That sealed the deal. It had to be him. You don’t pull your hat down over your face and slump down in your seat if you want to be spotted.
“How do ya like that?” I said to myself. “Pop’s playing hooky.” All that talk at the dinner table the other night, about how baseball games are for kids, and not for successful businessmen with responsibilities. And now here he was, at the game. And I bet he hadn’t told Ma, or anyone else, because why else would he be slumping down in his seat?
I thought about the dark windows of the Elegant Shoe Repair and Hat Shop as we’d paraded past earlier in the day. Had Pop already closed up shop by then? Or did he watch the parade going by and think, Aw, heck. I can’t miss this! Look at all those monkeys!
It didn’t really matter. Pop was here. At the game.
Which also meant he’d caught me in a lie. Because, even though I had permission to be at the game, there was only one way I could be hanging around the Mudpuppies dugout, in a Mudpuppies uniform, and he knew it.
But at least for now, he couldn’t say anything. Because I’d caught him at something too.
I’d caught him having fun.
CHAPTER
46
LET ME TELL YOU, being Mudpuppy for a Day is a lot of work. I barely had time to worry about whether or not I was in trouble.
There I was, in the dugout, or on the infield, for the entire game. I hauled jugs of water from the clubhouse up to the dugout, hustled supplies of muddy baseballs out to the umpire, and scrambled around collecting bats, rosin bags, and the occasional wad of bubblegum. Sure, I wasn’t allowed outside foul territory, but it was still swell. The whole world looks different from the steps of a dugout.
The Pups were down 4–0 by the third inning, but to be honest, I really didn’t care. And I stopped worrying about the visiting team tripping over their bats left at home plate. The Pups needed whatever home field advantage they could get.
It was 6–0 in the fourth when I noticed someone new sitting next to Penny. It must have been her sister, Josie, finally escaped from the clutches of the Holstein, or the Jersey, or whatever kind of cow had held her train hostage somewhere between here and Kenosha. She was wearing her Comets uniform, which looked swell except for a ridiculous-looking short skirt. I mean, you could see her knees! If you think it’s embarrassing to miss a high fly ball in front of people, imagine what it must be like to play ball in that skirt. I just hoped she was wearing some kind of bloomers underneath.
But she looked happy, and Penny looked really happy, so it was all okay by me.
And somehow, Ace had managed to keep his seat on the other side of Penny. Good ol’ Ace.
By the sixth inning, it was 10–0, but the stands were still full, because Joe Daggett had arranged surprise giveaways between every inning. If the number on your ticket stub matched the number that the radio announcers called, you won a free bag of popcorn, or cotton candy, or a soda. It’s amazing how many people stuck around to see the Pups play a lousy game, just for the chance to march down and collect ten cents’ worth of snacks in front of a whole crowd of people.
Then it was time for the seventh inning stretch. Out in the center-field bleachers, the marching band launched into a rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” so I had a chance to look around and take it all in. I scanned the grandstand for Pop, but I didn’t see him. Maybe he’d left early, to get back to work before Ma stopped by the shop and found out that he was playing hooky.
Which was kind of funny, because now I saw, up there in the stands, with a bag of popcorn as big as her head, my very own mother.
I know what you’re thinking: What are the chances that I’d spot first my pop, and then my ma, in a stadium packed with ten thousand people? All I can say is, more than once I’ve seen a baby monkey pick out its own mother from a zillion identical-looking possibilities scurrying around on Monkey Island. So maybe it’s not so strange after all.
Plus, Ma was wearing her favorite hat with yellow flowers and waving at me like she was signaling the coast guard from a sinking ship.
She stood up from her seat and started down the steps toward the dugout, the little flowers on her hat bobbing.
I thought about pretending I didn’t see her, but who was I kidding? I went over to meet her (and my fate) at the railing.
“Nicky!” Her cheeks were flushed and her popcorn was spilling out of the bag. “You won the big prize! I am very proud of you.” And that dugout railing was the only thing that saved me from getting my cheek pinched in front of all those people.
“You saw that? Thanks, Ma.” Maybe I didn’t need to be so worried after all.
She offered me some popcorn. “But there is something I don’t understand.”
“What’s that, Ma?”
“The announcer, he said that the boys in the contest were here last Saturday too.” She squinted at me. “You did not go to the state capitol last Saturday?” It wasn’t really a question.
“Not exactly, Ma.”
She shook her head. The yellow flowers jiggled. “I will have to tell your father about this.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
But that reminded me. “What are you doing here, Ma? Didn’t you have a Ladies’ Guild meeting at church today?”
She shrugged and offered me some more popcorn. “I went to the meeting, neh. But I only stay long enough to quit.”
I almost fell over. “Ma! You quit the Ladies’ Guild?”
She licked salt off her fingers. “And then I take the Number Thirty-Seven streetcar, and I come here.”
“But, Ma, why did you quit? What about your koulouria?”
She waved a hand. “I don’t need Mrs. Costas and the Ladies’ Guild to tell me my koulouria are delicious. My family, they tell me. Plenty of other things I can do at the church, anyway. Maybe I can teach Greek school. The little ones—first, second grade. I could teach them to read and write in Greek, neh?”
“And they could help you learn to read English,” I said. “That’s a great idea, Ma!”
She inspected my black eye. “It was Taki Costas who punched you the other night, neh?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Did you see him?”
“I guessed,” she said. “Remember second grade? You hit Taki on the steps outside church. You made his nose bleed.”
My face got warm. “You saw that?”
She nodded. “I was on the sidewalk, talking to Mrs. Costas. Taki tried to punch you first, but he missed. But Mrs. Costas, she only saw the next part. Ever since, she thinks my Nicky is a bully to her Taki. Hmph!”
“How come you never said anything before?”
She sighed. “I was looking the other way too, neh? I tell myself that Mrs. Costas, she is president of the Ladies’ Guild. I must be nice to her. I let her tell me what’s true, instead of believing my own eyes. But Mrs. Costas is a bully, just like her son. I have no more time for bullies.”
“Aw, gee, Ma.” I reached out, and—just because—I pinched her cheek. “And you came to the game.”
She grinned. “Ladies’ Day. Half price. But don’t tell your father. The poor man, he works so hard. I know he wishes he could be here too.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Ma.”
And of all the crazy things that happened at the ballpark that day, the craziest thing happened next.
Just as the marching band played the last notes of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” with everyone singing along—“For it’s ONE! TWO! Three strikes you’re out, at the OLD! BALL! GAME!”—there was a big gasp, and then a cheer from the crowd. Because, out there at the front of the center-field bleachers, a brand-new banner had unfurled, covering the one reading RESERVED FOR BATBOY CONTESTANTS. The new banner said:
EAT AT SPARKY’S!
THE BEST CUSTARD IN TOWN!
CHAPTER
47
FINALLY IT WAS THE BOTTOM of the ninth, and I don’t mind telling you I was glad, even though my day of fame was coming to an end. But I
was worn out, and hungry, and it was 10–2, for crikey’s sake, and the Pups needed to be put out of their misery.
The first two batters went down swinging, and the manager told me to start packing up. So I went out to gather up the donut weights and stray batting gloves from the on-deck circle.
But I hadn’t noticed that the next batter was already at the plate, and the pitcher was winding up to throw.
“Hey, kid, you’re not supposed to be out here,” said the on-deck hitter, who looked like he was ready to go home too.
Before I could answer, I heard the crack of a bat. I flinched and—pure reflex—I raised my glove in front of my face. (I know. I was still wearing my glove. The manager had told me never to take it off, and I wanted to make a good impression.) Anyhow, I didn’t get creamed by any screaming line drive, thank goodness. But I hadn’t seen the pitch either, so I didn’t get a good read on the ball. To be honest, I had no idea where it was.
Then I saw all the infielders staring up into the sky. The catcher leapt into a standing position, yanked off his mask, and tossed it to the side.
It was a high pop-up.
“Get out of the way, kid!” hollered someone in the stands, but by the time I realized he was hollering at me, it was too late. The catcher came running over toward the on-deck circle, his eyes still on the ball (which apparently was somewhere in the stratosphere), and his mind bent on getting the final out of the game. He didn’t see me, or the on-deck batter, and the on-deck batter didn’t see the catcher, because he was watching the ball too, and trying to figure out which way to run, like a squirrel in the middle of the street when a car is coming.
And then, a whole bunch of stuff happened really quickly. The catcher barreled into the on-deck batter, and they both fell onto the grass in a tangled heap. I managed to scoot out of the way just in time, but then I realized I still hadn’t seen the ball.
I looked up. And here it came, screaming out of the sky like a comet out for revenge.
You might not believe me when I tell you that I had time to think how ironic this whole situation was. Here I stood, on the on-deck circle during the bottom of the ninth of an actual minor league baseball game, wearing a professional baseball uniform, on a real baseball field, with loads of people watching, and a high fly ball was coming right at me.
Okay, I didn’t actually have time to think all that, at least not at that moment, which was a good thing, because if I had had a chance to actually think, I probably would’ve frozen up like I always do when I see a fly ball coming my way.
All I could do was raise my glove and hope for the best.
I heard a loud thunk.
I looked down and there was the ball, resting in my glove. My glove.
The crowd went wild.
Well, mostly they were laughing, but they were cheering for me too. I looked over to Penny, who was cheering so hard, she dropped a whole bag of popcorn. Her sister Josie was cheering too. Over in the Pups dugout, even the manager and the ballplayers gave me a round of applause.
Then somebody was hollering at me. “Hey, kid!” It was the catcher, and he was hopping mad. “Get off the field! You made me miss the last out!”
“Sorry,” I said. I tossed him the ball and started toward the dugout. But then I turned back to him and hollered, “That’s what you call home field advantage!”
CHAPTER
48
IT TOOK JUST ONE MORE pitch for the game to end. The Pups lost, 10–2. But it didn’t seem like anyone in that whole ballpark even cared. It had been a swell day all around.
I had to stay after the game and clean up the entire dugout, which I did in a hurry, so I could get out of there in case Pop came looking for me. I hustled to sweep up paper cups and sunflower husks, keeping an eye out for Pop and his fedora. But he must have left, and I guess Ma did too, because I didn’t see either one of them. Maybe they both figured they’d better hurry home before the other one found out that they’d been to the ball game when they were supposed to be doing other stuff.
And yet, ironically, I was the one in trouble.
“There he is!” said a voice from the other end of the empty dugout.
I looked up. “Hiya, Mr. Daggett!”
He hobbled over with his cane and sat down on the bench. “Well? How was it?”
“It was great,” I told him. “My pop came to the game! And so did my ma.”
“Did they? Well, good for them! I bet they’re real proud of you.”
I shifted my feet. “Something like that.”
“Mr. Daggett?” said a voice behind me.
We both turned, and there was Miss Garble, appearing out of nowhere again. She would’ve made a great spy during the war.
“Yes, Miss Garble?”
“There are some . . . people here to see you.” She stepped aside, and there was Ace and Penny, and Penny’s sister Josie in her Kenosha Comets uniform with the skirt that was so short. She was tall like Penny, and had the same dark hair, but it was pinned up all neat under her ball cap. She was wearing lipstick, but just a little. It wasn’t all smeared on, the way Sophie Costas wore it.
Ace lifted his arm as he squeezed past Miss Garble. “Wanna sign my cast?” It looked like it had been used to dredge a pond.
“No thank you,” said Miss Garble, flattening herself against the wall like he had malaria or something.
Josie shook Joe Daggett’s hand and thanked him for inviting her, and apologized for being too late to throw out the first pitch.
“Don’t give it another thought,” said Joe Daggett. “We’re glad you finally made it, and your sister here did a dandy job.”
“So I hear,” said Josie, beaming at Penny. “I’m sorry I missed that too.”
“I bet we can arrange for both of you to do it again,” said Joe Daggett. “I’m like this with the Pups’ president.” He held up two crossed fingers and winked at Ace.
“I taught him that,” Ace whispered into my ear.
Joe Daggett turned to Josie. “Now you have to tell me, Miss Lonergan, because I’m dying to know: Was it a brown cow, or a black-and-white cow, that held up your train?”
Josie thought about it for a second, and then she said, “Black and white.”
“I knew it!” said Miss Garble. “Holstein!”
CHAPTER
49
I WAS SO HUNGRY THAT I ordered a triple-sized, chocolate-and-vanilla swirled cone at Sparky’s.
Ace had a triple too, and Penny and Josie had singles. Uncle Spiro even let us cut the line, which was already snaking down the sidewalk when we got there.
“Swell turnout!” I told him. “Congrats!”
“Thanks, squirt,” said Spiro, from behind the counter. “It’s a pretty grand grand opening, ain’t it?”
I slurped my cone. “Maybe you should buy a permanent billboard at Orchard Field, instead of that crazy banner you rigged up in center field.”
Spiro grinned so hard, his white cap almost fell off. “Pretty nifty, huh? Of course, I had to make a quick getaway during the seventh inning.” He winked. “Had to be here before the game ended, so I’d be ready for the customers. Did I miss anything in the late innings?”
I wanted to tell him all about the high pop foul in the bottom of the ninth, but there was a long line of people behind me waiting for custard, so I just said, “I’ll tell ya later.”
I pushed my way to a corner table where Ace and Penny and Josie were sitting. Then I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Spiro?”
I turned to look. And you wouldn’t believe who I saw.
“What are you doing here, George?” said Spiro, his grin fading. “A responsible businessman like you? Shouldn’t you be at the shop?”
Pop lifted his chin. “I decide to close the shop early.”
“Let me guess,” said Spiro. “No customers today?”
Pop didn’t answer. He just surveyed the custard stand with a sour look on his face. “So this is what you do with your time? Serving i
ce cream for somebody named Sparky?”
“It’s frozen custard,” Spiro said. He leaned over the countertop. “And you may not believe this, George, but I’m Sparky.”
Pop stood there, blinking at him. He looked around the shiny new store, and at all the happy customers slurping their custard. “Grand opening today,” he said to Spiro.
“Yep.”
“Sparky’s?”
“Yep.”
Then Pop filled his lungs and smacked the counter with an open palm. “Why Sparky’s? Why not Spiro’s? You worked hard to open your own ice cream store! You should be proud!”
Spiro’s grin was back. “It’s frozen custard, George. Chocolate or vanilla?”
Apparently Pop couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he just said, “Vanilla.”
And then, as he turned away from the counter with his cone, his eyes landed on me.
I gulped.
“Here comes trouble,” said Ace. “Good luck, slugger.” And he hustled Penny and Josie to a different corner, leaving me to deal with Pop.
“Sit down,” Pop said to me, pulling out a chair from the little round table. “We must have a talk.”
Uh-oh. Here it came. Might as well get it over with. I sat down to face the music.
Just then, guess who came busting through the door, all red-faced and breathing hard?
Pete.
“You!” he hollered, pointing at me across the room. “Nick cheated, Mr. Spirakis. He forged your signature. That’s the only way he won the batboy contest!”
The whole crowd of people stopped slurping custard and stared.
Pete stood there, looking triumphant.
Pop stared at Pete too, and then he lifted an eyebrow and looked at me. He handed me his half-finished cone, and carefully cleaned his hands with a napkin. “You are wrong, Taki,” he said, calmly but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Nicky won the contest because he was the only one who knew the answer to Mister Joe Daggett’s question.”
Pete’s mouth dropped open, and the color drained from his face. Apparently, this was not going the way he’d expected.
The Rhino in Right Field Page 14