Wing Ding by Kevin Markey

to run.”
    We all snapped to attention. Skip Lou often devised competitive drills for practice. The squad that came up short always ran. The Losers’ Lap, we called it.
    We chose sides. Ducks, Gilly, the Glove, Ocho,Kid Rabbit, and Tugboat formed one team. They were the Reds. Slingshot, Gasser, Velcro, Stump, and I made up the Blues. We had Slingshot, so they got the extra man. With his accuracy, the pitcher was worth at least two players.
    To keep things fair, the Reds got to pick which of our players would take two turns. They huddled to compare notes. The obvious choice would be Stump. I wondered if they’d be low down enough to make it.
    After a few seconds of whispering, the five of them straightened. Ocho cleared his throat.
    â€œGasser goes twice,” he said, his teammates nodding behind him. “He can take twelve throws in a row or two turns of six.”
    We all knew they’d given us a break.
    â€œHear that, Gasser?” Skip grinned. “These guys think you can’t hit the side of a barn!”
    â€œWe’ll see about that.” The center fielder laughed.
    For his part, Stump didn’t say anything. His expression spoke louder than words, though.He looked like an elephant had just climbed off his back.
    Kid Rabbit got things going for the Blues. In six tries he nailed two targets and neatly dropped one ball into a third. Four points—a very good start. Gasser stepped up for us. Electing to use all his tosses at once, he plunked three buckets on his first go-round and five more on his second.
    â€œThere’s your barn,” he said smugly.
    Because Gasser counted for two turns, the Reds sent up a couple players in a row. Gilly drilled three of six, just missing a two-pointer when his last attempt rimmed out. Ocho followed him and rallied his side into the lead by scoring four times.
    Taking the ball with the Reds up 11–8, Slingshot put on a clinic. He scored on all six of his throws, including a high-arching eephus pitch that settled in for two. The five bonus points pushed his score to twelve and gave us a total of twenty.
    Throwing for the Reds, Tugboat rifled the ball like he meant to cut down a base runner trying to steal second. It would have taken more than wind to knock his cannon shots off course. His first three blasts nailed their marks dead center, sending the buckets flying. After Skip reset them, Tugboat took deadly aim and toppled two more. His sixth attempt sailed a fraction of an inch high. Lucky for the bucket. Lucky for us, too: no bonus for the Reds. Velcro came up next and gave us three out of six, each of his misses narrower than the edge of a dime.
    Ducks grabbed the ball from him and took aim for the Reds. Lobbing gentle rainbows, he dropped six balls in a row into the buckets. Amazing! Twelve points plus the bonus of five gave those guys a whopping total of thirty-three. Even though Ducks had stolen the lead, we all cheered his incredible performance. You’ve got to admire perfection.
    â€œThere’s your All-Star left fielder!” Skip hollered as Ducks beamed and we all clapped likemad. “Way to go, kid! What touch!”
    Having carefully watched four and a half rounds, I decided to try for straight pegs on my turn. We were down 33–23 and we flat out needed some hits. I figured it made sense to go after the easy points rather than to chase the tricky ones. Concentrating hard, I picked off the buckets one after another— plink, plonk, plunk —and pocketed the bonus. Eleven points gave us thirty-four. More important, it gave us the lead again.
    For a few seconds, it did.
    I handed off to the Glove, who promptly nailed half his chances. Down to our last man, we now trailed the Reds by 36–34. Only one player stood between them and victory.
    The player was Stump. He needed two hits to tie, three to win.
    I held my breath as he took aim at the bucket on the right.
    Stump reached back and fired a dart. Straight