All night long, the wind screamed like kids on a roller coaster. The windows rattled. The house timbers creaked. The constant noise made it hard to sleep. I tossed like a salad before finally drifting off, worries about the yips and the All-Star Game racing through my head faster even than the air whipped across the night sky.
The relentless gusts must have bothered Mr. Bones, too. Curled up in his usual position at the foot of my bed, he let out a hiccuppy yowl from time to time. His legs churned as he chased something in his dreams. Grasshoppers, most likely.
In the morning I awoke feeling tense. Pulling on my All-Star uniform helped settle my nerves.
Arching white letters on the crisp red jersey announced that I played for the East. The right sleeve bore a blue patch in the shape of a five-pointed star. I’m not ashamed to admit I took a minute to admire myself in the mirror. I felt proud to wear that uniform.
Feeling better, I went downstairs. My dad had beaten me to the kitchen. I found him bunkered behind a tottering wall of pots and pans. Ceramic bowls overflowing with grated cheese, chopped peppers, diced ham, and who knows what else rose from the countertop practically to the ceiling. Enclosed within his fortress, he cracked half a dozen eggs into a stainless-steel mixing bowl and furiously beat them with a wire whisk.
“Today’s the day!” he greeted me. “The All-Star Game!”
Seeing him walled off like that reminded me of the story of Troy and the hollow horse.
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” I said.
“Huh?” he asked distractedly. “You want a Greek omelet? We can do that.” He poured his goopy mixture onto a sizzling griddle, then clattered the mixing bowl into the sink. “Feta cheese, olives, onions,” he mumbled. “I’ve got them here somewhere.”
Dad was like the United Nations of breakfast. He had omelet recipes from every country on earth.
As much as he liked making them, I liked eating them.
Mr. Bones loved them even more.
My dog plopped down next to his dish and swept his tail back and forth across the floor like a broom. The tiles near his feeding station always shined.
I opened the newspaper and turned to the sports section.
A banner headline above a story by Gabby read:
ALL-STARS COME TO TOWN
Led by hometown heroes Ducks Bunion, Stump Plumwhiff, and the Great Walloper, the East All-Stars square off against their counterparts from the West division today at a freshly spruced-up Rambletown Field. Both squads pack ample firepower, stalwart defense, and terrific pitching. With all else being equal, the outcome could hinge on something neither team can control. Namely, the weather.
In a recent game between the Rambletown Rounders and the Hog City Haymakers, the wind whipped like Eddie Shoemaker on the backstretch at Churchill Downs. Fly balls danced like shadow puppets and proved even harder to catch. Routine pop-ups grew wings and soared like eagles. Long fly balls dropped out of the air as suddenly as if they’d run into an invisible wall.
Forecasters predict similar conditions today.
“We expect it to be windier than a politician making a speech,” says Rambletown manager Skipper Lou “Skip-to-My-Lou” Clementine.
If he’s right, the East may be in trouble. The wacky weather has given fits to starting shortstop Stump Plumwhiff. Against the Haymakers, the normally stellar fielder muffed four straight chances. Any sloppier and you could’ve slathered his play in tomato sauce, served it up on a hamburger bun, and called it Joe.
Not that you would have found any takers among his steadfast teammates or coach, all of whom refuse to point fingers. “Really difficult conditions,” said Skip Lou. “You can’t win ’em all.”
Not when the wind howls like something out of The Wizard of Oz, you can’t. But if Stump doesn’t settle down, his team is going to need more than home-field advantage to prevail against the powerful West All-Stars. They’ll need a pair of ruby slippers.
I tossed aside the paper. A hard story, but basically fair. Only one part confused me.
“Dad,” I asked, “Who is Eddie Shoemaker?”
“He was a professional jockey,” Dad said without looking up from the stove. The omelet had reached a delicate stage and required all his attention. “You know, raced horses. Little guy. Rode like the wind.”
I let the wind reference pass. Wind wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on. “What about Churchill Downs?” I said. “What’s that?”
“Famous horse track. Home of the Kentucky Derby, the biggest horse race in the world.”
“Do jockeys really whip their horses?” I asked. It sounded cruel.
“I don’t know. I guess so.” Dad turned the omelet on the griddle, then looked my way. “They carry these springy little sticks called riding crops. Why all the interest?”
“Just an article in the sports pages. I think I get it now.”
“About horse racing?”
“About baseball,” I said.
“There are no horses in baseball.”
“No,” I agreed, “but the sport sure can whip you if you’re not careful.”
Dad shot me a funny look but let it drop. Returning his attention to breakfast, he carefully levered the omelet onto a plate with a pair of spatulas. What he really needed was a crane. Pale yellow and quivery, the thing was the size of the Goodyear blimp.
“Breakfast is served,” he said.
“Oh, good,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen. “I’m just in time. Morning, guys.” Only then did she see the state of the counter. Pots and pans scattered everywhere, bowls spilling ingredients like dirty secrets. She shook her head. She sighed.
Then she started giggling.
“What?” asked Dad, lugging his creation to the table. “Genius at work. Don’t worry about it. Your only job is to eat.”
“My kind of work,” Mom said.
Face flushed, Dad carved the zeppelin into gargantuan portions and served them up.
“Eat,” he said. “There’s hits in omelets.”
We were about to tuck in when a string of firecrackers exploded in the kitchen. That’s what it sounded like. Actually, it was Mr. Bones’s stomach grumbling.
“Sorry, pal,” I apologized.
I sliced off a hunk of omelet and dropped it into his bowl. The grumbling stopped and the lip smacking began. We followed his example and chowed down.
Eating made me feel better. With each bite, my anxiety about the game lessened. By the time I finished, I was full of more than eggs. I was full of hope about Stump and the yips and the wind and the locusts. It’s impossible to worry too much on a full stomach.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I needed that.”
After breakfast Mom automatically started in on the dishes. Dad pretended to be mad.
“Out,” he commanded. “Out of my kitchen. I said I’d clean up and I will.”
“My birthday’s not until next month.” Mom laughed, surrendering the sponge.
I helped Dad scrub. While we worked, Mom entertained us by reading interesting bits from the paper:
“Responding to a noise complaint, police discovered a flock of two hundred Canada geese in the swimming pool of a family on Winterberry Lane. Apparently the birds landed there seeking shelter from the wind.
“While working on a downtown office building, a window washer was picked up by a gust and deposited atop a church steeple three miles away. Frightened but unharmed, he hung by his belt until firefighters rescued him.
“A local couple who went missing three days ago has turned up alive and well at a makeshift campsite in a remote area of Mitchell County. Rhett and Tara O’Hara vanished from their farmhouse last Tuesday. When police found them, Mrs. O’Hara was frying eggs over an open fire, while her husband napped in a patio chair. A flock of chickens scratched nearby. ‘One minute I’m hanging out laundry,’ Mrs. O’Hara reported, ‘the next here I am plunked down in the middle of nowhere.’ When Mr. O’Hara awoke, police say he immediately wanted to know what day it was. ‘Have we missed the All-Star Game?’ he asked. The O’Haras agree that it will be good to get back. ‘There’s no place like home,’ they said. Authorities continue to investigate.”
With the dishes done, I said good-bye to my folks and headed off to Rambletown Field on my bike. I couldn’t wait to see how the new turf had held up through the night.
“See you in the second inning,” my parents called from the porch as I pedaled into a stiff breeze. A very full, very happy Mr. Bones waddled along behind me. The extra weight of the jumbo omelet probably was a good thing. It kept him grounded in all that wind.