Wall Ball by Kevin Markey

I said, carrying the feast to the table. “If Orlando’s new shoes don’t work, he’s going to knock himself goofy. And probably cost us the home opener.”
    “New shoes?” Dad asked.
    “Long story,” I said, reaching for a fried baloney sandwich. “You want one?”
    “You go ahead,” Dad said. “Eat.”
    Eat I did. So did Mr. Bones. A fried baloney sandwich for me, a fried baloney sandwich for Mr. Bones. Then another one for me and another one for him.
    We ate our way clean through a pound of baloney and a whole loaf of old Leadbelly Sinker Bread.
    The sandwiches did their trick. By the time Ifinished eating, I was too stuffed to worry about much of anything. Except maybe popping the buttons on my pajamas.
    “Now get some sleep,” Dad said. “You still have a game tomorrow, you know.”
    “Don’t remind me,” I said. “That’s what got me going in the first place.”
    I lumbered back upstairs and heaved myself into bed. Mr. Bones jumped up there with me and curled into a ball at my feet.
    For the rest of the night, my room was like a forest. I slept like a log, and Mr. Bones slept like a rock.

CHAPTER 19
    W hen I next opened my eyes, a bright yellow glow filled the room. I sat up and blinked. I felt as if I was trapped inside a lemon.
    I slid to the floor and ran to the window. I was psyched to see that no snow had fallen overnight. Even better, what remained from previous storms was melting fast. The bright yellow glow that filled my room was sunshine.
    “Wake up,” I called excitedly to Mr. Bones. “Spring is finally here.”
    He cocked his head and pricked his ears.
    “That’s right, you old furball,” I teased. “It’s curtains for that coat of yours.”
    I threw open the window and stuck out my head. The air carried the smell of the world waking up after a long nap. Warm and moist and earthy. I inhaled deeply. Someone should capture that scent and put it in a bottle. They’d make a million dollars selling it to people who were sick and tired of winter.
    Dad was cooking up a storm when I came downstairs.
    Omelets, of course.
    “One Star-Spangled Special coming right up,” he hollered over the roar of the CD player. “There’s hits in omelets, you know!” The speakers pumped out “We Are the Champions” at earsplitting volume. Another game-day ritual of my dad’s.
    “Great!” I yelled back.
    In truth, I wasn’t all that hungry. Given all the fried baloney sandwiches I’d wolfed down the night before, I probably could’ve gotten by with a bowl of thin gruel. Whatever gruel is. But tradition is tradition. You don’t mess with it.
    Mom breezed in with a big smile on her face.
    “Game on!” she shouted across the table. “Are you ready to rock those Haymakers?”
    “You bet,” I said.
    “Hold on!” Mom shouted. She got up and lowered the volume on the music. “I can’t hear myself think.”
    Dad frowned but didn’t protest. The omelet had reached a delicate stage and required his full attention.
    Mom unfolded the morning paper.
    “Will you look at that?” she said.
    Splashed across the front page was one of Gabby’s pictures. It showed Mount Rambletown with the team banner flying above the presidents. Clearly they were Rounders’ fans.
    The caption said:
    Opening Day is finally here. It must be. What other explanation could there befor the enormous sign that mysteriously appeared atop Mount Rambletown yesterday? Here’s hoping our hometown heroes reach the same dizzying heights as whatever brave soul planted it! Go, Rounders! Beat the Haymakers!
    “Now, how do you suppose that got up there?” Mom wondered aloud.
    “Beats me,” I said.
    “Breakfast is served,” announced Dad, lumbering toward us under the enormous weight of a flying saucer–sized omelet. “Red, white, and blue in honor of the national pastime!”
    Wagging his tail furiously, Mr. Bones parked himself beside my chair.
    Dad set down the platter on the table. His creation was blue with ribbons of