Before the game started, Bart and I held a conference. We talked about Gabbie and the wiffle ball again, and I reminded Bart that we would have to sign to Matt Braddock. Then we decided on a seven-inning game.

“If you want,” Bart said, “I’ll make an announcement about the innings. After that, we’ll toss a coin to see who goes to bat first.”

I nodded. Good. I may not be shy, but I didn’t really want to make an announcement to all the people who were jamming the stands. And believe me, there were a lot of them. Plus, there was a crowd around the refreshment tables.

I looked everything over as I listened to Bart greet the fans. He said something like, “Welcome to the first official game between Bart’s Bashers and Kristy’s Krushers.” (First official game?) Then he explained the rules of the day’s game.

Almost everyone was listening. A few kids were clustered around the refreshment stand, though, and Charlie and Sam were busy making change. Our cheerleaders weren’t paying any attention to Bart, either. They were scoping out the Bashers’ cheerleaders, whom I’m sure they hadn’t expected. I hadn’t expected them. I bet Bart got the idea for cheerleaders when he was spying on our practice games.

The Krushers were scoping out the Bashers. If they were feeling at all the way they looked, it was not a good sign. My jumbled team of boys and girls, tiny kids and big kids (well, fatsos), and even a handicapped kid, a klutz, and a disaster, were facing a team of sturdy boys — no little kids, no fatsos or deaf kids or klutzes. I suddenly had the feeling that each Krusher was thinking, “We don’t stand a chance.”

I tried to send the Krushers a message with mental telepathy. You do stand a chance, you do stand a chance.

The game began. Bart was acting as umpire. The Krushers were at bat, and Max Delaney was up first. He seemed to be there forever, and finally, after ball four (and two strikes), he walked to first base.

Behind me, the Krushers were getting antsy. And out of the blue, who should appear to help me, but the rest of the Baby-sitters Club.

“I can’t wait to play! I can’t wait to play!” Karen cried. So Mary Anne gave her a piggy-back ride around the refreshment stand.

Claudia played Simon Says with Gabbie, Myriah, and Jamie.

Dawn and Mal broke up an argument between Jake and Jackie.

And Jessi picked up and soothed a nervous Suzi Barrett.

They kept the Krushers calm and entertained while I kept my eye on the game.

Things weren’t going too badly, although nothing exciting was happening. The next batter also walked to first while Max walked to second.

Ho-hum.

Then Jamie was at bat. I looked at the kid who was pitching to him. He was about ten, tall for his age, and had a good strong arm. He barreled the ball toward Jamie.

Jamie ducked.

The Bashers snickered.

That happened two more times.

“Three strikes, you’re out!” shouted Bart.

Duh.

Claire was up next. Our cheerleaders caught sight of this and decided to give her a little boost.

“Krush those Bashers!” shouted Vanessa and Haley.

Claire struck out.

The Bashers’ cheerleaders stepped forward. In a neat line, pom-poms flying, they belted out a cheer that I bet they hadn’t written themselves. It was just too darn good.

Vanessa and Haley looked at each other. Then they looked at Charlotte, who shrugged. Then everyone looked at Claire Pike. Why?

Because she was throwing a tantrum, that’s why.

“Nofe-air! Nofe-air! Nofe-air!” she shrieked. Her face turned so red that her father had to step over a whole lot of people in the stands, run to Claire, take her aside, and calm her down.

From the stands came gentle laughter.

I let Mr. Pike handle Claire and looked at my team to see who was up next. It was time for a heavy hitter, and sure enough, Matt Braddock was up. I cringed, though, thinking of how the Bashers had laughed and called him a dummy before. They wouldn’t dare do that in front of all the parents, would they?

No way! Not when Matt hit a home run! Crack! No signing was even needed. Matt just ran the bases, sending the two Krushers ahead of him home, too.

The score was 3–0, in favor of the Krushers.

“Outta sight! Outta sight! You hit that ball with all your might!” screamed Haley and Vanessa. They were jumping up and down enthusiastically, but somehow they didn’t live up to the Bashers’ cheering.

It didn’t matter. When Matt reached home plate, the Krushers crowded around him, hugging him and signing to him. (Jessi told me one of the kids accidentally gave him the sign for “oven,” but Matt didn’t notice, and who cared anyway?) The excitement was uproarious. When it died down, Margo Pike stepped up to bat.

The Bashers must have had her pegged as an unreliable hitter, because immediately, their cheerleaders began chanting, “Strike out! Strike out!” which I thought was really mean.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. The next thing I knew, the Pike triplets, dressed impressively in their Little League uniforms, joined Vanessa and Haley and began cheering with them. It was hard to understand what they were shouting, but they drowned out the Bashers’ cheerleaders, and that was really all that mattered.

Unfortunately, it didn’t help.

Margo struck out.

“Three outs!” yelled Bart unnecessarily, and the Krushers gave up their bats and trotted onto the field. I’d thought they’d be devastated, but they looked fine. I even overheard Jackie say to David Michael, “Three runs. Can you believe it?”

They were proud!

The Krushers stationed themselves at their positions, while the Bashers were organized into their batting line-up. Once, while the kids were getting settled, my eyes met Bart’s. We both looked away quickly.

Then I signalled to David Michael, who was already on the pitcher’s mound.

He ran to me. “Yeah?” He looked nervous. But he also looked as if he were saying, with his eyes alone, “If you don’t let me pitch, I’ll kill you.”

“David Michael,” I said to him seriously, “just do your best.”

His face broke into a big smile. “I will, Watson,” he teased me.

I punched him on the arm and sent him back to the pitcher’s mound, grinning.

David Michael’s grin soon turned to gritted teeth. He simply was not as good as the Bashers’ pitcher, and the Bashers kept getting runs. By the end of the inning, the score was Bashers 6, Krushers 3.

The teams changed sides again.

I started the second inning by putting Gabbie in the game for awhile. It was an easy time to do that, before things really got underway, and I ran out to the Bashers’ pitcher with the wiffle ball and told him what was going on. I really should have told Bart, but I just couldn’t face him.

The pitcher looked at the wiffle ball and rolled his eyes.

“She’s only two and a half,” I snapped, “so walk forward. Now.”

The kid obeyed. And to give him credit, I have to say that he tossed the ball very nicely to Gabbie. He didn’t try anything funny.

Gabbie hit the ball. The pitcher was so surprised that he fielded it badly, overthrew the base, and Gabbie was safe at first.

The walking disaster was up next and I caught sight of him near the refreshment stand, testing bats for their weight. He picked one up, swung it, put it down. Then he picked up another, swung it — and suddenly he must have had margarine on his hands again, because the bat slipped out of them and flew into the refreshment tables. Very luckily, it didn’t hurt anyone. But the legs of both tables collapsed and the food began to slide every which way.

“Catch it! Catch it!” yelled Charlie. He and Sam (and Jessi and Dawn, who happened to be standing nearby) dove frantically for the plates of brownies and cookies and cupcakes. They caught most things, but an entire cake went — splat — on a rock, and twelve cups of lemonade slid on top of it.

Absolutely everybody saw the accident. And everybody laughed.

I wanted to die, and I think Jackie felt the same way, but he marched up to bat instead. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself. Besides, if he could hit a home run, then maybe everyone would forget about his disaster.

Jackie gripped the bat. He looked determined, but he must have been totally flustered. The first pitch was wild, but Jackie took a giant swing at it anyway, nearly losing his balance. (A few people in the stands couldn’t help laughing.) The next pitch was right over home plate, and Jackie tried to get away with bunting it. He missed. Strike two. The third pitch was also well-placed. Jackie swung again — and his bat went flying. It nearly hit the pitcher, who gave Jackie a dirty look.

“Strike three, you’re out!” shouted Bart.

Jackie was the picture of humiliation. You could see that his hopes of showing off had been completely dashed. His face started to crumple — and then he sort of stumbled. He sank to the ground, clutching his left ankle. “Oh!” he cried. “Oh, my ankle! I think I twisted it.”

I ran to Jackie. His ankle looked fine to me (and I gave his parents the OK sign, so they wouldn’t have to leave their places in the stands), but Jackie said it was killing him. “I better not play anymore,” he added.

Jackie walked off the field, limping pitifully on his right ankle…. Wait a sec. His right ankle? No, now it was his left.

Aha! I thought. I knew exactly what Jackie was up to.