“Sam Spitter is in the bull pen, ready for relief if the Cubs need him,” said Mr. Pin, enjoying his first frosty malt.
“Right,” said Maggie. “I wonder how many innings Bruseball will pitch before they bring in Sam.”
“I hope he doesn’t pitch,” said Mr. Pin.
“Do you really think something is going to happen?”
“Absolutely.”
Maggie put her elbows on her knees and watched as the game began. The Cubs were only one-half game out of first. If they won this game, they would be tied for first and might win the division. But Mr. Pin had said that something strange might happen to one of the Cubs pitchers. It was enough to make anyone nervous.
Mr. Pin bought his second frosty malt.
Berta Largamente was singing the “The Star-Spangled Banner” while Maggie fumbled with her Cubs program. Mr. Pin had solved a case for Berta when a conductor disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. But that was another story.
The game was slow and tense. The Mets and the Cubs traded runs for six innings, and the score was tied 4 to 4. Mr. Pin had decided to limit himself to one frosty malt each inning. But the innings were long, and Mr. Pin was getting hungry fast. There didn’t seem to be a vendor in sight, so the rock hopper penguin told Maggie he would be back, and he set out to find one.
Mr. Pin headed up the concrete aisle, peanut shells crunching beneath his feet. He looked to each side and, just a few rows ahead, spotted a vendor carrying a cool case of frosty malts. Mr. Pin paid the vendor and was about to return to his seat when a foul ball flew over the dugout in his direction. With a quick hop, Mr. Pin snagged the ball out of the air. The crowd roared.
“Great fielding from that penguin,” said the announcer.
“Nice catch,” said the vendor.
And that was when Mr. Pin suddenly realized who the vendor really was.
“Sam Spitter!” said Mr. Pin, twirling the ball on the tip of his wing.
“Shhhh,” said Sam. “Don’t let anyone know who I am.”
“I almost didn’t know who you were,” said Mr. Pin. Sam was wearing another disguise: a long gray wig that hung over his eyes and large black-framed glasses that covered most of the rest of his face. A fake nose was cleverly attached to his glasses.
“Why are you wearing a costume?” asked Mr. Pin.
“I’m selling frosty malts,” said Sam.
“A good job, but you might need to pitch soon.”
“I’m not pitching this game,” said Sam.
Suddenly everyone stood up and started yelling like crazy.
“Out of the park,” said Mr. Pin. “The Cubs are ahead now by one run.”
“They won’t need a relief pitcher yet,” said Sam over the roar of fans.
“What happens if they do?” asked Mr. Pin.
Sam wouldn’t answer.
But Mr. Pin already knew. “Your brother’s going to pitch, isn’t he?” It wasn’t really a question. “He’s warming up in the bull pen while you’re out here selling frosty malts. I also know why. But even though your brother’s a great pitcher, you’re the one who has to pitch.”
“I can’t. This is the worst slump I’ve ever been in. I’d lose it for the Cubs. And how do you know my brother can pitch?” asked Sam.
“Thillens.”
“You were there?” asked Sam.
“With my partner,” said Mr. Pin. “Anyway, I think Wavemin would give your brother a chance if I talked to him.”
“You would do that? He never had the chance to try out that I did. He had chicken pox and a pulled hamstring the day the scout came.”
“No problem,” said Mr. Pin. “I do know that if your brother—”
“Slim.”
“Right,” Mr. Pin went on. “If your brother Slim wins the game, somebody’d find out and the Cubs would forfeit. You’d be doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. Slim will get his chance. I’ll see that he does.”
With the Cubs’ third out, the organ began to play and the Mets left the field. Bill (“the Babe”) Bruseball went to the mound. Mr. Pin and Sam watched as the Babe threw a fastball and narrowly missed the batter. The next pitch hit the batter, sending him to first.
Then the Babe hit the next batter, too, putting the leading run on first and the tying run on second.
“He won’t be up much longer if he keeps hitting batters,” said Sam. “Seems always to happen to the Babe when he gets tired.”
Bruseball hit the third batter. The bases were loaded. Wavemin went to the mound.
Bruseball stared into the lights and rubbed his forehead with his cap. A breeze came off the lake. The park looked like a stage with Bruseball standing in the middle surrounded by spotlights. For now, it seemed that Wavemin was going to leave him in.
“Quick,” said Mr. Pin. “We don’t have much time. Sam, I know how good you are if you just give yourself a chance. You can’t give up because you’re in a slump. Keep your fingers on the seams and just get out there and play because you love the Cubs and you love baseball.”
It was then that Mr. Pin looked down the aisle and saw Maggie buying a bag of peanuts. Mr. Pin caught her eye and pointed with his wing to the vendor. Maggie hurried over.
“Sam!” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I am afraid there isn’t time to explain,” Mr. Pin said to Maggie. “I need your help.” He drew what looked like a very small map of the ballpark on a frosty malt lid. He pointed to a spot marked with an X.
“This is where you’re going,” said Mr. Pin. “When you get inside, watch the monitor. When Wavemin goes to the mound a second time, count to sixty. Then turn these dials. They look like the round knobs on a stove. I’ve drawn a picture so you know what to expect. Count to sixty again and turn them back.”
“Am I turning off all the lights?” asked Maggie.
“Precisely,” said Mr. Pin.
“But why …?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you now,” said Mr. Pin.
“All right,” said Maggie as she hurried down the concrete ramp, studying the map as she went.
“Sam, come this way,” said Mr. Pin. “And bring your frosty malts.”
Sam followed Mr. Pin to the box seats near the dugout. Wavemin had given Bruseball one more chance. But it was a mistake. The Babe went into his windup and threw a perfect strike. Unfortunately, the Mets hitter met it with incredible force. The crowd groaned as they watched the ball sail over the bleachers and out of the park. The score was 8 to 5. It looked like real trouble for the Cubs.
Wavemin went to the mound. Bruseball had thrown his last pitch.
“When I give the signal,” said Mr. Pin, “hop over the wall and head for the mound.”
Bruseball was on his way back to the dugout. Wavemin signaled for who he thought was Sam to come in. Then all of a sudden the lights at Wrigley Field went out.
“Now!” shouted Mr. Pin.
It couldn’t have been easy for a rock hopper penguin to convince Slim to trade clothes with his brother and become a frosty malt vendor all in sixty seconds. But somehow Mr. Pin was able to do it.
When the lights went back on, Sam was on the mound tying his shoes, Slim was walking up the aisle yelling, “Frosty malts,” and Mr. Pin was walking back across the infield toward his seat. The fans weren’t sure who the short new manager eating a frosty malt was, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Sam held the Mets at 8 to 5. In the bottom of the eighth the Cubs loaded the bases with Sam at bat. It didn’t happen very often and might not happen again for a long time … but Sam hit a grand slam. Walter Wavemin went crazy. He jumped up and down and waved his arms in circles, hurrying the runners home. Sam’s homer went over the bleachers onto Waveland Avenue and landed somewhere near a peanut vendor.
As for Slim, Mr. Pin convinced the manager to give Sam’s twin brother a chance to try out for the Cubs. Wavemin said the Cubs didn’t need any more relief pitchers since Sam was well out of his slump, but he said he’d see what he
could do.
A few days later Walter Wavemin called Mr. Pin and offered him a job. “I saw you catch that foul. I could use a fielder like you,” he said. “You have a great left wing.”
“That’s all right,” Mr. Pin told him. “There’s plenty of work coming by the diner to keep me busy. But what happened with Sam’s brother? Has anyone signed him yet?”
“Sure,” said Wavemin.
“Who?” asked Mr. Pin.
“The Minnesota Twins,” Wavemin said. “Now, are you sure you won’t play for the Cubs?”
“No, thanks,” said Mr. Pin. “But someday …”
“What’s that?” Walter asked.
“If a young lady with red hair named Maggie shows up and wants to try out, give her a chance. She has a mean fastball. Not only that, but she’s one smart kid in a city that loves baseball, and she knows how to keep her fingers on the seams.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Originally published by Atheneum.
Copyright © 1993, 2007 by Mary Elise Monsell
Illustrations copyright © 1993, 2007 by Eileen Christelow
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2957-5
Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
The Spy Who Came North from the Pole Page 3