Strike Three, You're Dead

by Josh Berk

  I looked back and saw Other Mike’s face just a few yards behind me. It was as bright red as a Phillies hat. He also looked like he was holding back a smile. We were almost all the way back to Other Mike’s house before I could think it was even a little funny.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We met back at Other Mike’s house the next day. I waved to his mom on the way in. She was out in the yard planting some flowers. Other Mike probably trampled the old ones. Again. “Staying out of trouble, Lenny?” she asked, wiping some dirt off her nose with her pink gardening glove.

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Other Mike,” I said. “Hey, is my mom paying you to ask that?” She laughed. I wasn’t trying to be funny. Mrs. Other Mike was always laughing. She was as plump and short as Mr. Other Mike was tall and skinny. Standing next to each other, they looked like the number ten. Other Mike definitely took after his dad—with his short-cropped hair and lanky limbs, he hardly looked anything like the smiling Mrs. Other Mike.

  “He’s up in his room with Mike,” she said, pointing to the upper level of the house. “Probably on the computer.”

  “Probably,” I said, ditching my bike on the lawn.

  Other Mike actually wasn’t at the computer when I got up there. He was pacing around like a caged panther, fidgeting with his glasses, wildly excited about his ideas for the video.

  “All right,” he said, exhaling loudly. “Forget Blaze, he’s crazy. We don’t need him.”

  “Do you think I still have a chance to win?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Other Mike said, waving his arm in the air. “I cannot imagine that most of these baseball fans have a computer genius at their disposal. It’s simple—I’ll start with a close shot of this headline and then Ken-Burns it out to you, Leonard, in front of the green screen.” He was talking very fast. I just nodded.

  I had spent the night researching, writing, thinking about, and practicing my part. The challenge was just to create a moment in Phillies’ baseball history, but this was a peculiar moment—it wouldn’t be easy. I’d looked up a website about lingo from the 1940s and got all sorts of funny expressions to use. I’d also grabbed my one nice suit and borrowed an old hat of my dad’s. For some reason, it really seemed like I should have a mustache, so I drew one on with a marker. I just hoped it would come off.

  We hung the green screen in the corner of Other Mike’s room. I stood in front, and Other Mike said, “Action.” I took a deep breath, and it all came rolling out:

  “Hello, folks out there in radio land,” I said. “Leonard Norbeck here bringing you the afternoon action between the Cubbies of Chi-Town and your Philly Blue Jays. It’s a warm day here at Shibe Park, and a new hurler for the hometown nine is taking the hill. They call him Blaze, and hi-de-ho, let’s hope his heater lives up to his name.”

  The Mikes laughed silently in the corner. I was off to a good start. “It’s the top of the first, and Blaze is having a little trouble with his command here,” I continued. “He’s as wild as an alley cat in a street fight. Three men on already and Cubbie slugger Bill Nicholson’s up to the plate. He’s gammin’ about, strutting his stuff. Here’s the windup, the pitch, and, oh, sweet mercy—Nicholson hits one deep over the right-field bleachers. Good night, Irene. Kiss it good-bye. Cubs up, four to zilch.”

  The Mikes were fighting hard not to crack up. It was going great!

  “And now Dewey Williams steps into the box. And he laces the first pitch to right field for a single. Oh my. The throw comes in and first baseman Tony Lupien walks it over to O’Farrell. They’re chatting at the mound. Next batter is Stan Hack. Williams takes his lead off of first and— What’s this? The umpire calls the runner out! It’s the old hidden-ball trick! I’ll be snookered! Isn’t that the cat’s pajamas? O’Farrell and Lupien pull off some razzle-dazzle here in this jalopy of a first. Ain’t that swell?” I said, almost cracking myself up.

  “Now, just one down and another run comes in, and, yep, here comes the skipper with the hook. That’s finally it for Blaze. Seven runs against just one out. Not the finest debut for the young hurler. The boys have some work to do if they want to come back in this one.…”

  And just like that, it was done. One take. It was so strange—sort of a blur, really. I’d spent all this time thinking about it, but actually doing it happened without a thought. Was being an announcer really “my thing”? It sure felt pretty awesome, and this was just me and the Mikes talking about a game from fifty years ago. How great would it be to actually be there in the booth at a real game, talking to millions as it happened? I didn’t say any of this to the Mikes. I just said, “Um, was that okay?”

  Mike and Other Mike stared at me in amazement. “It was incredible!” they said at once.

  “I’m not exactly sure what you were talking about,” Other Mike said. “But it sounded wonderful.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “How did you do that?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I practiced a little last night, and … it just came out.”

  “I knew you were good, Lenny,” Other Mike said. “But I didn’t know you were that good.”

  “Um, thanks?” I said.

  “It’s going to look even better when I spiff it up.” Other Mike hooked up the camera to his computer and got to work adding fade-outs and wacky jazz music and credits. Mike and Other Mike argued about who would get listed as what in the credits, but I didn’t listen. My work was done. I sat back and relaxed. We uploaded the video to the Phillies website, and that was that. Doing the upload was so easy. Just a click of the mouse. Just moving a finger a tiny bit. And to think how much it changed everything.…

  * * *

  Two weeks later and six innings into a Phillies losing effort, my cell phone rang. I was over on the lawn couch, like I’d been most days, just watching the game and hanging with the Mikes. Mom had more or less dropped the idea of me taking enrichment classes, and I was keeping up my end of the bargain. Okay, I wasn’t quite breaking the record for most books read over the summer, but I was scraping by. Mr. Bonzer even told Mom as much; thankfully, he didn’t mention that basically every book I read was about baseball.

  The call was my mom. What she had to say was this: “Leonard—weird thing. We just got a call. Man said he was from the Phillies. Said you won some contest? Armoire Announcer, I think. Do you know anything about this? He said you’re supposed to be at the ballpark on July twenty-ninth, but I’m already scheduled to work late and …”

  I tried to answer, but words were not coming out clearly. The Phillies called me? I won the contest? I won the contest! “July twenty-ninth?! I’ll, um, explain later, Mom,” I said. I hung up.

  I won the contest? I won the contest! The Mikes were crowding me on the lawn couch, pumping their fists.

  “Was that …?”

  “Is it …?”

  I smiled and nodded, and they mobbed me. It felt like I just hit the game-winning home run and the whole team was high-fiving me at once. We celebrated nonstop. We put the date on the calendar: July 29. Three weeks away. I circled it with a thick marker. I wouldn’t stop smiling until then.

  Even Mom and Dad seemed a little excited about it, and forgot about bugging me to do something “productive” with my time. Courtney was still around all the time, but I was getting pretty good at ignoring her.

  Dad and I made plans: he would come to the park with me. I was allowed one guest in the booth, and he said he wouldn’t miss it. I was sort of shocked, actually. I expected he wouldn’t want to come, or wouldn’t care at all. I’d get to announce a game with all of my favorite players on the field—and maybe R. J. Weathers! Get this: rumor had it he was going to come up from the minors and pitch his first game in late July. I wondered if I’d get to meet him. Little did I know I would watch him die.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Before I knew it, July twenty-ninth had arrived. Okay, it wasn’t before I knew it. I realized it was coming. I was very aware of the fact that the date was coming. It was circled on the c
alendar and I stared at it every day, counting the days. Sometimes I’d do the calculations and try to figure out the number of hours, but that felt a bit too much like math homework.

  The game I’d be announcing was an evening one, but I was still up early that day. Actually, I don’t think I slept at all. The night was a blur of nerves and trips to the bathroom. I was so excited and jittery about doing my inning that it was like I was R. J. Weathers. And, yup, the young pitcher was set to pitch his first game that very night. I was thrilled, yet terrified. Like I was actually going to be pitching against the Mets and not just announcing. I spent the whole day pacing around and praying that I wouldn’t embarrass myself. What if my voice cracked during my inning? What if I said something totally stupid and millions of people heard it? What if I didn’t say anything at all and just filled the booth with awkward silence? I spent an hour choosing which Phillies shirt to wear. Finally, it was time to head to the game with Dad.

  Every time I walked into the ballpark, it took my breath away a little. I spent so much time watching games on TV that I almost forgot it was a real place. Being there in the flesh was strange. It felt like I was stepping into a cartoon or a mythical place that existed only in a book. Like if you could just go hang out with Harry Potter in person or eat a hot dog with Luke Skywalker or get a pet Pokémon.

  The trip was all the more magical this time because I walked in through the VIP entrance. Dad explained that it meant very important person. I was never even an important person, much less a very important person. It felt pretty great. We were early, but there was already a crowd gathering. A murmur of excitement was everywhere. ESPN camera crews were there to cover the event—R. J. Weathers making his debut was big news. Phillies fans were out in force. A sea of red shirts filled the stands and the smell of cheesesteaks scented the air. I flashed the VIP badge they had sent us in the mail, and a security guard took me and Dad up a back elevator and through hallways usually reserved for players and staff.

  As we got off the elevator, I brushed past a tiny man I recognized immediately. It’s hard not to recognize Ramon Famosa’s father/interpreter, Don Guardo! He seemed even cooler in person than on TV! He was wearing a plum-colored suit with matching hat. It had a bright orange feather in it, and his plump jaws worked over a slobbery cigar. He was heading outside, apparently to smoke. He talked into his cell phone as he did. I tried to get him to stop and talk to me, or at least pose for a picture, but he brushed past us. I had a video camera with me, of course, so I turned it on and aimed it directly at him. I had always wanted a video camera that looks like a pen, but no one ever bought me one. That would so be the kind of camera that a spy would have. Instead, mine was just a regular small cam. It’s tiny, but it has a pretty good zoom. Don Guardo couldn’t see me pointing it at him. He didn’t stop talking. Probably he figured that I wouldn’t understand what he was saying. Which, okay, I didn’t. I didn’t figure it out until later, but what he said was this: “O, sí, estoy tan ocupado. He-he-he. Mi hermano— Lo siento— Señor Famosa no me necesita para nada. ¡Estúpido!”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. Man, I wished I had paid attention in Spanish class! Why did Señora Cohan have to be so boring?

  Don Guardo Famosa was gone in a blur of purple, and the security guard led me and Dad up toward the announcers’ booth. Even though I wasn’t supposed to announce until the sixth inning, I got to hang out in the announcers’ area the whole time. Dad would have to wait outside once the game started, but he walked in with me to meet the guys.

  It was surprisingly small, a cramped little booth filled with microphones and cords and computers and hundreds of sheets of paper. There was barely enough room to walk around, yet so much to take in. The view of the ballpark was fantastic from the window in front. A huge panorama of bright green unfolded before me. It was enormous, like staring at the sun. Then the announcers walked in. Play-by-play guy Arnie Mickel stepped into the booth. He was a tall man with a friendly smile and a gleaming bald head—even balder than my father’s, which I didn’t know was possible. He extended his hand to mine. “Is this the kid who’s gonna take my job?” he said with a laugh. “Hey, kid, you nervous? You know this broadcast goes not just into the city but through a considerable part of Pennsylvania. And parts of New Jersey.”

  “Well, hello, uh, Mick,” I said, venturing his nickname. “I’m a little nervous, I guess.”

  He narrowed his eyes and formed his lips into a vicious sneer. “You call me Mr. Mickel,” he said, eyes turning angry.

  “Yeah,” said Chuck Stockwell, one of the other announcers, sticking his head into the room. “You have to earn Mick-rights, kid.”

  Then Buck Foltz entered. “And if you even dream of calling me anything other than Mr. Foltz, you will find yourself dangling from this booth by your ankles, kiddo!”

  “I—I—I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I was just—”

  Then they all started cracking up and high-fiving.

  “We’re only messing with you,” Arnie said. “Just some announcer hazing. You can totally call me Mick.”

  “I thought we were being serious,” Buck said, frowning. “I seriously will kill you if you don’t call me Mr. Foltz.”

  Chuck Stockwell rolled his eyes. In the back of my mind, I heard the wah-wah of a sad trombone. It was going to be an interesting night.

  I stared at Buck. He looked like a robot or a wax statue. When I thought about how many millions of people around the world knew that voice, I felt almost woozy to be so close to its source. Maybe that’s why he looked unreal to me. I noticed Buck’s Phillies shirt and the Phillies logo on his pants. I briefly wondered if he owned any non-Phillies clothing and concluded that he probably didn’t. Phillies socks, Phillies undershirts, Phillies boxer shorts, and formal Phillies bow ties for weddings and funerals.

  “Hey, kid,” Mick said, slapping me on the shoulder and snapping me back to my surroundings. “Great work digging up that Blaze O’Farrell story. I know my Phils, but even I didn’t realize we had the record for worst ERA ever. Go figure!”

  “Yeah!” I said.

  “And get this,” he said. “The brass invited Blaze to come tonight!”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’ll come,” I said quickly. “He’s crazy! Totally nuts. He never leaves his house! He’s a hermit!” Visions of flying bottles passed before my eyes, and I felt like I had to pee.

  “Shows what you know, kid,” he said. “He’s down there on the field right now. They made him a coach for the day. He gets one more shot to put on a Phillies uniform. Gets to be right there in the dugout again! Let’s hope he’s not bad luck!”

  Mick gestured toward a screen showing the on-field pregame warm-ups. An ancient little man in a Phillies jacket stood on the grass watching the pitchers. He looked angry. That was Blaze all right. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyebrows were pointed down in an irritated squint, his skin so pale he almost looked like a ghost. The only physical characteristic that would ever have made you think that he was once a ballplayer was his hands. They were basically just normal hands, but huge. His fingers were enormous—like a fan of five magic wands. It made you wonder how he ever fit a glove on and why he wasn’t able to do amazing things on the mound.

  “Can I go down to see the dugout and the players and everything?” I asked. I wasn’t anxious to run into Blaze again, but I had to ask.

  “I don’t think so, kid,” Mick said. “Not on game day. The booth is where the action is, anyway. It was my dream to be an announcer too. As you can see, sometimes dreams come true.”

  “Well, it was my dream to not have to work with dorks like you,” Chuck said, elbowing Arnie and snickering. “So sometimes dreams do not come true.”

  I couldn’t believe it. They were just like regular guys. Like me and the Mikes, only … older.

  Buck seemed clueless. He was eating cottage cheese with a plastic spork. I was both impressed and appalled. He dribbled some on his chin.

  “I know you’re
bummed you can’t go down and meet the players,” Chuck said. “But we got something pretty great for you.” He pressed a button on an intercom on the wall of the cramped booth. “Hey, Gary, send in the kid,” he said. “No, the other kid.”

  Another kid? I had no idea what he meant. In a few seconds, it was clear. The other kid was R. J. Weathers himself. Only he didn’t look like a kid. I knew he was young—just nineteen. He was one of the youngest players since Putsy Caballero to make the Phils. But he looked enormous. I had to crane my neck up to see him. Longish brown hair was trying to escape from under his bright red hat, and his arms were at once skinny yet powerful, like coiled snakes under his sleeves. He was already in uniform and had a baseball in his hand. He furiously worked a piece of gum. Even his jaw muscles looked strong.

  “Whoa!” I said. “R. J. Weathers! So cool to meet you, uh, sir.” Everyone laughed.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “You a ballplayer yourself?”

  “I was once, sir,” I said. “I was the worst there ever was.…”

  He ignored the second part of my sentence and said, “You don’t have to call me sir.” He talked in a slow, drawling voice. “Call me RJ.”

  “Yeah,” Chuck said. “He’s no sir. You two are probably about the same age.”

  “I’m only twelve,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Chuck said, pointing with his thumb. “Him too.” Everyone laughed again.

  “Well, I’d love to sit here and listen to these jerks rip on me all night,” RJ said with a smile. “But I got a game to win.”