by Judy Blume
“So what?” I said. “It’s not every day you get to play with Big Apfel.”
“I never even heard of this guy until you started in on him.”
“Too bad,” I said, “because he’s headed for the Hall of Fame.”
“Says who?” Jimmy asked.
“Says me!”
* * *
There were more people at the high school field than I had ever seen in Southwest Harbor. And more dogs than I had ever seen anywhere, except in Central Park on a sunny day. Enough dogs for a team of their own.
When Sheila saw all those dogs, she screamed and ran back to her father’s car. “I’ll wait here!” she said, slamming the door.
“It’s going to be a long wait,” Mr. Tubman told her.
“I don’t mind,” Sheila said. “I brought a book, just in case.”
“I thought you’re not afraid of dogs anymore,” I said.
“I’m not . . . once I know them. But strange dogs can give you diseases.”
“Not if you don’t kiss them,” I said.
“Ha ha!”
“If you change your mind . . .” Mr. Tubman began.
“I’ll never change my mind!” Sheila told him.
Mr. Tubman shook his head but he didn’t force Sheila out of the car.
Jimmy and I headed for the field. I stopped in my tracks when I saw this great-looking girl in a red-striped T-shirt, stretching out near third base. It was Isobel! “That’s her,” I told Jimmy.
He gave me a blank look.
“Isobel . . . from the library,” I said.
“Really?” Jimmy said. “That’s Izzy?”
“Yeah!”
“She’s incredibly ugly!”
“What are you, crazy?” I said. “She’s beautiful!”
Jimmy slapped his thigh and laughed. “I got you that time,” he said.
“Very funny,” I told him.
There were other familiar faces, too. The woman who owns Oz Books was there. I call her Dorothy of Oz, even though that’s not her real name. And the butcher, from Sawyer’s Market. Bicycle Bob was there, too. He said, “So . . . how’s the newest member of the I.S.A.F. Club?”
“Great,” I told him.
“Keeping your mouth shut?” he asked.
“I’m trying.”
“That’s the way!” He cuffed me on the shoulder.
Suddenly a low murmur ran through the crowd. Everyone looked toward home plate. And there he was! Dressed in full Red Sox uniform. Big Apfel . . . in the flesh!
I recognized him right away. First, by his height—six feet six inches without spikes—and second, because he still looks a lot like the picture on his baseball card. Except he’s gained a few pounds and now his hair is gray.
Everyone gathered around him. You could feel the excitement. Mitzi and Fudge were right in the middle of it, each with an arm around one of Big’s legs. I tried to work my way closer but I got shoved aside by the guy from the hardware store.
My heart was pounding. Please let me be on his team, I prayed. I’ll never ask for another thing if I can just play on his team.
Then Big spoke and his voice boomed. “As most of you already know, these old knees aren’t what they used to be. I can’t take the field or run the bases anymore.” He looked right at me and nodded, as if he knew me. “But I can still knock one out of here every now and then!”
I cheered with the crowd.
“So to be fair,” Big continued, “I bat for both sides!”
Everybody cheered again. Everybody except me. “What?” I said. “How can he bat for both sides? That’s impossible. That’s against the official rules.”
“When in Rome . . .” some woman, who was standing next to me, said.
I glared at her.
She glared back and repeated the whole phrase, as if I hadn’t gotten it the first time. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
“I’ve got news for you,” I told her, feeling my face turn hot. “We’re not in Rome.”
“And I’ve got news for you, junior,” she said. “Rudeness will not be tolerated in this game!”
“Who’s being rude?” I asked.
“Cut it out, Peter,” Jimmy whispered, grabbing my arm.
I shook him off.
“Calm down . . . will you?” he said. “It’s just a game.”
“I suppose you think it’s fair for him to bat for both sides.”
“Yeah . . . I do.”
I looked away. My throat felt tight.
Big grabbed a fistful of straws and everyone who wanted to be captain drew one, including Jimmy and me.
“Look . . .” Fudge said, holding up a short straw. “I’m captain!”
Isobel held up the other short straw. “I’m captain, too!”
“I can’t believe this!” I said.
“Maybe she’ll pick you for her team,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah . . . sure.” I wasn’t about to admit I was hoping the same thing.
“Hey, Izzy . . .” Fudge called. “I’m writing that book. I’m already on Chapter Four.”
“Fantastic!” Isobel called back.
“Let’s go!” some guy with a serpent tattoo shouted. “Choose up sides! This is a ball game . . . not a social hour.”
Captain Fudge, with his Oil of Olay mitt, got to choose first. So who did he pick? The biggest, strongest-looking player? No . . . that would have made too much sense. He chose Mitzi.
Then it was Isobel’s turn. If I were the Amazing Kreskin I’d be able to make her choose me. I concentrated on my name, trying to get the message through to her. Peter Warren Hatcher . . . Peter Warren Hatcher . . . Isobel looked at me and smiled. Yes! I thought. It’s going to work. I closed my eyes.
When I did, Isobel chose Tony Ickle.
Then Fudge picked me. Good-bye, Isobel. I tried to get him to choose Jimmy next, so at least I’d have a friend on my team. But did he listen? No! And Jimmy wound up on Isobel’s team. Nothing was working out the way I’d planned. Absolutely nothing!
* * *
Our side took the field. When in Rome was on first base, I was on second, and Buzzy Senior was on third. Fudge and Mitzi stood right next to each other at shortstop. And Dad was on the mound.
Isobel’s team lined up. Tony Ickle was their first batter. Dad threw a fastball but it was wild. He threw six more before he settled down. Lucky for us it’s a no-walk game. Tony popped up the first one that crossed the plate. It came toward me.
I was ready for it but I took my eye off the ball—just for a second—just to make sure Big Apfel was watching. When I did, the ball dropped at my feet. I picked it up and panicked. My throw to first went over the head of When in Rome.
“Wake up, junior!” she yelled. “Where are your eyes . . . in the back of your head?”
I could feel everyone staring at me. I swallowed hard and blinked back tears. If only I could do it over I know I’d make the catch.
“It’s all right, Peter . . .” Dad said. “We all make mistakes.”
Sure, I thought. But we don’t all make two on the first play of the game. My legs were shaking and I felt Grandma’s pancakes bouncing around in my stomach.
Before the first half of the first inning was over Isobel’s team had five runs and Big hadn’t even come up. When he did, he slammed one out of sight and two more runs scored.
Finally it was our turn at bat. Bicycle Bob was on the mound for Isobel’s team and he put every pitch right down the middle. By the time I came up we had two on and two out.
Okay, I thought. This is it. This is my big chance. I can make up for my errors now. All I have to do is concentrate . . . I stood up to the plate. Bicycle Bob wasn’t going to get anything by me. I could feel Big wat
ching. I could feel him thinking, This guy might have potential after all.
Bicycle Bob wound up and threw the first pitch. I took a huge cut and missed, spinning all the way around.
“It’s Fudge-a-mania!” Mitzi sang.
“No it’s not,” Fudge told her. “It’s a strike!”
“Oh,” Mitzi said, disappointed.
I took another swing and missed again.
“Keep your eye on the ball, Pete!” Fudge called. Just what I needed. My five-year-old brother giving me tips at the plate.
Bicycle Bob threw the next pitch. This time I was ready for it. I heard the crack of the bat as it connected with the ball. It was a good, strong shot. But, wait! It was headed straight for Grandma, who was playing deep at third!
“Run!!!” my team yelled.
I ran for first, trying to keep my eye on Grandma at the same time. I hoped the ball wouldn’t knock her down.
But I worried for nothing, because Grandma jumped with her glove held high. She made a fantastic catch. I was out. Isobel’s team cheered.
Thanks a lot, Grandma!
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. We were back in the field. Isobel came up to the plate. She’s one of those players who wiggles the bat. Actually, she wiggles more than the bat but I tried not to notice.
She knocked a slow grounder right at Mitzi. But Mitzi knew what to do. She had her glove on the ground and her legs together so the ball couldn’t get through. She stopped it. She picked it up. “Look!” she called, showing everyone. “I got the ball!”
“Throw!” we all yelled at her. She looked confused, then threw the ball to Fudge, who was standing right next to her.
By then Isobel was on her way to second.
“Here!” I yelled at Fudge.
But instead of throwing the ball he ran it over and personally handed it to me. By then Isobel was on her way to third.
“Throw, Peter!” Buzzy Senior yelled.
But I was scared I’d throw it away again. So I decided to fake a throw instead. And it worked! Isobel headed back to second. When she realized I still had the ball she turned and tried for third again. We had her trapped between the bases. There was only one sure way to get her out. So I ran after her. It wasn’t my fault she changed directions again and we collided, falling to the ground together.
“This isn’t football!” she shouted. Then she stood up, brushed herself off and marched off the field.
“Yea, Izzy!” Fudge cheered.
“She’s on the other team!” I told him. “You’re supposed to cheer for me. I’m the one who tagged her out.”
“Yea, Pete!” he and Mitzi cheered, jumping up and down. They were the only ones who did.
As if that weren’t enough, in the final inning Jimmy hit a perfect double to left field. And Big shouted, “Way to go, son!” I thought Big wasn’t supposed to root for either team. I thought he was supposed to stay neutral.
* * *
Finally, the game was over. Captain Fudge didn’t mind that his team lost 26 to 8. Or that he struck out every time he came to bat. He and Jimmy yakked all the way home. They sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” They made plans for next Sunday’s game.
“I thought you have to leave on Thursday,” I said.
“Nah . . . my dad said as long as the weather’s good we can stay a while longer.”
“Great,” I said, but I wasn’t sure I meant it.
“Big says I have real potential,” Jimmy told me. “He says I just have to build up my confidence. He says once I have confidence there won’t be any stopping me. I might even be heading for the majors.”
“Great,” I said again. Now I know how Dad felt yesterday, on the boat. Like a real loser.
“And it’s all thanks to you, Peter!” Jimmy said, dropping his arm over my shoulder. “If you hadn’t forced me out of bed this morning none of this would have happened. You’re really my best friend!”
“And you’re my best brother,” Fudge said, planting a sticky kiss on my face.
Maybe I’m not such a loser, I thought. Maybe today just wasn’t my day. But next Sunday could be completely different. Next Sunday I might make a fantastic catch and hit a grand-slam home run! Anything’s possible in baseball.
This time, when Jimmy and Fudge started another round of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” I sang with them.
* * *
Mom hit the shower as soon as we got home and when she came out, she called, “Fudgie . . . where’s my Oil of Olay?”
“Mr. Zuman took it, Mom,” Fudge said. Mr. Zuman is the guy who picks up the trash twice a week.
“Why would Mr. Zuman have taken my Oil of Olay?”
“Because the bottle was empty.” Fudge was tying a red bandana around Turtle’s neck. All the dogs at the game wore bandanas.
“But it was a brand new bottle,” Mom said.
“It was still empty, Mom.”
“But you said you only needed a few drops . . . for Mitzi.”
“Not Mitzi,” Fudge said. “My mitt-sy.”
“Your what?” Mom asked.
“You know . . . my baseball glove.”
“You used my Oil of Olay on your baseball glove?”
Fudge undid the bandana from Turtle’s neck and tied it around his leg, instead. Turtle barked.
“You used all my Oil of Olay on your mitt-sy?” Mom asked.
“Right,” Fudge said.
“I can’t believe this!” Mom said to herself. “All my Oil of Olay.”
“Olay . . .” Uncle Feather said, as Sheila came into the room. “Olay . . .”
“I didn’t know your bird speaks Spanish!” Sheila said.
“He doesn’t,” I told her.
“But I just heard him say olé.” Sheila went over to Uncle Feather’s cage and snapped her fingers. “Olé!” she sang.
“Olay . . . olay . . .” Uncle Feather sang back.
“You see!” Sheila said to me.
“It’s not that kind of olé,” I said. “It’s o-l-a-y.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Sheila asked.
“Believe me . . . I know!”
The Ring Bear
“Big news!” Mr. Fargo announced two days later. “My dealer in New York loves the idea of Baby Feet. I’m going to do a whole series of Baby Feet paintings. And when I’m done, there’ll be a show at a gallery in SoHo. You’ll all have to come.” He picked up Tootsie and shook her. “We’re going to be famous, Tootsie Pie!”
“How about rich, Dad?” Jimmy asked. “Could we get just a little bit rich while you’re at it?”
“You never know,” Mr. Fargo said. And for the second time that week, he laughed.
If Mr. Fargo gets rich on Tootsie’s footprints, will Tootsie get something too? I wondered.
“That’s wonderful news, Frank!” Mom said.
“Speaking of wonderful news . . .” Grandma said. She and Buzzy Senior stood with their arms around each other. “Buzzy and I . . .” Grandma looked at him and smiled.
“There’s only one way to say it,” Buzzy Senior said. Then he cleared his throat and began to sing: “Who can explain it, who can tell you why?”
Grandma joined him on the next line. “Fools give you reasons, wise men never trrryyyy . . .”
“Mother . . .” Mom said. “What are you trying to tell us?”
“Why Anne, dear . . .” Grandma said, “I thought it was obvious. Buzzy and I are in love. We’re going to be married.”
“Married?” Mom and Dad said.
“Married?” Mr. and Mrs. Tubman said.
“Yes . . .” Buzzy Senior said. “Married.”
“Isn’t this kind of sudden?” Mom said.
“When is this marriage going to take place?” Mom asked.
“Oh . . . I don’t know,” Grandma said. “Maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
“Tomorrow?” Mr. Tubman said. “That soon?”
“Well, yes . . .” Grandma said. “While we’re all here together, in Maine.”
“Couldn’t you wait?” Mom asked.
“I suppose we could wait until next weekend,” Grandma said.
Mom and Mr. Tubman looked like they were in shock. I expected them to fall over any second.
“Grandpa . . .” Libby said, “what exactly does this mean? Does this mean I’m going to be related to the Hatchers?”
“Related?” I said. “Related?”
Sheila cried, “Grandpa . . . you can’t do this to me!”
And I cried, “Grandma . . . you can’t do this to me!”
Jimmy just stood there laughing.
And Fudge looked confused. “So I don’t have to marry Sheila because we’re getting related anyway?”
“Right,” Grandma said.
“I can’t believe any of this!” Sheila wailed.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Fudge said. “I’ll get you some of Mitzi’s monster spray.”
“Well,” Mr. Fargo said, “this calls for a toast! Didn’t I see a bottle of champagne on ice?”
“Good thinking, Frank!” Buzzy Senior said.
* * *
So there’s going to be a wedding in Maine after all. Except Sheila and Fudge aren’t going to be the bride and groom. Grandma and Buzzy Senior are. I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I like Buzzy Senior. And I’m glad Grandma’s happy. But does this mean we’ll have to spend every holiday with the Tubmans? Does it mean I’m stuck with Sheila as my stepsomething for the rest of my life?
* * *
That night everyone sat around making wedding plans. Even Mom and Mr. Tubman got involved. I guess it just took them more time than the rest of us to get used to the idea of his father marrying her mother.
“We want to keep it very simple,” Grandma said. “Something informal . . . outside . . . under the trees . . .”