“Somebody left this paper on the park bench,” said Charlie. “And I saw the headline. The Mudpuppies are having a contest!”
CHAPTER
8
WHAT KIND OF CONTEST?” said Ace.
“It’s a contest for kids!” said Chuck. “That’s us!”
Good ol’ Chuck, master of the obvious.
Pete gave Charlie a shove. “Go on, professor. Read the whole thing.”
Charlie pushed up his glasses and read the article out loud:
“Joseph P. Daggett, new president and general manager of our own Mudpuppies Baseball Club, has hit the ground running. Daggett announced exciting doings at the Ol’ Orchard, including Ladies’ Days, surprise giveaways, and a special contest just for kids, with a grand prize to be awarded during an upcoming home stand. ‘I hope everybody comes out this season and has a swell time at the ballpark,’ said Daggett, who took the helm just last week. ‘I want Orchard Field, and our team, to be something all the fans can be proud of.’
“Will our perennial cellar dwellers finally field a winning team? Our hopes are up! Good luck, President Daggett and the entire Mudpuppies organization.”
“My pop was over by the ballpark yesterday,” said Chuck. “He told me there was a crew painting the whole place. Really spiffing it up, my ol’ man said.”
Ace nudged me and said into my ear, “Remember how your pop told Joe Daggett that the Orchard was falling apart?”
I nodded. “And no place for a lady. He’s using our ideas!”
“Get to the good stuff already,” Pete was telling Charlie. “What’s the special contest for kids? Keep reading.”
“That’s the whole article,” said Charlie. “But look at this.” He flipped the page to show us a full-page ad:
BOYS!
ARE YOU AGED 10 TO 14?
DO YOU LOVE BASEBALL?
NOW’S YOUR CHANCE TO BE
MUDPUPPY FOR A DAY!*
THE MUDPUPPIES BASEBALL CLUB ANNOUNCES THE FIRST ANNUAL MUDPUPPY FOR A DAY BATBOY CONTEST. WEAR THE OFFICIAL TEAM UNIFORM ON THE FIELD! JOIN THE PLAYERS IN THE DUGOUT! TAR AND ROSIN THE BATS OF YOUR HOMETOWN HEROES! FILL THOSE WATER JUGS!
* * *
DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES?
*SEE TERMS AND CONDITIONS
Below this was an entry form, with blank spaces for name and address and stuff like that. Then there were a couple of paragraphs of really small printing.
Charlie scanned the fine print while all the fellas gathered around. “Here’s the details. Let’s see . . .”
“Hurry up and read it already!”
Charlie cleared his throat. “ ‘Boys aged ten to fourteen . . .’ ”
The fellas voiced their encouragement. “Yeah, yeah, we know that. What else?”
“Gimme a chance here! ‘All entrants must compete in two categories. Category One: Field Skills . . .’ ”
“Now you’re talking!” said Chuck.
“I could whip any of you punks, any day!” said Pete.
“We’ll see about that,” said Ace.
“ ‘Category Two . . . ,’ ” read Charlie, stepping between Ace and Pete. “ ‘A written essay of one hundred words or fewer, explaining why you should be Mudpuppy for a Day.’ ”
If it’s possible for time to stand still, that’s what happened then. For five heartbeats at least, there was complete silence. You could’ve heard a mouse burp.
Then clocks started ticking again and Pete snatched the newspaper out of Charlie’s hands. “Let me see that.” He glared at the paper, like he was daring the blobs of ink to be arranged the way Charlie had read them. Then he smacked Charlie on the chest with the folded-up paper. “It’s a stupid contest.”
“What’s the matter, Pete?” said Ace. “You afraid of a hundred words? Maybe you wanna bow out now, before you embarrass yourself.” It’s times like this when I wondered if Ace actually wanted to get punched.
But Pete just said, “You wish, you little toad.” And he stalked off, taking the newspaper with him. Dollars to donuts he was going home to fill out that contest entry form.
“How hard can it be to write a hundred words?” said Charlie. “That’s like . . . writing a thank-you letter to your grandma.”
“Yeah,” I said, but my voice was a little wobbly. Writing is not my best subject.
Then again, it’s not as bad as my fielding.
Holy smokes. I was in trouble.
“Hey! We gotta practice!” said Ace, already forgetting about Pete. “What kind of skills do you suppose they’ll wanna see? Hitting, I guess. And fielding.” He slapped me on the back. “I’ll help you work on that one, buddy.”
“Gee, thanks.” Did I mention I was in trouble?
But what could I do? I couldn’t NOT enter the contest. That would be admitting defeat, which is somehow even worse than public humiliation. Besides, who’s to say I couldn’t win this contest? None of the other fellas was any great shakes at writing either (except maybe Charlie, who seemed to think that delivering newspapers made him a literary genius). And sure, I was a lousy outfielder, but I could hold my own at the other stuff: hitting, base running. Okay, so I had a snowball’s chance of winning this contest, but it was a chance. And that’s all I needed: one chance.
For some reason, nobody wanted to play ball anymore. Everybody wandered off, no doubt to find their own copies of the paper.
Me and Ace looked at each other.
“I guess I’ll just go home, then,” I said.
“Me too,” said Ace.
“Newspaper’s probably already sitting on the front porch.”
“Yep.” And then he took off like a shot. I followed him.
We raced the entire two blocks home. Sure enough, the newspaper had already been delivered. We each ran up our porch steps, scooped up our newspapers, and tossed aside all but the Sports section.
There it was, on the back page.
The entry form was blank and clean, just waiting to be filled out. I scanned it quick, breathing hard from the race home. Sure enough, just like Charlie had read: “Fill out the entry form (name, age, address, parent signature, etc.). Bring the form and your essay to Orchard Field on the day of the field skills contest, Saturday, May 22.”
“Wait a minute,” I squeaked. “Saturday?”
CHAPTER
9
I LOOKED OVER TOWARD Ace’s front porch, but he was gone. So I ran next door and leaned on the buzzer. When the door opened, an invisible cloud of fried liver and onions hit me in the face. I forced myself not to stagger backward.
“Nick!” It was Ace’s ma, in a flowery housecoat. Her hair was done up in curlers, and anyone who looked at her could tell where Ace got his ears. “Is something wrong, dear? You’re all out of breath.”
I shut my mouth and shook my head. The more I talked, the more liver and onion I’d get up my nose.
“I suppose you’re looking for Horace,” said Ace’s ma. “I thought I heard him come in a minute ago—”
That’s when Ace came barreling past her out the door and kept going. “See ya later, Ma!” he called over his shoulder. “Nick invited me for supper.” He clattered down the porch steps and cut across the lawn to my house.
“Oh,” said Ace’s ma. “Isn’t that nice of you, Nick. Tell your family hello for me, will you? Your mother was so kind to weed our front lawn the other day. Not a dandelion in sight anymore!”
“Sure thing, Mrs. P.” I escaped down the steps and followed Ace to my front porch.
“When did I invite you for supper?” I asked him.
“Please?” said Ace, plopping down onto the top step. “Did you catch a whiff of what’s going on over at my house? Hey, look!” He pulled the torn newspaper page out of his back pocket and unfolded it. “We can fill ’em out tonight.”
I sank down next to him. “Did you read the whole thing?”
He frowned and studied the page. “ ‘Field skills contest, Saturday, May 22.’ That’s swell! That means we’ll have plenty of time
to—wait a minute. Saturday?”
I groaned. “Now what am I gonna do? My pop will never let me off work.” My own newspaper sat on the porch like a dead fish. I gave it a halfhearted kick.
“Couldn’t you at least ask?” said Ace. “He almost let you play ball last Saturday. Maybe, once he knows what a big deal it is—”
I shook my head. “I dunno. Pop always says the only thing more important than work is school.”
“Then tell ’em there’s a field trip, maybe.”
“What kind of field trip is on a Saturday?”
Ace shrugged. “A trip to the state capitol or something?”
“All the way to Madison? Not even my folks would buy a story like that.” I scuffed at a weed sprouting through a crack in the walk.
“You’d better figure something out,” said Ace. “It wouldn’t be any fun without you. Besides, if you don’t do the contest, Pete will say it’s ’cause you’re scared of him.”
“Pete doesn’t scare me.”
“Don’t tell him that. He’ll try to change your mind in a hurry.”
“Oh, hi,” said a voice.
There on the sidewalk, on a bicycle that was too big for her, was that girl. The tall girl with all the hair, who almost threw my brand-new baseball into the storm sewer.
“Do you live here?” she said.
“No,” I told her. “We’re just hangin’ around till somebody offers to adopt us.” Because I was still pretty sore about the baseball incident.
“You’re Nick, right? And Ace?”
I squinted at her. “How’d you know that?”
She shrugged like it was obvious. “I’ve seen you around school. I’m Penny Lonergan. I live two blocks over. We moved here from Kenosha during Easter vacation. My dad got a job at the brewery. I’m exploring the neighborhood. Nice catch, by the way.” Now she was talking to Ace, of course.
“Thanks,” said Ace, sitting up straighter. “Nice throw.” He grinned like a fool.
“Thanks,” she said. She blew a bubble.
“Where’d you learn to throw like that, anyway?” I said.
“My sister,” said the girl, with a completely straight face. She pointed at the torn newspaper page in Ace’s hand. “What ya got there?” And without even being invited, she dropped her bike onto the sidewalk, sauntered up my front walk, and sat herself down on the porch step, right next to me and Ace.
She leaned over and peeked at the page. “A contest! You guys gonna enter?”
“Maybe,” I said. As if it was any of her business, anyway.
“You bet we’re gonna enter,” said Ace. “And one of us is gonna win, too.”
“Do you know a kid named Pete?” said Penny. “I heard him say that he was gonna win some kind of contest.”
“Is that so?” said Ace.
“He seemed pretty sure about it.”
“There’s something you should know about Pete,” I told her.
“Oh, I’ve met him. On my first day at school, he told me that new kids have to give him the cookies out of their lunch bag.”
“That stinks,” I told her. Even though I was still sore at her.
“It’s all right,” she said with a shrug. “It only happened once. I guess he didn’t like a wad of chewed bubblegum stuck between two Fig Newtons.” She grinned and blew a bubble. “Well, I gotta get home. See ya around.” And then she sauntered back to her bike and rode away down the street.
“How do ya like that?” said Ace, watching her go. “A girl who’s not afraid to stand up to Pete.”
“She doesn’t know Pete like we do,” I said. “Nobody does something like that to Pete and gets away with it.”
The screen door squeaked open behind us. “Nicky, you’re home?”
“Hiya, Ma.”
“Supper is ready,” she said. “Hello, Azy.”
“Hiya, Mrs. S. Can I stay for supper?”
She cocked an eyebrow at Ace. “You like fassoulada?”
Ace leaned toward me and whispered, “Do I?”
“Bean soup,” I told him.
Ace thought about it for a second. Then he said to Ma, “It’s my favorite.”
“Good boy,” said Ma. “Come wash up.” And she disappeared again into the house.
I looked over at Ace. “Do you like bean soup?”
“Never had it,” he admitted. “But anything’s better than liver and onions.”
CHAPTER
10
ANSWER ME, SPIRO!” Pop was hollering as we walked into the kitchen. He shook a finger and glared at my uncle, who was a younger, taller version of Pop. “How you will make something of yourself if you sleep every day until three o’clock?”
Uncle Spiro waved him off. “I’ll be fine, George. Don’t worry about me.”
Imagine that half of this conversation is being hollered in Greek. That’s the way things go at my house. But to make it easier, I’ve translated it all into English.
“Everybody! Sit down!” commanded Ma. She was even smaller than Pop, but her voice was bigger. “Nicky, bring the milk from the icebox, neh?”
I grabbed the milk bottle from the fridge and set it on the table.
“Something sure smells good, Mrs. S.,” said Ace, as if he didn’t even hear all the hollering.
Ma and Pop are always hollering. They’re not mad, usually. It’s just that their volume is stuck on LOUD. To them, nothing is worth talking about if you can’t argue about it. The weather, it’s so hot today! Pop might say. Then Ma goes, Hot? Are you crazy? It was hotter yesterday! When Spiro’s around, Pop hollers at him instead of at Ma. I figure that’s why she hasn’t kicked Spiro out of the house yet. Nobody hollers at me much, as long as they have each other to holler at. That’s fine by me.
Uncle Spiro sat down and shook out his napkin. “Well, if it isn’t good ol’ Ace! I haven’t seen you since you were a little squirt!”
“Gee whiz, Spiro,” said Ace, with his goofy grin. “You see me all the time.”
“Oh, right,” said Spiro. “That means you’re still a little squirt!”
Ace nodded agreeably as he pulled up an extra chair. Nobody but Uncle Spiro could get away with teasing Ace like that.
“Hiya, thio,” I said to my uncle, pouring milk for me and Ace.
“What’s shakin’, Nikko?” Spiro rubbed my crew cut.
Ma pushed between us with a bowl of hot soup. “Eat!” she ordered, and went back to the stove to fill more bowls from a gigantic pot. Finally, she untied her apron, wiped her red face with it, and sat down with the rest of us.
We’d barely lifted our spoons when Pop started again. “When you are going to get a job?”
I decided to make my move, on the chance that Pop was too busy hollering at Spiro to notice himself giving me the day off next Saturday. “I brought the paper inside for you, Pop. Did you know that sometimes there’s contests announced in the paper?”
Ace gave me an encouraging nod as he stirred his soup.
“Is that so?” said Uncle Spiro, seeing his chance to change the subject. “Say, does your buddy Charlie still have that morning paper route?”
“Only on the weekends,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Ace. “On school days he needs his beauty sleep.”
“Why you sleep until three o’clock every day?” demanded Pop.
Uncle Spiro blew on his spoon. “I told you, George,” he said patiently, “I have night school.” He slurped his soup. “Delicious, Athena. You should open a restaurant.”
Ma beamed.
“You are twenty-five years old,” said Pop. “Too old for school. You have a good job waiting for you in the shop.”
“But I want to go to school,” said Uncle Spiro. He never hollers. It drives Pop bonkers. “And the GI Bill is paying for it, so like I said. You don’t have to worry. Pass the bread, please.”
I slid the bread plate across to Spiro, who gave me a wink.
Pop jabbed his spoon into his soup. He finally took a bite, and his scowl melted
into his usual contented grin. “The best soup in the world, Athena.” He leaned over and kissed Ma on the cheek.
Ma blushed with pride. It’s funny: no matter how much my family hollers at each other, they never argue about food.
“What kind of school is this anyway, that you come home so late every night?”
Spiro didn’t answer. He just dipped a chunk of bread into his soup.
“You need to learn the useful things,” Pop said, shaking his spoon.
Uncle Spiro tore off another chunk of bread. “What’s useful, George? Blocking hats? Shining shoes? What if I want something different?”
I knew how he felt.
I tried again. “Could I have the day off from the shop next Saturday, Pop? For the contest at the ballpark?”
But he was glaring at Uncle Spiro. “The shop is not good enough for you? It’s good enough to pay for this food you eat, this roof you sleep under. It’s good enough for me. Good enough for Nicky. Why not for you?”
A mouthful of scalding soup caught in my throat. My eyes watered from the heat as I gulped it down.
Ace pushed a glass of milk toward me.
“Don’t bring Nicky into this,” said Spiro, and I took a grateful swallow of cold milk. “Nicky’s just a kid. He doesn’t know what he wants.”
The milk went down wrong. I sputtered into my napkin.
Ma dropped her spoon with a clatter and started smacking me on the back.
I waved her off. “Pop!” I hollered. “I need the day off work next Saturday!”
But here’s what happens when you’re part of a family that hollers all the time: When you start hollering, nobody notices.
“I am older than you, Spiro,” said Pop. The veins on his forehead were sticking out. “I already make something of myself. I know about the world!”
“The world?” said Spiro, his voice finally rising too. “You grew up in a tiny village with no running water and more goats than people!” He lifted his chin. “I’ve seen plenty of the world. I was in the war. I was on the front lines in France!”
Pop threw his napkin onto the table. “You were a cook!”
“I was still there,” said Uncle Spiro. His voice was low and level again, but it could have sliced iron.
The Rhino in Right Field Page 3