“Hey, cut that out!” Ashley yelled.
“Ashley, you can’t talk to the animal spirit like that,” Frankie said.
“Spirit, schmirit,” she snapped. “There are thirty-five individual rhinestones on each of those socks. Do you have any idea how long that takes?”
Ashley jumped down off the dryer and went towards the bear.
“Back off, buster,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “You don’t mess with my rhinestone art.”
Frankie and I held our breath and waited to see what would happen. Suddenly, the spirit started to move in a circle. Round and round it went. Was this an ancient Hopi ritual?
As the spirit continued to spin, something very strange began to happen. Its fur started to shift and slide to one side.
Wait a minute. I know that spin.
I looked more closely and saw my dog’s face poking out from under a furry coat.
“Cheerio?” I yelled.
He stopped spinning, let out a hello yelp and wagged his tail.
Frankie flipped on the lights. Cheerio was wearing Mrs Fink’s old fur coat that she keeps in a box under the sofa in our clubhouse.
As I bent down to pick Cheerio up, I saw the puddle he had left behind. I don’t want to gross you out, but the monkey socks were floating in a Cheerio-made lake. We all looked at the socks in silence. Finally, Frankie spoke. “Maybe,” he said, “this sacred liquid gives the socks even more power.”
“We’ll never know,” I said, “because they’re not going on any part of my body – no matter how many times you wash them.”
“But, Zip, the Hopi used all kinds of potions in their magic.”
“That’s absolutely right,” Ashley added. “I think I read that they used antelope poo.”
“Good for the Hopi,” I said. “But as far as I, Hank Zipzer, am concerned, any magic that was in these socks has been washed away by the Yellow River.”
“So what are you going to do tomorrow for the game?” Ashley said.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “But I do know that if I’m not back in my flat in three minutes, I’m dead in the water with my mum.”
I grabbed Cheerio and took off. Halfway down the corridor, it occurred to me that Frankie and Ashley had gone to a lot of trouble to set up that kiva. I turned round, ran back to the laundry room and stuck my head in.
“Thanks, guys,” I said. “You tried. Sorry it didn’t work out.”
“What about me?” Ashley said. “I’m left with only one pitcher. I need back up. What are we going to do tomorrow?”
It was a good question. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the answer.
I was lying in bed that night when the thought came to me like a galloping horse across my brain. We had asked for an animal spirit and Cheerio had shown up. Who said totems had to be antelope or snakes or owls or buffalo? Why couldn’t they be dachshunds?
I sat up in bed, forgetting about the top bunk, and clunked my head on the board that holds up the top mattress. But I didn’t care, because I had the answer to the question.
Cheerio was my totem spirit, sent to me by the Ancient Ones. I would take him to my game. He would bring me luck.
I looked around the dark room and saw Cheerio asleep on his pillow next to my bed. He was twitching a little, as if he was dreaming.
I’m sure it was the twitch of a spirit.
“No way,” my dad said.
“But, Dad, you don’t understand.” I was pleading with him. Actually, what I was doing was something between pleading and whining. “I need Cheerio there. He’s my lucky charm, my totem. I can’t pitch without him.”
I was sitting at the kitchen table. Emily had her face in a book, studying last-minute world capitals for the Brain Buster. My dad was at the hob, stirring the porridge. He makes us oatmeal for breakfast on special days when he thinks we need extra vitamins and minerals. If ever there was a day I needed extra vitamins and minerals, the day of the Olympiad was certainly it.
“Think about it, Hank,” my dad said, putting a steaming bowl of porridge down in front of me. “You know Cheerio is highly strung. Now imagine him in your playground with a crowd of two hundred people. His nerves will kick in and he’ll disrupt the entire event.”
“He’ll behave, Dad.”
“Since when? Cheerio does exactly as he pleases. Always has. Always will.”
“But, Dad—”
“And even if he does behave, your mother and I are going to be going back and forth between your game and the Brain Buster Competition, which is in the auditorium. They won’t let Cheerio in the auditorium.”
He had a point there.
“We’ll ask for special permission,” I said. It was a weak argument, and although I hate to admit it, even I knew it.
“Hank, did you hear what I said? The answer is no. That’s N-O.”
Oh boy, he was spelling, and when he spells, it means end of discussion.
“I’m going to get my coat, kids,” my dad said. “Be ready to leave for school in five minutes.”
My brain was going a mile a minute as I ate my porridge. If I was ever going to get off the bench and touch the ball, I needed a lucky charm. And if I couldn’t have the lucky monkey socks, I needed the next best thing. And that was Cheerio. The spirits had spoken, hadn’t they? I mean, they had brought Cheerio to our kiva. And you don’t mess around with stuff that happens in a kiva.
I looked around the kitchen, searching desperately for a solution. The fridge, the oven, the noticeboard cluttered with notes and takeaway menus, the calendar, the spice rack, the phone. The phone!
“Emily, would you mind leaving?”
“Yes,” she answered.
I should have known. I had to take it to the next level.
“Emily,” I said sweetly. “Katherine was on the windowsill in Mum and Dad’s room this morning. Last time I saw her, she was heading down the fire escape.”
“You’re kidding?” she said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But if I were you, I’d check it out for myself. I wouldn’t take my word for it.”
That worked. She tossed down her book and bolted for our parents’ room. I picked up the phone and dialled.
“Hello,” Papa Pete answered.
“Hi, Papa Pete,” I said. “I’ve got to talk fast.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I’ll listen fast.”
“I need your help,” I began. “Can you come here and pick up Cheerio at eleven o’clock and bring him to my school? I want him to see my softball game, but my dad doesn’t want to bring him because he’s not allowed in the auditorium. But if he stays with you, then he won’t have to go into the auditorium, so can you please do this for me?”
“Is it OK with your father?” Papa Pete asked.
“As long as Cheerio behaves, he’ll be fine,” I said. “Just keep him on the lead.”
“I assume you mean Cheerio and not your father,” Papa Pete said.
I laughed.
“We’ll be there,” Papa Pete said. “One tall, proud grandpa. One short, crazy dog.”
“I love you, Papa Pete,” I said. Which was entirely true.
The day of the Olympiad is a big deal at PS 87. Everything is decorated. The dining room has streamers, the noticeboards have signs that say “Go Blue” or “Yellow rules”. Even the rubbish bins cans are wrapped in crêpe paper. Usually, they’re green, which is our school colour. But on Olympiad Day, half of them are blue and the other half of them are, you guessed it, yellow.
When we walked up to school, Head Teacher Love was waiting outside. Talk about school spirit, he was overflowing with it. I’m not kidding – even his clothes were cheering. For starters, he was wearing a scarf that his wife had knitted that was half yellow and half blue. I noticed that the yellow half was hanging down the front of his coat and the blue half was at the back. I wondered if that meant he was a yellow‑ie at heart.
“Check out the feet,” Frankie whispered.
Mr Love always wears black
Velcro shoes that squeak when he walks up and down the lino corridors. On this particular day, he had replaced those beauties with two other Velcro shoes. One was blue. And the other was, you guessed it, yellow.
“Where do you even buy shoes like that?” I whispered to Frankie and Ashley.
“A clown shop?” Frankie suggested.
“No, silly, they’re homemade,” said Ashley. “I bet he got white shoes and coloured them with magic markers.”
“I hope it doesn’t rain,” Frankie said. “He’ll end up with polka-dot shoes.”
“Good morning, students,” Head Teacher Love said in his loudspeaker voice. “Welcome to the Olympiad.”
“Hi, Mr Love,” we all muttered.
“Remember, children, the body, the mind and the spirit all win today – regardless of whether you actually win or not. There’s no losing in winning and no losing in losing. Isn’t that right, Mr Zipzer?”
“Absolutely, Mr Love,” I said, even though I had no idea of what he had just said. Everything he says sounds like it belongs in some really important library book. I’m sure as soon as someone figures out what he’s talking about, they’re going to write it down.
“And what team are you participating in today, Mr Zipzer?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, but Ashley jumped right in.
“He’s pitching for the Yellow Softball Team,” she said right into his face. “And I’m not sure whether you know this or not, Mr Love, but I am the first female softball team manager in the history of PS 87.”
“Of course I know that, Manager Wong,” he said. “I read my newsletter cover to cover. I believe it’s a new age for women and that their particular age makes no difference in this age.”
Wow, he was doing it again. I think that sentence is going in the same book. Maybe he’ll call it Long Sentences That Make No Sense At All by Leland Love. I’d use my library card to borrow that one.
As we were going up the stairs, Nick McKelty was racing down them. He was already wearing his blue T-shirt and carrying the bases to set up the softball diamond.
“Hey, Yellow Team punks,” he said. “I don’t know why you guys even bothered to show up today. You’ve got no chance of winning. We’re going to wipe the bases with you.”
“Yeah, and my name is Bernice,” Frankie said.
No matter how many times I hear Frankie say that, it always makes me smile.
“And my name is Bruce,” McKelty shot back and laughed his hyena laugh as though he had said something funny. His comeback was so un-funny that we couldn’t even come back with a comeback.
“Gotcha!” McKelty said, flicking me under the chin. “Good luck with your little throwing arm today. Hope it doesn’t give out on you.”
When we hit the second floor, Mr Rock passed by us in the corridor. He’s the music teacher and a really cool guy. In fact, he’s the teacher who first suggested to me that I maybe had dyslexia. And he didn’t make me feel bad when he said it.
“Hey, kids,” he said. “Hurry to your classroom and pick up your T-shirts. You should warm up before the game. Ashley, are you ready with your starting lineup?”
“Pretty much,” Ashley answered, “except for Hank. He’s giving me a hard time about pitching.”
“You kids go on ahead,” Mr Rock said to Ashley and Frankie. “Let me have a word with Hank.”
I tried to avoid his eyes. When Mr Rock looks at you, you’re forced to tell the truth.
“So, what’s up?” he said. “Are you having last-minute jitters?”
“First, last and in-between minute jitters,” I said. “I can’t pitch. Everyone knows that.”
“Ashley thinks you can. Frankie too. They told me you’re the team’s secret weapon. They say you’ve got a mean fast pitch.”
“I only threw that pitch for one day. Then it disappeared. I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know where it went.”
“It’s in there somewhere,” Mr Rock said, pointing to my middle section. “If you did it once, you can do it again. Just concentrate on what you’re doing.”
“That only works for most people,” I said. “Not for me.”
Suddenly, it smelled like there was an open tin of old tuna fish next to us. Mr Rock must have smelled it too, because we both turned our heads at the same time. Yup, there he was. Nick McKelty the mouth breather, letting out gobs of bad breath. I looked down and the fabric of my shirt was starting to wrinkle.
“A little pre-game chatter?” he said, shooting some of his fishy breath my way.
“Mr McKelty, isn’t there some place you need to be?” Mr Rock said.
“Yeah, the pitcher’s mound.” Nick the Tick grinned. “I’m going to have the Yellow Team for lunch.” He gave me a slap on the back with his paw-sized hand. “This little guy is my first course.”
McKelty galloped off down the hall. I looked at Mr Rock.
“What’s the use?” I said. “I was born to be on the bench.”
“Hank, you’ve got a decision to make, and today’s the day. Do you really want to sit on the sidelines your whole life? Or are you going to get in the game?”
Mr Rock didn’t say another word. He just turned and walked away.
Life is filled with questions, isn’t it? Whoa, do I wish I had a few answers.
How did I get here? On the mound. I’m sure I said no over and over again to Ashley and Frankie and to anyone who would listen. But here I am, with two hundred people looking at me. Every eye on me. Every person waiting for me to do something. Anything.
Mr Love stood next to the bleachers, tapping his Velcro trainers on the artificial turf, staring at me.
It was exactly noon. We had been playing for almost an hour, and the score was six–five in favour of the Yellow Team. It was the last inning, and the Blue Team was up. There was still time for them to score and win the game.
My Yellow Team had used four pitchers, and for one reason or another, they had all had to leave the game. Even our ace, Ryan Shimozato, who had pitched every one of his Little League games since first grade without so much as a sprained ankle, had had to leave the field. Normally, Ryan’s a ball-throwing machine, but – wouldn’t you know it – in the last inning of the Olympiad game, he tripped over second base on his way to third and landed on his right hand. His pitching hand.
I had been sitting on the bench the whole game. Actually, I had been sitting on my mitt with the ball in it, which is not all that comfortable. Papa Pete hadn’t shown up with Cheerio. My confidence level was so low, it felt like it was around my ankles.
When I saw Ryan catch his left foot under the second base bag, my heart sank. He flew through the air as if in slow motion, bounced on his right side and, yup, landed on his right pitching hand.
Everyone in the stands was up on their feet. Only one person on that whole entire field was high-fiving the rest of his teammates. You know who that was … of course you do. It was Nicky Ticky McKelty.
“All right!” the big moron yelled. “They’ve lost another pitcher! The Blue Team rules!”
Ms Adolf, who was umpiring the game, ran as best as she could to see if Ryan was OK. I could tell he was trying not to cry in front of that big crowd. I know how that feels. I started yelling, “Way to go, Ryan! You are the coolest!”
Ashley tried to put me on to pitch for Ryan, but I refused. I was waiting for Cheerio before I stepped out on that field. So she put Heather Payne in. Heather managed to strike Sasha Nabakov out, which wasn’t that hard because Sasha has just moved here from Russia and they don’t even have softball there. Then Heather threw a big, fat, slow ball to Hector Ruiz and he hit a double. Ashley called a time-out.
She and Frankie came running up to me. I was on the bench behind the chain-link fence, and with Ashley and Frankie on the other side, I felt like I was on a television show about prison, where I was the prisoner and they were my visitors.
“Hank, we need you,” Ash said.
“No, you don’t,” I answered.
“Ye
s, we do,” added Frankie. “It’s the last inning. We only have one out. The tying run is on. Heather can’t pitch her way out of a paper bag. We need you to pitch, Zip, or we could lose this game.”
“You think you need me, but your thoughts are kablooey,” I said.
“Hank, we’re out of pitchers,” Ashley pleaded. “Come on!!! You can do this. As manager, I know these things. You’ve done this before, Hank.”
Yeah, in the empty courtyard of our building.
“Hey, Frankie, you do it,” I said, as if I had just come up with a great idea.
“I’m catching,” he said. “Hank, breathe. And I’m talking really deep. All you have to do is just listen to the sound of my voice.”
“Hey, guys, turn round,” I said to Ashley and Frankie.
They did and saw what I saw. The entire crowd was leaning forward, trying to hear what was going on.
“Hank, you can do this. Correction. You have to do it. Just keep your eyes on where you want the ball to go,” Frankie said, getting in my face. “It’s you and me. We can do this.”
“I’m so scared,” I whispered. “I can’t stop my hands from shaking.”
I put my hands in my pockets so no one would notice them quivering. I looked out at the stands, hoping desperately that Papa Pete had arrived with Cheerio. He hadn’t, but I did see my mum and dad walking out on to the field. Emily was with them, and she was looking very happy. She had probably knocked them dead in the Brain Buster. And here I was, too scared to even go out on the field.
All of a sudden, Nick the Tick started yelling at me from the Blue Team bench.
“Pitcher has a bellyache. Pitcher has a headache. Pitcher is a wimp.” His team started laughing really hard. Ms Adolf left her place behind home plate and headed straight for us. I’m not trying to be rude, but you’ve got to see Ms Adolf in her umpire’s outfit. She looked prehistoric. With her face mask and chest plate and leg pads that went from her knees to her ankles, she looked like a very angry brontosaurus. The shin pads made her walk stiff-legged, so she kicked up a cloud of dust as she moved towards us.
The World's Greatest Underachiever and the Lucky Monkey Socks Page 6