Wall Ball by Kevin Markey Page B

the dugout and trotted out to the diamond to get loose. In all the glittery sunlight, warming up was like tightening a belt. It was a cinch.
    As we tossed the ball around the infield, fans began filling the bleachers. Most were decked out in Rounders’ red and white. Many carried thick blankets, as if they didn’t trust the weather to stay warm. All wore sunglasses.
    At a quarter till noon, Skip Lou called us into the dugout.
    “I don’t know how that ray gun of a banner got up on Mount Rambletown,” he said. “AndI’m not sure I want to know. But I do know I’m ready for this game. I hope you guys are too!”
    “We are!” we yelled in response.
    “Good. Then let’s play hard and play fair and have a good time out there.”
    No sooner had he finished his pep talk than the public-address system boomed to life. “And now,” bellowed the announcer, “please welcome the reigning division champs, our very own Rambletown Rounders!”
    We charged out of our dugout to a standing ovation. Packed shoulder to shoulder in the bleachers, fans stamped and cheered and screamed our names. After the longest winter on record, they were as eager to watch baseball as we were to play it. It felt great to be standing at third base wearing a Rounders uniform instead of a down-filled parka.
    Over on the visitors’ bench the Haymakers looked like a bunch of skinned knees. Sore. They scowled at us and spit wads of chewed-up sunflower seeds on the ground. But at least theydidn’t fire any snowballs.
    The umpire gathered himself behind home plate.
    “PLAY BALL!” he roared.

CHAPTER 20
    T he first Haymaker splashed to the plate. He was enormous. All the Haymakers were big, but this guy was downright scary. He was built like a refrigerator with arms and legs. He stepped into the box and cocked his bat. The barrel twitched like a tiger’s tail.
    Slingshot wound up and delivered the first pitch of the game. Fastball on the inside corner.
    “STRIKE ONE!” boomed the umpire.
    The gargantuan batter spit a wad of chewed-up sunflower seeds. He looked at strike two, then coolly lashed Slingshot’s third pitch past Gilly at first. As the ball skidded into a puddle in the right field corner, the Haymaker taggedfirst and chugged for second. Ocho snatched the ball out of the drink and rifled it in. The Haymaker slid into the bag, splashing mud all over the Glove.
    When the tidal wave subsided, the umpire made his call.
    “SAFE!” he roared.
    “No worries,” I chattered. “Get the next guy, Slingshot!”
    Slingshot bore down. He struck out batter number two on four pitches. He got the one after that on a pop fly to Ducks Bunion in left. The runner on second feinted toward third but retreated to the bag as Ducks fired the ball in to me.
    “Two down,” I shouted. “Let’s go, guys. Play is at first.”
    Then it was Flicker Pringle’s turn to hit. Out in the bleachers, fans nervously adjusted their sunglasses. They knew. We all knew. If there is one thing Flicker Pringle can do even better than throw a baseball, it is hit a baseball.
    “C’mon now, Slingshot,” called Stump. “Strike him out! He’s got nothing!”
    Flicker snorted. “Nothing but power to any field,” he growled. The eye black smeared under his eyes to block the white glare reflecting down from atop Mount Rambletown looked like war paint. He crowded the plate, stirring the air with his bat.
    Slingshot hurled some high cheese.
    A lesser hitter would have swung right under the speeding ball. Not Flicker. He smashed it into deep center field. The second he connected, he dropped his bat and triumphantly raised both arms in the air.
    In center field, Orlando turned and galloped toward the deepest part of the park. Mud splashed up at every step he took.
    Orlando would have caught the ball, too.
    Except for one thing.
    He ran out of room.
    “Look out!” I yelled from third base.
    The fans in the bleachers saw what was about to happen and sucked in their breath all