They ignored him.
“So, this new right fielder is supposed to be red-hot at the plate. Diego Pravo,” said the first guy. “He’s got a hitting streak going. Nine or ten games.”
“Eleven,” I said. “His name is Prado, and he’s the left fielder.”
“OK. But he is red-hot, right?”
“He sure is.”
“At least I got that part right.”
Ernie kept up his hollering all through the top of the first inning, but he quieted down when Diego came to bat in the bottom of the inning. Diego was leading off for the Porcupines. It used to be Tommy, the third baseman, but Diego was hitting really well and getting on base, so it was good baseball strategy to have him hit first.
The crowd was really excited and started clapping slowly.
“Shh!” Ernie hissed. “He needs to concentrate!”
Diego didn’t seem to notice the noise. He got in his stance and waited. The pitcher threw the ball. Diego swung and lined a hit into center field. The crowd went crazy. A big number “12” flashed on the jumbo screen. Pokey the Porcupine mascot jumped up and down for joy.
“Way to go, Diego!” Ernie shouted.
Diego rounded first and headed to second base. The crowd kept cheering.
They started chanting, “Way to go, Di-e-go! Way to go, Di-e-go!”
“I wrote that!” Ernie shouted over the noise.
worked in the Porcupines’ dugout the next day. Ricky helped me with the bat rack and the coffee and didn’t make a mess of anything. Maybe he would be a good temporary batboy after all.
As the fans filled the stands, I noticed a few signs that all said the same thing.
WAY TO GO, DIEGO!
The saying had caught on.
“You’re becoming a star,” I told Diego.
He said something in Spanish, and Ricky said something back.
“He’s worried about today,” Ricky explained. “He says the number thirteen is unlucky.”
“Tell him that’s just a superstition.”
“I told him it’s unlucky for the other team.”
“I like the way you think!”
The crowd cheered when Pokey the mascot cruised out onto the field in his golf cart. Spike the junior mascot was with him. Spike was a tough-looking porcupine with spines that looked like a punk rock hairdo. Pokey was at every game, but Spike appeared only on weekends.
“It’s Spike!” Ricky pointed. “Diego told me about Spike!” He jumped out onto the field and ran after the golf cart. The two mascots got out and started waving at fans. Ricky waved too. When Spike did cartwheels, Ricky did clumsy somersaults. When Spike did a little dance, Ricky joined in. He forgot he wasn’t dressed up like a porcupine.
Pokey started nudging him back toward the dugout, and Ricky got the message.
“I did tricks with Pokey and Spike!” he said when he got back.
“I saw. You shouldn’t have done that, Ricky.”
“Sorry, I just got excited.” He hung his head.
“It’s OK. It’s just that they’re the mascots and we’re the batboys. We each do our own thing.” Then I remembered that Spike once took my place as a batboy for a couple of innings. I told him the story.
“That’s funny,” he said. “Spike is a good sport.”
“Sure is,” I said.
A few minutes later, Spike came by the dugout.
“Hi, Abby,” I whispered. That was the kid’s name who was in the costume. She was a friend from school. Only a few people knew Spike’s secret identity.
“Hi, Chad,” she said. “Who’s the new batboy?”
“Ricky Prado—he’s Diego’s little brother. He’s just going to be here for a few days. I told him not to interfere with your routines anymore.”
“Good! He nearly kicked me in the head.”
“He was just excited to see you. Did you know you have a fan from Mexico?”
“Really? From Mexico?”
“You’re an international star.”
The porcupine couldn’t turn red, but I had a feeling that Abby was blushing inside the costume.
• • •
Diego led off in the bottom of the first inning. The pitcher threw a couple of balls before Diego took a swing. He hit the ball hard and sent it flying over the outfield fence. The crowd stood and cheered, “Way to go, Di-e-go! Way to go, Di-e-go!” as he circled the bases. They held up their signs. Pokey skipped along, waving at fans, while Spike did cartwheels.
“That’s Prado’s first home run as a Porcupine!” Victor Snapp announced over the PA system.
I couldn’t believe that was his first home run when he had so many hits.
“Hurry—go get your brother’s first home run ball,” I told Ricky. “Diego will want to keep it.”
I hoped it wasn’t too late. The ball was just lying out there, waiting for somebody to nab it.
“Sure!” Ricky sped off.
The Porcupines clapped Diego’s back and shoulders as he came in, adding, “Thirteen! Thirteen!” to the chant from the crowd.
“Trece! Trece!” Luis Quezada said. He was a utility infielder. Grumps put him in a lot as a pinch runner because he was fast.
Diego smiled and sighed in relief.
“Now your home run streak begins!” said Wayne.
“Hey, don’t put too much pressure on him,” said Sammy.
“Just sayin’,” said Wayne.
Diego said something, and this time Luis translated.
“He’ll settle for a streak of Porcupine wins.”
“Me too,” I agreed. But the hitting streak was fun too.
Ricky still wasn’t back by the end of the inning. Since the Porcupines weren’t batting, I went to find him. He was in the equipment room, scrubbing a baseball.
“What are you doing?”
“Diego’s home run ball was dirty, so I’m trying to scrub it clean. I’m using this superduper cleaner, but I’m not having much luck.” He showed me the ball. He’d practically taken off the logo, and the surface was all scratched up. He was using the wire brush and pink cleanser Wally used in the showers.
“Um, you probably shouldn’t use those on leather,” I told him.
He gulped. “Really?”
“It might be too much,” I said. “Anyway, we’d better get back to the game.”
We put the cleanser away and returned to the dugout.
Ricky gave the ball to Diego. He looked at it, baffled.
“¿Qué es esto?”
“Your home run ball,” said Ricky. His shoulders slumped. “I tried to clean it, but I guess I ruined it.”
Diego whispered to his brother in Spanish, and patted him on the head. Ricky whispered back.
“He’s a little mad,” he confided to me a bit later. “He said it was a nice thought but I should have asked first.”
“At least it didn’t get chewed up by the world’s crankiest cat.” I told him how that happened to a ball I tried to get back for Teddy Larrabee, and he started to feel better.
“This ball is in better shape than that one!” he said.
“Yep.”
The Porcupines had a great game. They scored ten runs, and the Rogues didn’t score any. The crowd chanted, “Way to go, Di-e-go!” until they were hoarse.
In the eighth inning, the Porcupines sent in a relief pitcher. It was Nate Link, who’d taught me his crazy sidewinder pitch. It would take a few minutes for him to warm up.
I went into the locker room to get a shoe brush for Myung to brush the mud off his spikes. Danny was there, his leg stretched out on the bench. I hadn’t realized he’d slipped out of the dugout.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“I’m good,” he said. “Just needed to rest this sore ankle.”
“You’re missing a good game.”
“I know.”
I got the brush from the equipment box. Danny stopped me on the way out.
“Hey, Chad,” he said. “Did you ever hear of Wally Pipp?”
I thought hard. “I don’t think so.”
“He was a first baseman for the Yankees. One day he had a headache, and he sat out the game. The manager put in a guy named Lou Gehrig to play for him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” I said.
“Of course you have. Lou Gehrig played the next twenty-one hundred and twenty-nine games. He didn’t miss a single one until he got really sick. So Wally Pipp was … well, he got ‘Wally Pipped.’ That’s what they call it now, when you sit out a couple of games and end up losing your job.”
I remembered what Casey had said. Grumps would probably make Diego the permanent left fielder.
“I hope that doesn’t happen to you,” I said.
“Me, neither. That’s why I want to talk to you. Do you have a card for a guy who’s the opposite of Wally Pipp?”
“I don’t have a card for Lou Gehrig.”
“It doesn’t have to be Lou Gehrig,” he said. “Just some guy who came back from an injury and was better than ever. Like Tommy John, only an outfielder.”
“I don’t know,” I said. I would have to talk to my uncle Rick. He knew everything there was about baseball, and he would know just the right player. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
here were twice as many signs waving in the ballpark on Sunday. I was working in the visitors’ dugout. Ernie Hecker shouted his usual comments at the Rogues, but when the Porcupines came up to bat, he started the crowd chanting again, “Way to go, Di-e-go! Way to go, Di-e-go!”
They stopped when Diego came to the plate. He struck out in his first at-bat.
“Nice try!” Ernie shouted. “You’ll get it next time!” I think he meant it!
The crowd chanted again in the third inning when Diego came up again. This time he drew a walk. The crowd clapped, but it was disappointed. He’d reached first base, but it wasn’t a hit. Walks didn’t count for a hitting streak.
“Pitch to him this time!” Ernie shouted in the sixth inning when Diego came to the plate for the third time. The pitcher did, but Diego struck out again.
The crowd groaned.
When Diego came up in the eighth inning, the crowd was too nervous to chant. It was probably his last at-bat of the game, and his last chance to keep the hitting streak going. I glanced up and saw a lot of people covering their eyes. They couldn’t watch. Others had their caps turned upside down, rally cap style, and they all had their fingers crossed.
“Come on,” I muttered. “You can do it.”
The pitcher got two strikes. Diego didn’t swing on the next pitch, and it was ruled a ball. He swung at the fourth pitch and knocked it foul. Every pitch made my heart skip.
On the fifth pitch, he hit a ground ball just past the third baseman and scampered to first base. He was definitely safe, but the play might be ruled an error. If the official scorer decided that it was an error, then Diego’s hitting streak would be dead. Errors didn’t count for a hitting streak.
The scorer’s decision finally flashed up on the board. “HIT”! The word flashed three times and was replaced with a big “14.” The crowd clapped like mad and shouted, “Way to go, Di-e-go!” until he tipped his hat and took a little bow.
• • •
The Rogues’ three-game series against the Porcupines was done. I had to spend extra time helping the Rogues pack up and load their bus. The Pines’ locker room was mostly cleared out when I got there, but Diego was still there. So was Ricky.
“Great game,” I said.
“Gracias,” said Diego. He didn’t look at all happy.
“What’s wrong?”
Diego spoke in Spanish. Ricky translated.
“He’s scared the streak will end.”
I didn’t know what to say. The streak would end. It had to. It would be fun while it lasted, but it couldn’t last forever.
Diego spoke again.
“He’s heard you have magic cards,” said Ricky. “Can he please have one, to keep his streak going?”
“Sure, but I don’t know which card will help him.”
Diego said something in Spanish. I made out the English words: “Joltin’ Joe.”
“There’s a player named Joltin’ Joe?” Ricky asked.
“It must be a nickname,” I said.
Wally, the clubhouse manager, walked by with a bag of equipment. “Wally, was there ever a player called ‘Joltin’ Joe’?” I asked.
“There sure was. That’s what they called Joe DiMaggio.” Wally set the bag down and took a deep breath. “In 1941, he went fifty-six straight games with a hit in each game. It’s the longest hitting streak in the big leagues. That record’s never been beat. Nobody’s even come close.”
“Do you remember it?” Ricky asked him.
Wally laughed. “I’m old, but not that old.”
“I don’t have a card for Joe DiMaggio.” My oldest cards were from the mid-1950s, when Grandpa started buying them. “Who else had a long hitting streak?” I asked Wally.
“Pete Rose had a good one,” he said. “So did Paul Molitor.”
“I probably have a card for one of them,” I said. “Maybe even both.”
Diego spoke quickly. He seemed excited.
“He says, ‘Thank you, Kid Magic,’” said Ricky.
“No problemo,” I said. I wasn’t sure if that was really Spanish or not, but Diego understood.
Dylan came out of the equipment room. I was glad he was still there. It was my last chance to talk to him before he left.
“Excited for your trip?” I asked.
“Sure.”
Of course, he still didn’t tell me where he was going.
I changed into my street clothes and we headed out together.
“I’m worried about leaving,” he admitted once we were outside.
“You are?”
“Ricky is a nice kid and a hard worker, but have you noticed that he …” Dylan paused. He didn’t like to say anything bad about anyone. “He tries a little too hard,” he said.
“What happened today?”
“It involved the laundry machine. And bleach. And baseball gloves.”
“Oh, no.”
“It was a disaster,” he said. “Maybe I should cancel my trip. Ricky’s just not ready to sub for me.”
“No way,” I said. “You’ve been looking forward to it.”
“I really have,” he admitted. “You’ll have to work in the visiting dugout so Wally can keep an eye on Ricky.”
“You’re probably right.” I would miss working with the Pines during the game.
“Oh, by the way,” said Dylan, “Danny said to remind you. He didn’t say what. He just said to remind you. And that you would know.”
“I do know. Thanks.” He wanted to remind me to get him a baseball card that was the opposite of Wally Pipp.
“Have a great week,” said Dylan.
“You too!” We slapped hands, and I hurried home.
I wanted to talk to Uncle Rick. I would ask him what card might help Danny heal so he could play again. I could ask him about the best card for Diego too. I slowed a few steps, realizing I was in a pickle.
I couldn’t help both Diego and Danny! If Diego’s hitting streak kept going, Danny wouldn’t get his starting job back. No baseball card had enough magic in it to help the Porcupines have two full-time left fielders. And even if one of them moved somewhere else in the outfield, it would mean something happened to Myung or Brian.
There was no way out of it. Somebody had to lose.
talked to Uncle Rick over video-chat. He was in Colorado. He held his laptop up to the window of his hotel room so I could see the mountains. He travels a lot for his job.
“That’s a great view!” I told him.
“I wish I had time to see the ballpark here in Denver,” he said. “But I have to be in Tennessee tomorrow.” I was surprised there was a major league ballpark he hadn’t seen. “So how are your Porcupines doing? I read on a baseball blog you have the hott
est hitter in Single-A.”
“We do!” I told him about Diego’s hitting streak and worked my way around to telling him about the pickle I was in. I’d promised I would help both Diego and Danny, but I couldn’t put one card against another, and I couldn’t pick sides.
“Sometimes baseball is a hard game,” Uncle Rick agreed.
“What should I do?”
“Maybe you need to bench yourself,” he said. “You’re a batboy. You don’t have to take care of the players; just take care of the bats.”
“OK,” I said. He was probably right, but it didn’t feel right.
• • •
Dad popped into my room that evening. “We got a reminder call from the library,” he said. “You have a book due tomorrow.”
“Oh, right.” The two weeks had flown by. I had to find the book before I could finish reading it, and I wanted to finish reading it before I returned it.
“Can you renew it on the computer? We still have seven more home games, so it’ll be a while before I can get to the library.”
“Sure,” he said. “But if it’s the missing book, you’ll have to pay for it eventually.”
“I know. Next time I have a day off, I’ll search the house top to bottom.”
“I’ll renew it,” he said. “But don’t forget you need to find it.”
“I won’t.” I’d forgotten about the book. I looked all over my room, but it was useless. The book had disappeared, just like Charlie himself.
• • •
When I walked into the locker room on Monday, Ricky had a big grin on his face.
“Guess what I did?” he asked.
“What?”
“You’ll see!”
Uh-oh. When Ricky did things on his own, they tended to end badly.
I opened my locker and saw what he was talking about. He’d cleaned my locker. He had not thrown anything away, or hosed anything down, or applied a fresh coat of paint. He’d just cleaned it, and he’d done a great job.
“Hey, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
He smiled. “¡No problema!”
“Is your brother already out taking batting practice?”
Batter Up! Page 3