The Rhino in Right Field

by Stacy DeKeyser

  Pop kept going. “You know why Nicky knew the correct answer, Taki? Because he works hard. He studies hard in school. He learns things, and he remembers things, and so when the time comes to use the knowledge, he is ready. That is why my Nicky won the batboy contest.”

  And he turned his back on Pete, plucked the half-eaten cone from my hand, and took a bite.

  My pop. He’s the best.

  “But—but—he cheated!” sputtered Pete.

  I stood up with a scrape of my chair, and sidled my way through the crowd to where Pete was standing. “You got a lot of nerve,” I told him. “Maybe I should tell your ma where I got the idea of forging a parent’s signature.”

  Pete’s eyes got big, and his face went red. (Because he is one of the many people in the world with a healthy fear of the Queen of England.) He clenched his hands into fists, and he opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it again and stomped out the door.

  And that’s the first time I ever saw a twelve-year-old kid walk out of a frozen custard stand without any custard.

  Everybody went back to eating custard and having fun.

  Except me and Pop.

  “What Taki said is true?” said Pop, when I sat down again at the little table. It wasn’t really a question.

  I nodded.

  “Because I would not sign the form for Mister Daggett’s contest.” He sighed and shook his head. “I am disappointed in you, Nicky. Sneaking around, just to go to a baseball game?”

  We looked at each other, and I could tell he realized how lame that sounded, after I’d caught him doing the same thing, more or less.

  Pop gave me a guilty grin. He munched his cone thoughtfully. Finally, he laid a hand on my shoulder. “I tell you many times, Nicky, that hard work is very important. And I saw you working hard today, on that baseball field. Even though you lied, you make me proud today.” He took another bite of his cone. “I haven’t been to a ball game in a long time. It was lots of fun. I forgot that having fun sometimes is important too. Hard work and fun—that’s American, neh? I think from now on you should work only half days on Saturday. Finished at noon. Neh?”

  I almost couldn’t believe my ears. “Really? That’d be swell, Pop. Thanks.”

  “But first you are grounded for two weeks. Except for Greek school.”

  Sometimes you have to take what you can get.

  Then he leaned close to me. “Listen, Nicky, don’t tell your mama I went to the ball game. She likes the baseball too, but I remembered that she had a very important meeting at the church, so I went by myself.” Then he started chuckling to himself. “Those monkeys . . .” He laughed and slapped his knee.

  “Gee, Pop . . . ,” I started. But I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. All I could think about was how everyone in my family thought they were good at keeping secrets, when they were actually terrible at keeping secrets.

  “George!”

  Me and Pop both jumped and turned around.

  Pop jumped again. “Athena? What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” said Ma, the flowers on her hat jiggling in indignation. “Why are you not at the shop?”

  “Why are you not at the church?”

  Ma’s look of indignation melted into a sort of guilty shrug. “The meeting, it was very short.” She adjusted her hat and coughed.

  “Oh, well,” said Pop, accepting the challenge of good excuses, “the shop, it was very quiet today. No customers. I closed up early.”

  Ma nodded slowly, and then she actually gave Pop the stink-eye. “How you found out about this new ice cream shop?”

  “Frozen custard,” said Pop. “Uhh . . .”

  And then I knew the jig was up. Because the only way either Ma or Pop could’ve known about Sparky’s was if they’d seen the banner in center field. At the ballpark.

  But Pop wasn’t ready to admit defeat. He smiled in relief and put a hand on my shoulder. “Nicky told me!”

  “Gee whiz, Pop!” Can you believe the nerve? It’s one thing to lie to your parents. But to see your parents lying to each other, and using you as an excuse? What was the world coming to?

  “Wait a minute . . . ,” said Pop, and now he was giving Ma the stink-eye. “What do I see there in your pocketbook?”

  Ma frowned and looked down at her purse. There was a small piece of paper sticking out.

  Pop pointed and sputtered, “That—that is a ticket stub. You went to the ball game!”

  Ma gasped, but then she said the only thing she could say. “It was Ladies’ Day. Half price.”

  And then Pop busted out laughing. He fished in his pocket, and showed her his ticket stub, and Ma busted out laughing too.

  CHAPTER

  50

  I NEVER KNEW MA COULD pack it away like that. She ordered a triple cone and ate the whole thing. I guess standing up to the Queen of England gave her an appetite. I introduced Ma and Pop to Penny and Josie, and they didn’t even say anything about Josie’s short skirt, even though I knew they were thinking it.

  That’s when the bell jingled on the shop door. A man stood in the doorway, wearing an overcoat and hat.

  “Well, well, well,” said Joe Daggett, limping into the shop and looking around. “So this is the notorious Sparky’s.”

  For the second time in a few minutes, the whole crowd fell silent. From behind the counter, Spiro gulped.

  Joe Daggett sidled up to the counter and eyed Spiro. “Are you Sparky?”

  Spiro’s face was a blend of guilt and pride. “That’s me,” he admitted. “Spiro, actually. Spiro Spirakis. Nice to meet you?” He warily offered a hand.

  Joe Daggett busted out in a huge smile. “Spirakis? Are you George’s little brother?” He laughed. “I should’ve known that get-up-and-go runs in the family. I wanted to shake the hand of the genius who unfurled that banner out in center field. If this ice cream business of yours ever goes bust, I could use you in the Mudpuppies front office, running promotions!”

  Spiro grinned and pumped Joe Daggett’s hand. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Daggett,” he said. “And by the way, it’s frozen custard.”

  Uncle Spiro had just served up a double chocolate cone to Joe Daggett when in walked real trouble.

  “Hello there, Spiro!” sang ol’ Sophie Costas. “I heard you opened a custard stand, and so of course I had to see it for myself!” She smiled with her red painted lips.

  “Oh,” said Spiro, barely looking up. “Hiya, Sophie. Chocolate or vanilla?”

  “Oh, golly, no thanks!” said Sophie, smoothing her dress. “I’m watching my figure.” She batted her eyelashes.

  And that’s exactly the time Josie happened to say, from the table in the corner, “That was the best custard I’ve ever had. I think I’ll have another one.” She got up and moseyed her way to the counter, not even noticing Sophie giving her the evil eye.

  Behind the counter, Uncle Spiro straightened his bow tie. “We haven’t met,” he said to Josie, in her Kenosha Comets uniform with the skirt that was too short. But he didn’t look at her legs at all. He just looked her in the eye. “I’m Sparky—I mean, Spiro. How d’ya do?”

  “How d’ya do?” Josie said back.

  “So you’re the AWOL girl baseball player,” he said.

  Josie laughed and nodded. “My train was held hostage by a cow.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” said Spiro. “Jersey or Holstein? Or maybe it was a Brown Swiss. Did you know that the best frozen custard is made with milk from Brown Swiss cows?”

  “You don’t say,” said Josie. “That’s very interesting.”

  And that’s when Sophie left in a huff. For some reason.

  Uncle Spiro’s grand opening was a big hit. He had to close the doors early when he completely ran out of custard. So we all helped him clean up, and Pop even offered to shine his shoes for free any time he needed it, because “a businessman, he needs the spiffy shoes.”

  “But why you can’t call it Spiro’s Custard?” Pop ask
ed. “You are not proud of your name? Your heritage?”

  “Sure I am, George. But you tell me: Why isn’t it Spirakis’s Shoe Repair and Hat Shop?”

  Pop thought about that for a minute. And then his face relaxed into his usual smile, and he said, “Sparky’s Custard. I like it. It’s American, neh?”

  Then Pop reached out and shook Spiro’s hand. Which goes to show, there’s a first time for everything.

  “But don’t ever forget where you come from,” said Pop.

  Spiro laughed. “Don’t worry, George. I couldn’t forget if I tried.”

  That got him a big fat pinch on the cheek.

  And that’s when me and Ace and Penny got the heck out of there.

  “Say, Penny,” I said as we walked to the streetcar stop in the fading daylight. “You wanna join our Scramble team?”

  “Scramble? What’s that?”

  “You know,” said Ace. “Baseball, in the zoo. It’s fun.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” she said. “What about Pete?”

  That was a good question.

  “You know what I think?” I said. “I think Pete needs a personal introduction to Tank.”

  “Yeah,” said Ace. “Let’s see how he likes it in right field. Too bad no one ever hits the ball to right field.”

  That’s when I looked over at Penny, and she looked back at me.

  “Except left-handed hitters,” I said. “Gee. I wonder where we could find a left-handed hitter?”

  Ace stopped dead in his tracks. “Penny! You’re a lefty!”

  She grinned. “Yep.”

  “I bet you could hit the ball over the right-field fence,” said Ace.

  “I bet I could,” she said, with her usual modesty.

  “And I bet we could arrange for you to come to bat when Pete is playing right field,” I said.

  “I suppose so,” said Penny. “And then what?”

  “Then,” said Ace, giving her a thumbs-up, “Tank will take care of the rest.”

  Penny gasped. “You wouldn’t let anyone really get hurt, would you? I mean, I know it’s Pete, but still—”

  “Don’t worry, I know how to handle Tank,” I told her. I held up my crossed fingers. “Me and Tank, we’re like this.”

  “What do ya say, Penny?” said Ace. “We need you on the team.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. A few blocks away, the lights at Orchard Field switched off, one by one. “The zoo sure is a crazy place to play ball.”

  But I knew better. “It’s the best place in the whole wide world.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to:

  Tim Wild, Trish Khan, and especially Mary Kazmierczak, of the Milwaukee County Zoo, who answered questions, shared their passion, and gave me access to the zoo’s collection of photos and archives.

  My writer buddies, for their advice and encouragement: Dori Chaconas, Kim Marcus, Audrey Vernick, and the Wednesday Writers Who Meet on Tuesdays.

  My editor, Karen Wojtyla, for her votes of confidence, her unerring instinct, and for the extra at-bats in the late innings.

  My agent, Tracey Adams, for always, always, always being there.

  Spiro Chaconas and Dio Deley, for help with Greek vocabulary.

  And to Nick Chaconas, who shared his childhood stories, and who let me reweave them into a new tapestry.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Washington Park Zoo in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, occupied one corner of a large city park and served as a playground for neighborhood kids. Close encounters with animals were common (though not always reported to adults). Exactly as Nick describes in the story, “a stone wall topped with a chest-high chain-link fence” was the only thing that separated humans from large horned beasts.

  Milwaukee’s zoo has long since moved, but Washington Park is still there, and so is that fence.

  The zoo’s annual Spring Opening was a big deal. The day featured brass bands, speeches, and the much-anticipated release of the monkeys from their winter quarters onto Monkey Island. The island featured a water-filled moat that the monkeys swam in but could not climb out of to escape their enclosure. They really could get almost close enough to touch.

  A “Great Circus Parade” was a tradition in Milwaukee for many years. Colorful wagons carried giraffes, lions, and other exotic animals through the downtown streets to celebrate the annual arrival of the circus. In an echo of that tradition, the Washington Park Zoo sponsored its own traveling zoo wagon, which trundled around the city each summer so kids could get a closer look at a few of the animals.

  A rhinoceros never escaped from its wagon, but once it almost did. In 1943, a rhino was purchased from the Brookfield Zoo in Chicago, coaxed into a wooden crate, and trucked the ninety miles to Milwaukee, accompanied by a police escort and a zookeeper with an elephant gun. According to the official report, “Whenever the procession halted, [the rhino] became rampageous. . . . At each stop, he hit the front end of his crate a succession of terrific wallops, his horned nose catapulted by his 2,500 pounds. . . . So terrific were his onslaughts that everyone in the parade feared he would gain freedom.”

  Joe Daggett’s character was inspired by Bill Veeck, prominent in baseball for over forty years and owner of the minor league Milwaukee Brewers from 1941 to 1945. Veeck (who had a wooden leg as a result of wounds received during World War II) was a fervent believer in having fun at the ballpark. His groundbreaking ideas have become synonymous with baseball: fireworks-shooting scoreboards, fan giveaways, names on players’ uniforms, and even the ivy in Chicago’s Wrigley Field.

  Veeck once sponsored a batboy contest, inviting boys to write an essay explaining why they wanted the job. Thousands of essays were submitted, including one entry from a girl. She received a polite letter from Mr. Veeck, explaining that only boys were eligible to win.

  Orchard Field, the old wooden ballpark “at Eighth and Chalmers,” is modeled after Borchert Field (at Eighth and Chambers streets) in Milwaukee. “The Orchard” was home to minor league and barnstorming baseball for many years, hosting players such as Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth, and Satchel Paige. It was torn down in 1953.

  The All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (AAGPBL) had ten teams in 1948, including the Kenosha Comets. The players pitched overhand, and their uniforms included short skirts.

  Nick was a real twelve-year-old who lived two blocks from the zoo. He really did hop that short fence to get his baseball out of the animal yard. His parents were immigrants from Greece and had an arranged marriage. Nick shined shoes in his father’s hat shop. His mother picked dandelion greens to cook for supper.

  Nick is my dad.

  For more background information, photos, and reading lists, please visit my website at STACYDEKEYSER.COM.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STACY DEKEYSER is the author of The Brixen Witch, which received two starred reviews and was a Chicago Public Library Best of the Best Pick, and its sequel, One Witch at a Time, as well as the young adult novel Jump the Cracks and two nonfiction books for young readers. She lives in Connecticut with her family. To learn more, visit her online at StacyDeKeyser.com.

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  ALSO BY STACY DEKEYSER

  The Brixen Witch

  One Witch at a Time

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  Text copyright © 2018 by Stacy DeK
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