With men on first and second and the wind ripping like a band saw, Slingshot kicked and delivered to the fourth Haymaker batter of the inning. The pumped-up goon got out ahead of the ball and chopped it weakly toward short.
Just what the doctor ordered, I thought, as Stump charged in to make the scoop: a perfect double-play grounder.
Stump fielded the ball cleanly. But as he turned to flip the ball to the Glove at second base, his right arm jerked like it had a case of the hiccups. The ball squirted away. By the time the Glove tracked it down, runners stood safely on every base.
“Heads-up out there,” called Skip Lou from the bench.
The next batter wasted no time in pasting another hit directly at Stump. This time the shortstop played it on a bounce, picked it neatly from his glove, and gunned it to Tugboat to cut down the lead runner at home.
Only his throw never reached Tugboat’s big pie plate.
It bounced six feet up the first-base line.
“SAFE!” roared the ump.
With the first run of the afternoon in the bank, the Hog City bench jeered Stump’s error mercilessly.
“Shortstop’s got a chicken arm!”
“He has ants in his pants!”
“More like grasshoppers! He’s all jumpy.”
Stump looked like he wanted to crawl under second base and hide. I called time to give him a minute to pull himself together. The Glove and Slingshot joined our huddle.
“Forget it,” I said, draping my arm around my friend’s shoulders. “The wind grabbed it. New batter, new chance.”
“That’s right,” encouraged Slingshot. “Couple quick outs, the inning is over and we’re only down one.”
Punching the pocket of his mitt, Stump nodded gamely.
When I got back to third base, I had company. Flicker Pringle now stood on the bag.
“Dude, that is the worst I have ever seen,” the pitcher sneered.
“Worst what?” I bristled.
“Case of the yips,” said Flicker. “Stick a fork in your shortstop, pal, because he is cooked.”
“You scored one run,” I said. “We’ll get it back, easy.”
“Going to be a lot more than one with old Yippie McYipperson in the middle,” said Flicker.
“His name is Stump,” I said coldly, eyes straight ahead.
“Way he plays,” Flicker shot back, “it should be Chump!”
“He’s an All-Star,” I barked.
“Not on my team, he isn’t,” Flicker said smugly. “You better believe I’m not going to let any chicken-winged shortstop ruin my All-Star Game.”
“Since when is it your game?” I muttered.
At the plate the Haymaker hitter ripped Slingshot’s very next pitch into right field for a single, and Flicker jogged home with the game’s second run.
After that, the wheels really came off.
More accurately, Stump’s arm did.
He committed two wild throws in a row, and Hog City cleared the bases. By the time Ducks snagged a swirling pop fly in left field to end the inning, nine batters had come to the plate, Stump had notched four errors, and Hog City sat on a six-run lead.
The only thing wilder than Stump’s arm was the weather. Clouds raced across the sky like clipper ships. Occasionally, something solid raced along with them. I swear I saw a whole set of patio furniture zip by—a table, four chairs, and a sun umbrella. A man dozed in one of the chairs.
“Whipping williwaws!” exclaimed Skip Lou as he sent Tugboat up to bat to start the second. “It’s blowing cats and dogs! Try getting some air under a ball, and we’ll see if something good happens.”
Tugboat caught Flicker off guard by swinging at the first pitch. He popped the ball up and, just as Skip had hoped, the wind did the rest. It grabbed his short fly and carried it over the center fielder’s head and all the way to the wall. Tugboat chugged into second with a stand-up double.
“No fair,” Flicker complained loudly. “The wind took it!”
“There’s a lot of things I can control, son,” said the ump. “But weather isn’t one of them. Batter up!”
Gilly stepped in and promptly lofted a ball to short left. The third baseman camped under it to make what looked like a sure out. But the ball never came down. It caught a fast-moving air current and abruptly darted toward center field. Turning three quick circles—kind of like Mr. Bones before he settles down for a nap—it dropped straight from the sky between bewildered fielders. Tugboat raced home and Gilly wound up on third with a wind-aided triple.
It wasn’t a normal way to score, but at least we were on the board.
By now Flicker Pringle practically had smoke pouring from his ears. It definitely came off the fastballs he hurled past Slingshot.
“STEE-RIKE ONE!”
“STEE-RIKE TWO!”
“STEE-RIKE THREE!” barked the ump without coming up for air.
“YOWCH!” yelped Hanky Burns, who after an inning and a third of catching volcanic heat was just about done for the day.
Flicker rolled his toothpick around in his mouth, while out in the bleachers, the Hog City faithful managed to glue another K to the wall.
Ocho followed Slingshot to the plate. New batter, same old result: a swinging whiff.
With two outs Ocho sat down and the Glove took his place in the box. The scrappy second baseman swung three times, and three times the ball sped past him like an express train. Fans tried to paste up another K, but this time the wind was ready for them. It snatched their cardboard letter and sent it sailing.
We went to the bottom of the second with the score six to one in favor of our rivals.
Staked to a big lead, the Haymakers started clubbing for the fences. Hog City is like that. They like to do things big. Besides, after watching us, they knew any ball they hit in the air would be near impossible to catch.
Slingshot is no dummy, though. He saw what the Haymakers were trying to do and used their aggressive swings against them. Throwing a battery of off-speed pitches, he goaded them into one wild-swing miss after another.
The second, third, and fourth innings passed without either team scoring. In the fifth, Flicker Pringle cleared everything with a line drive that moved so fast, not even the wind could slow it down. Right fielder Ocho James never had a chance. We got the run back in the sixth on zigzagging flies by Gasser Phipps (who had replaced Velcro in center), Tugboat, and Gilly.
But that was all we scored.
“STEE-RIKE THREE!” bleated the ump as the Glove swung and missed for our third out, the game ending exactly as it had begun: with a Flicker Pringle comet.
The pitcher pumped his fist, while out in the stands the windburned Hog City faithful fed their collection of red Ks to the squall. Sheets of cardboard swirled like confetti.
Final score: Hog City seven, Rambletown two.