home run.
�
�Nice one,” I told him when he got back to the dugout. I had to be polite. I didn’t high-five him, though. I was still a Pine City Porcupines’ fan all the way. I had to draw the line somewhere.
“Thanks,” Brian said. “I got lucky.”
The next Humdinger batter walked, and the batter after that bunted. It was a really good bunt that rolled along the third base line and stopped dead. The runner from first reached second, and the batter reached first. Now the tying run was in scoring position, and the go-ahead run was on base. There was still nobody out. I couldn’t watch. I pulled the brim of my hat low so I couldn’t see.
I heard a strike called, and then there was the crack of the bat.
The crowd roared, louder than I’d ever heard. I lifted the brim of my cap and saw the base runners walking back toward the dugout.
The Pines were swarming Mike Stammer!
“That was something!” said Brian Somerset. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
They showed the replay on the big screen. The Humdinger batter lined the pitch right up the middle. It was the kind of ball that goes so fast and straight that people call it a “frozen rope.” Mike Stammer jumped four feet high and caught the ball.
That was one out.
Mike touched second base before the base runner could get back to the bag.
That made two outs.
Meanwhile, the player from first was still running toward second; all Mike had to do was reach out and touch him.
That was three outs.
An unassisted triple play! The rarest play in baseball!
The replay ran again and again, so I watched it again and again. It was a two-second masterpiece: catch, touch, and tag in one motion. It was a great, great play. There was no way Mike Stammer was jinxed.
They showed the Porcupines’ dugout on the big screen too. The bench players all high-fived each other. Even Dylan got five, and Grumps cracked the first smile I had seen from him. I wished like anything I was over there.
Mike ran toward the visitors’ dugout. The Humdingers watched in surprise. Was he coming to taunt them?
“Hey, Chad the batboy!” Mike called.
“What a great play!” I told him.
“The little porcupine gave me this.” He pulled the card out. “It came with a note that said, ‘This is from Chad the batboy.’”
“Yeah, I thought it might help break the jinx.”
“It sure did!” said Mike. “Can I keep it? I mean, now I’m scared not to have it—you know?”
“Uh . . . sure,” I answered. It was hard to give up the card, but that was better than rejinxing a guy.
“I’ll get you a new card,” Mike said. “Tell you what, you can keep the ball.” He was still holding the baseball he’d turned the triple play with.
“Wow! Thanks.”
“This ball has to be good luck,” Mike added.
“Not for us,” said Brian Somerset.
“Can you sign it for me?” I asked Mike.
“Of course.”
I tossed him a pen. I made a terrible throw, but he caught it anyway.
• • •
I helped the Humdingers put their things away for the night. When I went back onto the field, there was still a long, ragged line of kids waiting to run the bases. A couple of the kids were talking about Mike’s play and acting it out.
“Wasn’t that awesome?”
“Yeah,” Dylan replied.
“First unassisted triple play in Prairie League history!” I heard one of them say.
Spike pointed at each kid when it was his or her turn to run the bases. He—I mean, she—waved at me as I passed.
“I can’t talk right now!” Abby said. “I’m in costume!”
“That’s all right. Neither can I.”
“I gave that guy the card, though!” she said.
“I know. Thanks!”
The Porcupines’ locker room was practically empty. Dylan was playing with the rabbit. The locker room was in good shape, so at least he had finished his duties before taking a bunny break.
“Is Mike still around?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. All the guys wanted to take him out to celebrate his big play.”
“Must have been fun to be in the dugout when it happened,” I said.
“It was.”
Dylan should have been a lot more excited. I still planned on turning him into a big-time baseball fan. Good thing I had all summer to do it.
“Looks like Mike left his rabbit behind,” I said.
“It’s my rabbit now,” said Dylan. “Mike said I could keep him because we hit it off so well.”
“Do your parents know you’re coming home with a rabbit?”
“Sure they do. They’re coming to pick us up. We have two rabbits already, so he’ll fit right in.”
“He’s cute,” I said. “Have you named him yet?”
“I’m still thinking about it,” he said. “Any ideas?”
“How about . . . Jinx?”
“I like that! I like it a lot!”
“Thanks. It just kind of came to me.”
Kurtis Scaletta’s previous books include Mudville, which Booklist called “a gift from the baseball gods” and named one of their 2009 Top 10 Sports Books for Youth. Kurtis lives in Minneapolis with his wife and son and some cats. He roots for the Minnesota Twins and the Saint Paul Saints. Find out more about him at www.kurtisscaletta.com.
Eric Wight was an animator for Disney, Warner Bros., and Cartoon Network before creating the critically acclaimed Frankie Pickle graphic novel series. He lives in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and is a diehard fan of the Philadelphia Phillies and the Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs. You can check out all the fun he is having at www.ericwight.com.
Jinxed! Page 4