For Byron, keeping his streak
alive as the best kid in the world
—K.S.
For Mom
—E.B.
I woke up an hour earlier than I had to, thanks to the sound of whistling from the kitchen. Dad is a morning person and a whistler. I tried to ignore it, but I also smelled bacon and pancakes. That was too good to ignore, so I got dressed and headed downstairs.
Dad was at the stove, poking at the bacon. He was still whistling. Our dog, Penny, was perched right by him, staring hungrily and whimpering. She carried a better tune than he did.
"Grmdg," I said. It was the best I could do.
"Good morning to you too!"
He handed me a plate of food, and I sat down to eat. I felt a lot more awake after a few bites.
"Thanks, but what happened to Mom?" Usually she made breakfast on Sundays.
"She's playing golf with friends," he said. "They wanted to hit the links before it started raining. Speaking of which, maybe you won't have to work today. Sounds like it's going to come down pretty hard later."
"I sure hope not." I was a batboy for the Pine City Porcupines, the Single-A team in our hometown. It was really fun, and way better than sitting around on a rainy day.
…
Dad was right. The sky was dark and gloomy, and looked like it might let loose any second with a storm. But they don't cancel baseball games unless they absolutely have to. I walked to the ballpark and got ready for the day's game against the Centralville Cougars. I made coffee, set up the bat rack, and made sure the supply chest was full.
The players started coming in.
"I bet we don't play today," said Wayne Zane. He was the Porcupines' catcher.
"Hope I can get some bull-pen time in," said Ryan Kimball, the closer. A closer is a pitcher who only plays late in the game, when the team is protecting a small lead.
Diego Prado said something in Spanish. Diego was a bench player. That meant he mostly sat in the dugout and waited. Sometimes he would get a turn at the plate or an inning in the outfield.
"He says he hopes to play every day," Lance Panta?o translated. Lance was a pitcher from Puerto Rico and was fluent in both Spanish and English. Diego was from Mexico and spoke only Spanish.
I knew how Diego felt. That's what it was like for me when I played Little League. I got to play, but never for the whole game.
"You'll get a chance. Just be patient," said Sammy Solaris, the designated hitter. "You're good in the outfield, and you've been hitting well in batting practice."
Lance started to translate, but Diego waved at him to stop. "Entiendo," he said, which must have meant, "I understand."
…
It was drizzling when the game started. The umpires met and decided the game could be played. It wasn't raining very hard, at least not yet. The fans wore ponchos or raincoats. Some made their programs into hats.
In the top of the second inning, a Cougar batter hit a fly ball to deep left field. Danny O'Brien ran after it, skidded on the damp grass, lost his balance, and fell down. The ball bounced all the way to the wall. Danny tried to get up, but he was clearly hurt. Myung Young ran from center field to get the ball. The batter ran all the way to third base.
After the play, the trainer helped Danny off the field.
"Are you all right?" I asked Danny as he passed through the dugout. He looked like he was in a lot of pain.
"I just twisted my ankle," he said. "I'll be OK."
"Prado, you're in," said Grumps, the manager of the Porcupines. His full name was Harry Humboldt, but everyone called him Grumps. He made the change on his scorecard.
"Gracias", said Diego. He got his glove and ran out to play left field.
He got a base hit in his first turn at the plate, and batted in a run.
The rain started coming down a lot harder in the sixth inning. The game was called, but enough innings had been played for the game to be official.
Danny O'Brien was still in the locker room after the game. He had his leg stretched out on the bench, and ice packs were taped to his ankle. He was reading a paperback book.
"How are you doing, Danny?" Wayne Zane asked him.
"I'm good," said Danny. He closed the book, using his finger to mark his place.
"Are you sure?" asked Tommy, the third baseman. "It looked like a bad spill."
"Sure I'm sure," said Danny with a wince. "It doesn't even hurt that much. Really." He opened his book again, but he didn't look happy.
I sat on the bench to towel off some of the equipment. I liked hanging around the players after the game, when they were joking around and ribbing each other.
"Hey, what are you reading?" Wayne asked Danny.
"Trouble on the Mound," said Danny. "It's a Mike McKay mystery."
"Oh, yeah. Mike McKay, the Sports Detective! I've read all of them," said Wayne. "I think that's the one where the pitching coach put the poison in the rosin bag."
"Hey!" Danny said, sputtering. "I'm only on page thirty—you just spoiled the ending!"
"Oops." Wayne went to his locker. Danny chucked the book, and it bounced off the locker door next to Wayne.
"You missed," said Wayne. "Good thing you're not a pitcher."
I was right there, so I picked up the book and handed it back to Danny.
"Do I get three throws for a dollar?" he asked me.
I laughed. "Sure."
"I'll get you the dollar," joked Teddy Larrabee, the first baseman.
Diego Prado walked by on his way to his locker.
"Nice hit, today," Danny told him, offering a hand. Diego slapped it.
"Gracias."
"I might need a few days to heal," said Danny. "Hope you're ready to play every day."
Diego answered in Spanish.
"He hopes he is, and he's sorry you're hurt," said Lance.
"Tell him 'Thanks,' and I'll be fine," said Danny to Lance.
"He knows," said Lance. "He understands almost everything you guys say. He just can't speak English."
Diego nodded and said something else in Spanish.
"He says he knows enough English to get Wayne's jokes," said Lance.
"Poor guy," said Danny.
…
Dylan returned from the other dugout. He was the other batboy, and he had been in the visitors' dugout helping the Cougars.
"Hey, Wally," he said to the clubhouse manager, who was our boss. "I have something important to talk to you about."
"What's up?"
"It's kind of … secret," said Dylan, looking around the locker room.
"OK. Let's meet in my office." Wally's office was nothing but a desk in the equipment room, but Dylan followed him in there.
I was dressed and ready to leave. Then I remembered that it was still raining, so I looked for my rainproof poncho. Wally had given both Dylan and me Porcupine ponchos a while back.
My locker was kind of a mess. I had extra clothes, game-day souvenirs, and a bunch of other junk. I kept meaning to sort it out but never got around to it.
Dylan came back and grabbed his poncho from his locker.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"I'm going to miss most of the next home stand the week after next."
"Really?" The next home stand was going to be the longest of the season, with games on ten straight days. "How come?"
"I've got other plans." He closed his locker door. "Wally's going to try and find a replacement."
"OK." I expected Dylan to tell me why he would be gone, but he didn't.
"Are you ready to walk home?" he asked.
"Sure." I finally found my poncho hiding in the corner of my locker, under a baseball glove I used during batting practice.
We headed out. We walked with our hoods up and our heads lowered because it was raining really hard. Dylan had plenty of time to tell me where he was going, but he didn't say a word. I wondered what the big secret was and why he wouldn't tell me.
