The Rhino in Right Field

by Stacy DeKeyser

  When everyone finished at all the stations, we all got to sit in the grandstand and eat free ice cream.

  “Boy, that was swell!” said Ace. “Did you see how I spit that seed? Wanna hear my secret technique? I just imagined I was trying to hit Pete right between the eyes.”

  “I heard that, you little weasel!”

  “Oops.”

  We both turned around, and there was Pete, two rows behind us, sitting between Chuck and Charlie. His face was all red, and he was still soaked from the bucket race.

  “What happened to you?” said Ace, looking Pete over. “You were supposed to carry the water in the bucket, not your pockets.”

  Ace never would’ve said that if there wasn’t a row of kids between him and Pete. All Pete could do was throw his empty ice cream cup at him.

  Then the loudspeaker squealed, and everyone jumped to attention.

  There was Joe Daggett, on the pitcher’s mound again, with a clipboard in his hand.

  All of a sudden my hands got clammy and my heart started pounding. “This is it!” I whispered to Ace. I suddenly wished I hadn’t eaten that ice cream so fast.

  “I want to congratulate all of you for a spirited competition,” said Joe Daggett into the microphone. “We sure did see some nifty batboy skills today. Give yourselves a round of applause!”

  The crowd in the grandstand clapped politely. Because you know we were all waiting for something else.

  Joe Daggett raised the clipboard. “I have a list here of the top three scores from today’s contest. These three finalists have won the right to compete again next Saturday, along with the three essay finalists, in a special pregame contest for the grand prize of Mudpuppy for a Day!”

  The crowd rumbled in anticipation.

  “But don’t forget, you’re all invited back here that day as our honored guests. Before you leave the ballpark today, be sure to collect your free game ticket! Okay, fellas, double check the numbers pinned to your backs. If I call out your number, come on down to the field.”

  Hundreds of kids held their breath.

  “Seventy-two,” I whispered to myself over and over, just in case the words would float through the air and onto Joe Daggett’s clipboard.

  It did not work the first time.

  Or the second time. In fact, that’s when things got even worse. That’s when Joe Daggett called, “Number one hundred twenty-five!”

  Two rows behind us, me and Ace heard a familiar voice.

  “It’s about time!” Pete got up and shoved his way to the end of his row, knocking kids over like they were dominoes. He lumbered down the steps and onto the infield, joining Joe Daggett and the first kid on the pitcher’s mound.

  “My ma’s always telling me life isn’t fair,” grumbled Ace. “And guess what? She’s right.”

  But I already knew that. I squeezed my eyes shut, so I wouldn’t have to look at Pete’s ugly mug, and whispered, “Seventy-two, seventy-two, seventy-two . . .”

  “Seventy-two!” Ace said next to me.

  “I know,” I said, without opening my eyes. “Seventy-two, seventy-two—”

  “Nick!” Ace grabbed my arm. “Joe Daggett called number seventy-two!”

  CHAPTER

  25

  AFTER IT WAS ALL OVER, me and Ace sat in the infield grandstand, waiting for everyone else to clear out. We didn’t want to be on the same streetcar home with Pete—who needs to hear all that bragging?—so we decided to hang back and catch the next one.

  Joe Daggett had shaken hands with all the winners, and even winked at me and said, “Hey! My shoe-shine buddy!” It was pretty swell.

  “I can’t believe you and Pete are both finalists,” said Ace. “I mean, I knew I wouldn’t win”—he held up his cast, which was smeared pretty good with reddish baseball mud—“but gee whiz.”

  “He hasn’t won yet,” I said. “I wonder what the final contest will be?”

  “With Joe Daggett in charge, it could be anything,” said Ace. “Hopping around the bases on one foot. Singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ backward. I mean, anything.”

  Ace was right.

  Finally, we were the last kids left in the ballpark, so we got up to leave. Joe Daggett was gone, and so was his scary secretary. The umpire/judging crew was clearing away the last of the gear from the field.

  Outside, at the streetcar stop, there was only one kid waiting. Even at a distance, I could tell it wasn’t Pete. And then I knew who it was. Because of the hair.

  “Penny!” I called. “What are you doing here? The batboy contest was today. It was swell!”

  She nodded, but didn’t look at us.

  “Hiya, Penny!” said Ace. “Guess what? Nick’s a finalist!”

  “Congratulations.” She was wearing her Rosie the Riveter overalls, and her face was all red and blotchy.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  She just stared down the street, and then she said in a quiet voice, “They wouldn’t let me play.”

  “Play what?” said Ace.

  But I thought I knew what she meant. “You came to do the contest? But they didn’t let you? Why not?”

  “Because I’m a girl!” And then she started bawling, right there at the streetcar stop, which really made me nervous. But I couldn’t blame her either.

  “Aw, gee, Penny,” said Ace. “That stinks. I’m sorry you’re a girl.”

  This did not seem to make her feel any better.

  “What happened?” I said.

  So Penny blew her nose and told us how she showed up this morning like everybody else, with her entry form and essay and everything, but the fella at the sign-up table wouldn’t give her a number because she was a girl.

  “I didn’t see anything in the rules about no girls,” said Ace, scratching around his cast.

  “It doesn’t,” said Penny, “except where it says it’s for boys.” She blew her nose again.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” said Ace. “That’s not fair! You’re just as good as any boy.”

  “I know!” she said. That’s one thing I like about Penny. She’s very modest. “And then Pete saw me, and he started laughing at me, in front of everybody. He said it served me right, for putting bubblegum in his Fig Newtons.”

  I should’ve known. No one does something like that to Pete and gets away with it. I felt like a snake for ever thinking that Penny could be a spy for Pete.

  “And then he said . . . he said . . .” She scrubbed away a tear that escaped down her cheek.

  “You can tell us,” said Ace, who had experience with girls, because of his little sister.

  Penny hiccupped. “He . . . he pointed at me and said, really loud: ‘How did that hairy monkey get in here, anyway? That’s right—go back home to the zoo!’ And all the other boys laughed.” She smoothed down her hair, which popped right back up, and she hiccupped again. “I don’t care what stupid people think, or say, usually. But today . . . after the Mudpuppies told me I didn’t belong there either . . . it just got to me.” She sniffed a good one.

  “That stupid Pete!” I said. “What does he know, anyway?”

  Ace chimed in. “He’s just scared of you, that’s all. Afraid of being beaten by a girl. Besides, we like your hair, don’t we, Nick? It has . . . energy.”

  I had to hand it to Ace. Sometimes he knew exactly the right thing to say. Penny actually smiled a little, and I could tell she felt better.

  But I was hopping mad. Getting turned away from the contest was one thing. Sure, it was stupid and unfair, but at least no one meant to hurt Penny’s feelings. Being mean to her on purpose—that was too much. I had to win this contest, even if it was only for revenge.

  Penny wiped her face with a sleeve. “The man at the sign-up table let me stay and watch. I couldn’t go home. What’ll I tell Josie?”

  “Who’s Josie?” said Ace.

  “My big sister,” said Penny. “She’ll be so disappointed.”

  I remembered the other day when Penny’d told
us she’d borrowed her sister’s glove. Maybe that wasn’t a joke after all.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Ace. “Your sister will still be proud of you.”

  Penny gave another huge sniff. “And after I finally talked my mom into signing the permission slip. I mean, if Josie can play ball, why can’t I? I put my essay in the box and everything. They’re just gonna throw it away. And it was a really good essay too! Exactly a hundred words.”

  “Nice!” said Ace, who likes to give credit where credit is due.

  The Number 37 streetcar pulled up. We climbed on and squeezed into a seat together.

  “Well, this isn’t right,” said Ace, nudging me over. “Did Joe Daggett make that rule about no girls? We oughta give him a piece of our minds.”

  Penny snorted. “What makes you think he’d listen to you?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Ace, giving her the ol’ crossed finger sign. “We’re like this with Joe Daggett. Let’s go back.” He reached up to pull the signal cord, but I stopped him.

  “What can Joe Daggett do about it now?” I said. “Even if he wanted to change the rules, it’s too late. The contest is over. The damage is done.”

  Ace sat back down. “It’s still not right.”

  “I know,” I told him. “We’ll figure out a way to make it right. Right, Penny?”

  “If you say so,” she said, and she gave one more gigantic sniff.

  CHAPTER

  26

  THAT NIGHT AFTER LIGHTS OUT, I stared at my bedroom ceiling, thinking about stuff.

  Poor Penny. Not allowed to enter the contest just because she was a girl. She even had a signed permission slip and everything.

  And I’d turned in a forged permission slip, and now I was a finalist.

  I told myself that one thing had nothing to do with the other. I mean, Penny would’ve been rejected even if I hadn’t cheated. But somehow, I felt even more like a rat than I had before.

  And here’s another thing about entering a contest that you don’t actually have permission to enter: Who can you tell when you win?

  Of course, I wasn’t an actual winner—not yet, anyway. Only a finalist. Besides, what would I miss by not telling Ma and Pop? A bunch of smeary kisses, and pinched cheeks, and stuff like What did I tell you, Athena, Nicky is the smartest boy in the whole wide world, you make us so proud, Nicky, let me kiss you again. I’d get pretty much the same reaction by bringing home a decent grade on a geography quiz. Or putting my shoes on the right feet.

  Maybe I could talk them into going to the Mudpuppies game next Saturday, and once they saw me down on the field with only five other kids, they’d understand what a big deal it was, and they’d forgive me.

  Who was I kidding? Pop would be at the shop on Saturday, like always, and Ma would be at home, cooking or ironing or hanging out the wash, like always. That was the problem: they didn’t know how to have fun.

  But what’s life without a little fun?

  And where’s the fun in winning if you can’t brag about it, even a little?

  Of course, Pete wouldn’t have any trouble bragging. I would need to keep him away from Ma and Pop at church the next morning. Not that he’d brag about me. But you never know what he’s gonna do, and he doesn’t even care if he’s at church. In fact, the last time Pete tried to punch me was on the steps of the church.

  This was way back, at the end of second grade. Everybody was heading outside after church one Sunday, and I spotted Pete on the sidewalk. We’d just started playing ball at the zoo that spring, and I wanted to tell him how I’d thought up the perfect name for our game. (You have plenty of time to think about stuff like that when you’re sitting in church for two hours trying not to fall asleep.)

  So there I’d stood, on the steps outside church, when I spotted Pete down on the sidewalk, and at the top of my lungs I had hollered, “Hey, Taki! Let’s call it Scramble!”

  I hadn’t done it on purpose; it just spilled out. But the words were barely out of my mouth when I knew I’d made a horrible mistake. Nobody except the grown-ups were allowed to call Pete “Taki” anymore. He’d never actually said that, but he didn’t have to. Would you want other kids calling you a baby name like Taki once you’re out of kindergarten?

  Pete froze when he heard me holler that name, and his face went red.

  I gulped.

  But what could he do to me? We were still at church. There was a whole crowd of people around, and none of them thought twice about one kid hollering for another kid, or about hearing the name Taki. There were probably twenty fellas in the crowd at that moment named Panagiotakis. And I’d bet you dollars to donuts that every single one of their mothers and fathers called them Taki too. That’s the way it goes if you’re Greek. If you live to be a hundred, your 120-year-old ma will still call you by your baby name.

  But between you and fellas your age, it’s a different story. No one calls me Nicky, for example—at least, they’d better not. And no one calls Pete “Taki.” The difference is, only one of us would actually haul off and punch someone for doing it.

  So I knew I was asking for it, as soon as the words came out of my mouth.

  Pete had stopped dead in his tracks when he heard that name. He turned, searching for the culprit, and then he eyed me on the church steps. He plowed toward me through the crowd of people on the sidewalk. Hats bobbed and ladies yelped as Pete swam upstream with vengeance in his eyes.

  I stood there, like an idiot. Because even though I knew I had it coming, half of me still couldn’t believe that Pete would sock someone in front of a zillion witnesses. On the steps of the church, no less.

  That’s when he swung at me.

  But just because you know it’s coming doesn’t mean you have to stand there and take it. My survival instinct kicked in, and I ducked out of the way just in time.

  With nothing for his fist to land on, Pete was thrown off balance. He spun around on his heels, and when his face came into view again, something really surprising happened.

  I punched him right in the nose.

  It wasn’t a hard punch. I’d never hit anyone in my life before then, and my arms were as skinny as pipe cleaners. But it was enough to draw a trickle of blood from his nose. I don’t know who was more surprised: Pete or me.

  My folks had wandered off somewhere, so they hadn’t seen it, thank goodness. And nobody else was paying any attention to two second graders on the steps of the church. They’d all been there long enough, and wanted to get home to take the Sunday dinner out of the oven.

  But Pete’s ma—remember the Queen of England?—she was down there on the sidewalk, busy talking to some other lady and paying no attention to us. At least, not while Pete took his swing (of course). But by the time I swung my skinny arm around and into Pete’s nose, she had decided to look up. And (of course) she saw me land my punch. All of a sudden, her face went just as red as Pete’s.

  Now that I think about it, that might explain why Her Majesty does not like me.

  Pete and me came to an unspoken understanding that day: I don’t call him Taki, and he doesn’t try to beat me up. It’s a truce that’s held for four years, so far. That’s what I had to remind him about the other night, when I hollered at him in Greek from Ace’s bedroom window. I wanted to keep it between me and him (for now), so I told Pete (in Greek) that if he didn’t stop hassling me and Ace, I’d call him Taki loud and clear, right in front of everybody at Orchard Field, and I dared him to try to punch me again. Because Pete’s still bigger than me, but my arms aren’t pipe cleaners anymore, and we both know it.

  But Pete never could leave well enough alone. The next morning in church, there he was, with his face washed and his hair slicked down, looking like a decent human being. But he wasn’t fooling me.

  And then, sure enough, he managed to sneak up behind me as everyone was shuffling toward the doors after church.

  “Just you wait, Spirakis,” he hissed into my ear. “I’m gonna
wipe the field with you next Saturday. You won’t know what hit you.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Ma tuned in to Polka Party on the radio and Pop settled into his easy chair with the newspaper. I spread out the Sunday comics on the rug, and Uncle Spiro took the Sports page.

  Pop eyed Spiro over the top of his newspaper. “You have no important places to go today?”

  “Nah,” said Spiro, yawning. “No school on Sunday.”

  “So why you couldn’t come to church?” Pop said. “Sophia Costas, she ask about you again today.”

  Spiro didn’t answer. He just said, “Hey, how about those Mudpuppies? They won two out of three games at Sheboygan.”

  “What’s wrong with Sophia Costas?” said Pop.

  Spiro didn’t look up. “Nothing. She’s a very lovely girl. She’s just not my type.”

  “No one is your type,” Pop grumbled. He rattled his newspaper. “Look, Nicky! Mister Joe Daggett is in the paper again.”

  I glanced up from reading Superman. “What’s it say today?” Joe Daggett was in the newspaper a lot lately, what with all the activity at the ballpark since he came to town. The Pups had even managed to win a few games on their current road trip. But then I remembered: Spiro had the Sports section right now. So what was Pop reading?

  I squinted at the newspaper in Pop’s hands. It was the City section.

  “Listen to this,” said Pop. “ ‘The Mudpuppies will host the ever-popular annual Zoo Spring Opening in a special pregame ceremony at Orchard Field on Saturday. A caravan of zoo animals will parade from the zoo to the Orchard and back again.’ That Mister Daggett,” said Pop, chuckling to himself. “He really knows how to have the fun.”

  “You go to the big day at the zoo every year, neh, Nicky?” said Ma from her chair. Her eyes were closed, and she was tapping her foot to the “Too Fat Polka.”