The Spinners had two of the worst next-door neighbors on planet Earth.

On the south side of their house was Morgan Bogan Bogden-Loople, a boy who never, ever said anything that wasn’t ridiculous or impossible. When Samantha went looking for clues about Uncle Paul, she asked Morgan Bogan if he had seen him.

“I saw your missing uncle just a few minutes ago,” he told her confidently. “He was wearing big rubber boots and said he was on his way to take cello lessons. He had a pet raccoon on his shoulder.”

Their other neighbor was Missy Snoddgrass. She lived next door to the Spinners on the north side, closer to the park. She was a little girl with curly blond hair, freckles, and a cute button nose. She was Double-Triple-Super Evil.

When Nipper walked out of his house and hopped the bushes that afternoon, with a folder full of papers to show Missy that he owned the New York Yankees, he should have known he was in for trouble.

“My uncle disappeared,” he told Missy as she stared at him through the screen door at the side of her house.

“I know all about that,” she said.

“Now I’m the new owner of Yankee Stadium!” Nipper said, excited to share the news with someone who seemed to care. He held up a fancy certificate with a big gold seal on it. “This is the official deed to the ballpark.” He flashed it for her to see.

Missy pushed open the door and slid out onto the landing a few feet from Nipper.

“Impressive,” she said, looking directly into his eyes without blinking. She did not sound very impressed.

“I’ve got contracts for all the players, too,” he added cheerfully.

Missy rubbed her chin with her right hand. Then she extended that hand toward Nipper, palm up.

“Fascinating. You should let me see some of those contracts.”

Nipper opened his folder and handed her several pages stapled together.

“Here,” he said, beaming with pride.

Missy inspected the pages carefully. He watched her lips move silently as she read the fine print.

Finally, she looked up from the contract and smiled at him. There was a huge gap where she was missing a tooth.

“He’s one of the finest pitchers in the entire American League,” she told him. “Uniquely talented. Will you let me see one of the outfielders?”

Nipper thumbed through his folder and held up another contract. Missy took the papers from him and read them more quickly.

“Amazing,” she concluded. “Now can I see the document for the stadium?”

At last, Nipper had found someone interested in his Yankees. For weeks, he had tried to engage Samantha in conversations about baseballs, stadiums, Leagues, the infield fly rule, hot dogs, or even big, fuzzy mascots. Nothing he said could distract her from the moping. She just wanted to whine about the umbrella. Of course, Nipper was the first to admit that he understood nothing about big sisters—or any eleven-year-old girl, for that matter.

Soon he had handed the complete set of documents to his neighbor.

“Well, I think we both know the secret to a winning sports team,” she said. Suddenly she started speaking in a very soft whisper. “It’s the players that you trade. Don’t you agree?”

“What was that last part?” asked Nipper.

“I said ‘trade.’ Don’t you agree?” she said clearly.

“Sure,” he answered cheerfully.

“Terrific,” Missy announced. She reached into her back pocket and took out a large magnifying glass. It had a shiny metal band around the lens and a blue handle.

Nipper thought she was going to use it to examine the papers again. Instead, she gave it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking it from her.

“That’s what some people refer to as a hand lens,” she explained. “Of course, you can still call it a magnifying glass. I don’t mind at all. It’s yours now. And no backsies!”

“Backsies?” asked Nipper, confused. He turned the hand lens over. The blue plastic handle was flimsy. It had a crack at the bottom. “I don’t understand.”

Missy reached into the front pocket of her yellow polka-dot blouse and took out several pages torn from a book. She shuffled through them quickly and handed one to Nipper.

It came from a dictionary. He read it out loud.

“No backsies:

noun phrase.

[nō bak-seez]

A command used to prevent a return action or consequence. This term originates from the game of tag, stopping players from immediately tagging the player who tagged them. More broadly, it prevents someone from going back on an agreement or trade.”

“I didn’t want an agreement…or a trade,” said Nipper, beginning to feel very nervous. “And I don’t like this magnifying glass.”

“Didn’t you hear me call it a hand lens?” Missy corrected him. “Well, you will definitely learn to love it. Bye.”

She tucked all the papers under one arm and turned to open the screen door.

“Wait!” shouted Nipper, reaching out to grab her sleeve.

Missy spun around violently and shook a fist two inches from his nose.

“Never touch me again or I will smash you like a bug. Endless misery and woe will fall upon you like the rain!”

Nipper could swear he saw her eyes flash red with fury. Then she smiled and looked down at her watch.

“Whoopsy. Look at the time,” she chirped happily, and stepped back into her house, slamming the door behind her.

And with that, she was gone.

And so were his New York Yankees.

Nipper was going to miss Opening Day.

Nipper stood on Missy’s porch for a few minutes. Then he slunk down the stairs and backed away from the Snoddgrass driveway. A magical new ring wasn’t in his future, and he didn’t feel like jumping over the bushes anymore. Soon he was inside his house, stomping up the stairs toward the second floor.

“Sam!” he called. “I lost my baseball team!”