Wayne nodded, and Sammy let go.
Diego picked up one of the other two books. He muttered something in Spanish.
“Good idea,” said Lance.
“Huh?” asked Sammy.
“He said reading the book might improve his English,” said Lance.
“So would speaking English,” said Wayne. “Just sayin”.
“He’s right,” said Lance. “Don’t be afraid of making mistakes,” he told Diego. “The only way you can get better is by trying.”
Diego answered in Spanish.
Lance translated for the rest of us. “He’ll work on baseball for now and on speaking English later. He has a big hole to fill in left field.”
• • •
Diego got three base hits that day, and the Porcupines won the game.
“Way to go, Diego,” Danny told him after the game. “You’ve been playing really well.”
“Gracias,” said Diego.
“Keep it up, buddy,” said Wayne. He clapped Diego on the back. Then he saw that Danny was a third of the way into Point Blank After Touchdown.
“You’re a fast reader,” he said. “Is the coach still alive?”
“What? Of course he is! Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Um … that’s why I asked,” said Wayne. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
“You rat,” said Danny. “Why do you keep spoiling the ending?”
“I didn’t!” Wayne said. “I only spoiled the middle.”
“Well, keep it to yourself,” said Danny. He flipped the page and resumed reading. “OK, they just found the coach under the bleachers.”
“Told you,” said Wayne.
“I know you told me. That’s the problem.”
“Sorry,” said Wayne. “I’m just excited to talk about those books with someone.”
I decided I would read my book as soon as I got home. I needed to know if Charlie ended up safe and sound.
• • •
“You must be worried about someone,” Dylan told me as we crossed the parking lot.
“Me? Really? Why do you think that?”
“You’re chewing on your lower lip and you just muttered ‘I sure hope he’s OK’ under your breath.”
“Oh.” I felt silly. Charlie was a make-believe character. Dylan might not understand. “I was thinking about Danny,” I lied. It was a very small lie, because I was worried about Danny’s ankle and how fast it would heal.
“Yeah,” he said. “I hope he gets better soon. Oh, by the way. You don’t have to worry about me being gone.”
“Really? You found a replacement?”
“Diego’s brother Ricky is coming to visit. He really wants to be a batboy himself, and this will be a chance for him to learn the ropes.”
“That’s great,” I agreed. “Perfect timing.”
“We’ll even have a few days for both of us to help him learn,” said Dylan. “See you tomorrow!” We split off toward our own homes.
I thought about Charlie, the batboy in the book, and started running. I really wanted to know what happened to him, even if I was scared to find out.
he problem was, I couldn’t find the book anywhere! I looked under my bed. I looked on the bedside table. I looked on the desk. I looked in the bathroom. I looked in the living room and in the kitchen. I even looked in the refrigerator. Maybe I got a glass of milk and accidentally put the book away instead of the milk?
I was desperate!
“Dad, did you find a mystery book and start reading it?” I asked.
He usually read factual books about topics like tree moss and President Carter. Maybe he wanted to read a fun book for a change.
“You’re reading a murder mystery?” he asked. One of his eyebrows went way up.
“No, it’s just a missing-person mystery,” I said. Who said anything about murder?
“Hmm. Well, it sounds like you have a missing-book mystery too,” said Dad.
I groaned. Did Dad have to make a joke about this?
I kept searching, but pretty soon I ran out of places to look. I would never know what happened to Charlie! I would also have to pay for the book, but that didn’t seem as important. I was really worried about that kid.
• • •
Diego got a base hit the next day, and two the day after that. That made four games in a row with at least one hit.
Then the Porcupines went on the road. They had three games against the Swedenberg Swatters and four more against the Heron Lake Humdingers. I didn’t like it when the team went on long road trips. Dylan and I didn’t travel with them, and I missed going to the ballpark. Plus, I got bored.
I listened to the Porcupines’ games on the radio. The first night, Diego got two hits, and the Porcupines won. He got another hit in the next night’s game, and three hits the day after that.
When a player goes several games in a row with a hit, they call it a “hitting streak.” He doesn’t have to get a hit every time he comes to the plate, just one per game. Diego officially had a streak going: seven games in a row.
Every day, he got another hit and added to the streak: eight games … nine games … then ten games. He probably wouldn’t break any records, but it was fun and exciting to see the number going up.
The Porcupines played the last game of their road trip on Thursday afternoon. My friend Casey came over to listen with me. He brought his newest baseball cards so he could compare them with my baseball cards.
“I need six more cards to have all of the NL players,” he told me. “I need three more for the AL.”
“Look through my extras,” I told him. I gave him the bundle, and he started sorting through them, commenting as he went.
“Got it … got it … got it. Ooh, I don’t have this one.” He set it aside. “Shh.”
“I’m not talking.”
“Shh!” he said again and waved his hand. “Prado is batting.”
He was right. Diego came up to the plate, and the announcers reminded the listeners he had at least one hit in every game since he’d started playing full-time.
Neither of us breathed while Diego batted. He swung on the third pitch and scorched it into left field.
“Hooray!” I threw my hands in the air.
“Woo-hoo!” Casey threw his hands in the air too.
“Since when do you care?” I asked. Casey loved baseball, but he didn’t root for the Porcupines. He was originally from Rosedale and was a fan of the Rogues.
“He has an eleven-game hitting streak going,” he said. “It’s cool. Besides, my uncle Marvin and I are going to all three games when the Rogues come to town. It’ll be cool to see him add to his streak. I hope he does—as long as the Rogues still win.”
“That would be cool,” I said. “Except for the Rogues winning. But I heard their pitching’s gone downhill.”
“Our pitchers are all rookies,” he admitted. “We used to have the best pitchers in the Prairie League, but they all got called up.”
“That’s what you get for being good,” I said. “Is Damien Ricken at Double-A?”
“Triple-A!” he said. “He’s doing great.”
I was glad to hear it. Damien was a nice guy. The Rogues were the Porcupines’ biggest rivals, but I could dislike the team and still like the individual players.
“I think the Porcupines should make Diego Prado their full-time left fielder,” said Casey.
“The Porcupines already have a full-time left fielder,” I reminded him. “His name is Danny O’Brien.”
“Danny O’Brien,” said Casey, followed by a pftpftpft noise.
“Come on,” I said. “Danny’s great.”
“You say that about all the Porcupines,” said Casey. “If you were the manager, would you bench Diego Prado in the middle of a hitting streak?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Exactly,” he said.
“Fine,” I agreed. Diego’s hitting streak was exciting, but I wondered what would happen when Danny O’Brien got healthy enough to
play again.
he first three things I noticed on Friday were a boy I didn’t know, the tub-sized sink by the laundry machines, and an armful of bats. I noticed them all at once, because the boy I didn’t know was dropping an armload of bats into the sink, which was full of hot sudsy water.
“Ack!” I nudged the boy out of the way and rescued the bats from the sink. “What are you doing?!”
“Helping!” said the boy. He was about a year younger than me and had dark hair.
“Thanks for trying, but we don’t clean bats that way,” I told him.
“Why not?”
“We just don’t.” The bats would probably be OK getting wet once, but over time the wood would get soft and ruined. I leaned the bats against the wall to dry. “I’ll show you the right way to clean them later,” I told him. “Glad it was just a few bats.”
“I did a lot more than that,” he said, pointing at a canvas bag.
“You put them away wet?”
“I put them back where I found them,” he said, beaming.
“Uh-oh.” I took the bats out and lined them up along every available wall space to dry. The new kid helped.
“By the way, I’m Chad,” I said, and offered my hand.
“I know! Diego told me about you.” We shook hands. His was still wet and soapy. “He said you are the best batboy in the world. He said I would learn everything I needed to know from you. I’m Ricky, his little brother.”
“I figured that out,” I told him. “Thanks for helping. Where is Diego, anyway?”
“Practicing his batting.”
“Already?” The other players wouldn’t be going out for BP for a long time.
“He’s been playing well and wants to keep it up. He told me to wait for you and not touch anything. Um, don’t tell him I touched anything. Please?”
“I won’t,” I said.
“Thanks!”
“You speak English really well,” I told him. “You don’t even have an accent.”
“Thanks! They teach English at my school, and it’s my best subject. Diego said I can be his personal translator while I’m here.”
“Hey, guys,” said Wayne. He was often the first player to arrive. “You having a meeting with the bats?”
“Yeah, I gave them a little pre-game pep speech,” I said.
“Good one.”
“By the way, this is Ricky,” I told him. “He’s Diego’s brother. He’s going to be a temporary batboy.”
“Hey, Ricky. Your little brother is playing really great,” said Wayne as he shook Ricky’s hand.
“Diego is older than me by eleven years!” said Ricky.
“I was just kidding you,” said Wayne.
Ricky laughed. “You must be Wayne, the really funny catcher?”
“That’s me. Diego said I was really funny?” Wayne puffed out his chest a bit. “You know, when I’m done with baseball I want to be a comedian.”
“You’ll be great,” said Ricky.
“I like this kid,” said Wayne. “He can be a batboy for me anytime.”
“Hey, everyone!” Lance Pantaño came in. “Ready to take on the Rogues?”
“Hey, Lance. You have to meet this new batboy,” said Wayne. “He’s got great taste in comedy.”
“I need my coffee first.” Lance got his mug from his locker. It was a Porcupines mug with masking tape plastered on it and “Property of Lance” written on it.
“Oh, I forgot to make coffee!” I realized.
“It’s fine. I made it,” said Ricky.
“You did?” I asked.
“I made it extra good, with lots of milk and sugar,” he said.
I suddenly realized there was a burning smell coming from the kitchen area.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
Ricky and I had to dump the coffee and clean the machine. It was a mess of burned milk and gunky melted sugar.
“You don’t add the milk and sugar directly to the machine,” I told him. “Whoever wants it just adds it to their cup.”
“I know that now,” said Ricky. “Please don’t tell Diego I messed up! He might not let me be a batboy after all.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. My own first attempt at coffee had almost been a disaster too. I told him how the coffeepot was spitting steam and rattling like it might explode, and how Wayne put on all his catcher’s gear just to turn it off.
“Wish I could have seen that!” said Ricky.
Dylan arrived and saw the rows of bats leaning against the wall.
“What’s going on?”
“Never mind. This is Ricky, your temporary replacement.”
“Oh, hey!” They shook hands.
“I’m really excited to be a batboy,” said Ricky.
“I’m really glad they found a replacement. I don’t feel as bad about leaving.”
“Where are you going?” Ricky asked him.
“I’m going to be out of town for about a week,” said Dylan.
That didn’t answer the question. What was he up to?
“Hey, Ricky!” Sammy Solaris was standing in the doorway. “Your brother wants you to translate for him.”
“Really? What’s going on?”
“A reporter from the Pine City Press wants to interview him,” said Sammy. “She’s going to do a feature on his hitting streak.”
“Holy cow! I’ll be right there!” Ricky looked at me. “Sorry, I need to go.”
“It’s cool,” I said.
“You’re awesome.” He slapped my hand and hurried off.
icky ran out onto the field halfway through batting practice. Dylan and I were already out there fielding fly balls. Myung Young was out there too, practicing his death-defying catches and showing off for the fans.
“I want to help!” said Ricky.
“Sure thing.” I moved over. “Get anything that comes your way.”
Ricky pounded his glove a couple of times and watched the batter. Teddy was at the plate, taking his practice swings. He sailed a ball our way. I took a few steps to my right, thinking I would get it on the first bounce. Ricky charged the ball but misplayed it. It bounced and hit him in the stomach. He fumbled for it, finally got a grip, and threw it toward the bull pen.
“Beat you!” he said.
“It’s not a contest,” I reminded him.
The next ball went toward Myung Young. He took a step back and waited for it. Ricky ran and leaped. He missed the ball but crashed into Myung. They both sprawled out on the ground.
They were both OK, but Myung was mad. He had a right to be.
“Be more careful,” he said. “And stay out of my way.”
“Sorry,” said Ricky.
Ricky was better after that, just playing the balls that came his way.
“That was fun!” he said as we trotted off the field.
“It’s my favorite part of the job,” I told him. “And you know, I messed up the first time I did it too. I got in trouble for throwing balls to my friends in the stands.”
“Ha. At least I didn’t do that,” he said.
“Hey, Ricky,” said Dylan. “I always double-check the bat rack after BP. Come on, I’ll show you how.” They went into the locker room.
Danny O’Brien was in the dugout. His foot wasn’t in a plastic boot anymore, but it was still wrapped up.
“Is your ankle any better?” I asked.
“I’m walking on it, but it’ll be a bit longer before I can play baseball. Hey, thanks for loaning me those books! I read them all while the team was on the road. Then I went to the library and checked out some of my own. I returned the ones you lent me. Hope that’s OK.”
“No problem, and thanks!”
“Which one are you reading now?” asked Wayne Zane.
“N.O.Y.B.,” said Danny. “If I tell you, you’ll spoil it.” He turned the book over so Wayne couldn’t see it.
“You’re reading Murder at the Masters, aren’t you?” said Wayne. “I think I saw a golf course on the cover.”
“Maybe,” said Danny.
“That one’s good,” said Wayne. He didn’t say another word. He just whistled a little song to himself.
“Drat it!” Danny threw the book down.
“What?”
“You were whistling ‘Dixie.’ I bet the killer is Dixie Douglas, the millionaire heiress who’s trying to marry a member of the golf club’s senior committee.”
Wayne took a breath.
“Ugh! I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve spoiled another ending.”
“I didn’t even mean to,” said Wayne. “Besides, I didn’t tell you the part where she’s not an heiress at all, she’s a con artist.”
“You told me just now!”
“I mean, up until I told you, I hadn’t told you.”
Danny sighed. “I’m still going to finish it.” He started reading again.
I had a thought. “Hey, Wayne,” I whispered. “Have you read all of the Mike McKay mysteries?”
“I think so,” he said. “Why?”
“I want you to spoil one for me.”
“Which book?”
“Never Get Back.”
“The missing batboy!” He snapped his fingers. “That’s probably the best one of all. The ending is amazing.”
“Really? What happens?”
“Well, I don’t want to spoil it for Danny …” He beckoned at me to lean in, and then he whispered, “It ends with a kid finishing a good book.”
I groaned.
“Sorry,” he said. “I think you should read it, is all.”
“Hey, aren’t you helping out the Rogues?” Wally asked me.
“Leaving now.” I stopped, realizing I’d forgotten something important.
“Good luck,” I told Diego. “Can’t wait for number twelve.”
“Gracias.” We slapped hands.
• • •
“Hey, Rogues!” Ernie Hecker’s voice carried down from the stands. “Let me know if you need another pitcher!”
“Ugh. He knows where it hurts,” said one of the Rogues.
“He’s trying to get under our skin. Ignore him,” said another player.
“I can come down and throw for a few innings!” Ernie shouted. “Just want to help.”
Batter Up! Page 2