are you ready? Come on, it’s time.”
He was still dirty from the onions and whatever else he’d prepped at the Grill, but making him clean himself up wasn’t worth a rumble.
“Charlie said it’s twenty-five whole dollars for the winner this year. That’s five more than last summer!” Triple stuck a pickle spear toward a turtle’s mouth. Twang wasn’t doing much good as a banjo anymore, because he’d taken up a new job as a turtle habitat.
“Looks like a fast one,” I said, whether or not I believed it. “What’s his name?”
Triple thought for a minute. “Peter,” he said. And then he ate the pickle spear himself.
“Peter. Okay, then,” I said. At least someone around here had a good old-fashioned normal name.
“Ready?” Triple asked me that question like I hadn’t asked him first, as though he’d gotten transfixed by Peter and a pickle and forgotten that the first game was about to start.
But I laughed, and I didn’t argue when Triple said he was bringing Peter along. Sometimes, later in the summer, the marquee read And so if Ferdie was okay with a bunch of drooling dogs, I’m sure he’d be okay with a turtle in a shoebox.
“You really don’t want to come, Garland?” I knew the answer would still be no, but it’s like he always said—food, family, and fun. Asking again was the family part of that.
The look on his face was all the answer I needed. It looked a little sad, like when you hear some music that stirs up something inside your soul that you didn’t even know was there.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll see you after.”
“I’ll leave the light on for you—all three thousand of them!” And there it was again, the sparkle that made Garland Garland.
We didn’t need to wait in June’s box‑office line. She’d given me the tickets already, and the fewer people who had to meet Peter, the better.
Triple and I always sat together behind the dugout on the first‑base side—every inning, every out, every game. I liked having some time with just him, and I think he liked it too. Marcus was always nearby, but he was more of a roamer, so once our batting‑practice routine would end, we’d high-five goodbye until the sun set and the burgers flipped. He liked left field to give Lump a little oomph and he liked close behind home plate to taunt the ump. But a lot of the time he’d just get bored with baseball and sneak into the bullpen to share some pistachios and blow bubbles with the relievers.
Even though he was supposed to be everywhere, Marcus wasn’t anywhere. And I was still mad at him for not telling me why.
As Triple and I scrambled up the steps and the noise of the stadium tickled my bones, I felt like a small part of something big. Miss Houston whaled on the organ with all the dazzle of a third‑base coach wildly waving a runner home. Rockskippers were scattered on the field in their blue-and-whites while they stretched and spat and scratched. Howls of “Peanuts! Popcorn! Cotton can-day!” echoed from the upper deck.
Triple seemed less enchanted by the magic that was swirling around and much more interested in the cotton can-day.
“Fine, fine, Triple. Let’s just sit down first.”
Charlie Bell’s dad was pitching. I liked him an extra bunch because we were both lefties. When he ran out to take the mound, he flashed me a thumbs-up, the left one.
“Strikes, Mr. Bell!” I yelled down to the field. “And, hey, free sweet‑potato fries all summer for the first shutout!”
Garland might not have been too thrilled by my giving away free sweet‑potato fries, but that was how easy it was to get caught up in the glory of this old place. Even Peter was clambering all around inside Twang with the most excitement a turtle could muster.
“This is awesome,” said Triple.
“Yeah,” I said.
It was.
And it still was through the first four innings. The outfielders ran all around the grass out there, protecting their turf from the other guys’ runs. Mr. Bell threw more strikes than balls, and the newest Rockskipper even hit a home run.
But then the fifth inning came around, and the stadium roar lowered to a hush. Everyone waited. Everyone wondered.
“Where’s Franklin?” Triple asked.
What about June? I thought.
Lump Emmett caught an easy fly ball to end the top of the inning. I’m pretty sure he also caught flickers of memories in his glove, because he stood still for just a nod and a beat before jogging back toward the dugout. I looked around for Marcus, sure he would be raising his fists in pride and jumping higher than the rest of the crowd.
I still didn’t see him anywhere.
Miss Houston began to play, and her song had hints of bittersweet vibrating through it. Maybe I was the only one hearing things, but one ear heard a rousing in-between-innings tune and the other heard heartbreak.
But the Rockskippers didn’t go into the dugout for the switch. Instead, clump by clump of brawny ballplayers stood guard just outside the bullpen, which wasn’t much more than some dirt and overturned buckets for chairs just across the foul line from shallow right field.
It’s also where Franklin Mattingly had kept his rakes and tools and cart. And there was June Mattingly, in the bullpen without him.
Clump by clump, the Rockskippers took off their ball caps, revealing bald heads, sweat-soaked hair, and a whole lot of awkward smiles that stretched more down than up.
June stood still. She smiled back, hers a little more successful in the upward way.
“Is that Miss June?” Triple had to stand on his seat to see.
I didn’t answer. Because then, introduced by a few clunky plunks from Miss Houston, the ramshackle bullpen fence swung open and out came Franklin Mattingly’s cart.
Marcus was driving it.
Even from all the way behind the dugout I could tell how fiercely he was gripping the steering wheel, knuckles whiter than a brand-new baseball. When he got to the infield, he hopped out, unfurled the rake, and moved through the motions of groundskeeping, swift and fluid.
I held my breath when he rounded second base—and I think the whole stadium did too. But Marcus didn’t dance. He only raked and patted and dragged in a kind of businesslike manner. And it didn’t really matter if I watched Marcus or June or the army of Rockskippers, because my eyes blurred and burned anyway.
Back at the bullpen, June wrapped her arms around Marcus.
And then the Rockskippers put their caps back on, Miss Houston plunked an oops or two, and the game continued like it was just another hot Ridge Creek evening, the sun dropping over the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium.