“BATTER UP!” cried the ump.
Flicker blazed two darts past the West leadoff man, Snapper Po. Then he scorched another. But poor Slats, his hand tenderized by the constant pounding, couldn’t hold onto it. The ball squirted away from our catcher, and Snapper alertly scampered to first on a dropped third strike.
The next guy up tried to bunt, always risky against Flicker. Shocking us all, he managed to push the ball past the pitcher without splintering his bat. Stump raced in and made a bare-handed grab at the edge of the infield grass. I held my breath as he turned toward second to start a double play. It was his first chance of the game. And I let it out in a groan when his toss sailed wide, pulling second baseman Bunker Dodge off the bag. Both runners were safe.
Flicker took the ball back and glowered first at Slats, then at Stump.
“You clowns call yourselves All-Stars?” he growled. “My dog plays better defense.”
He proceeded to drill the very next batter square in the hip to load the bases. Behind the plate, Slats Connolly looked relieved that he didn’t have to catch the ball for once.
“TAKE YOUR BASE!” commanded the ump, staring daggers at Flicker as the pitcher rolled his toothpick around in his mouth.
I don’t know if Flicker hit the batter on purpose. Maybe it was his warped way of sending a message after two guys reached base on errors. I wouldn’t put it past him. If so, he didn’t accomplish anything except to bring the go-ahead run to the plate with no outs. Fortunately Flicker fanned the next guy on three invisible hummers. A real fan would have been nice. We could have used it to balance the treacherous wind.
As it was, the gale grew more powerful by the second. It ripped through the park like it had claws, tearing the bunting off the grandstand and shredding the collection of red Ks that Flicker’s fans had posted on the outfield wall. In the bleachers spectators clung to one another for dear life. One false move and they’d be swept away forever.
Given the conditions, Stump didn’t stand a chance when the next batter slashed a grounder toward the hole. Ranging to his right, the shortstop backhanded it neatly and came up gunning for the lead runner.
As Stump fired home, a gust rocked the grandstand. The locusts screamed. Mr. Bones raced to the top of the dugout steps and barked a blue streak. Stump’s elbow danced a jig—and his toss sailed over the runner, over the catcher, over the umpire, over everything.
One base runner crossed the plate standing. A second followed hot on his heels. All of a sudden, our lead was down to a single run.
Forgetting themselves in the excitement, West fans jumped out of their seats to cheer. Those who leaped too high instantly were carried off on the jet stream.
“Time out!” I called.
I trotted over to Stump.
“Feel like catching a movie after the game?” I asked.
He looked at me like I had two heads.
“I hear Sherlock Drones: Detective Wars is pretty good.” I’d read somewhere that when pro ballplayers huddled, the smart ones talked about anything other than the game. The idea was to break the tension.
My ploy didn’t work on Stump. He ground his toe into the dirt, mute as a stone.
“Okay, forget it,” I said. “Just keep cool. Pepper McGraw told you to chill, right? You should listen to him. It’s all in your head.”
I was about to say more when Flicker Pringle elbowed me out of the way.
“Listen, chump,” he growled, jabbing Stump in the chest. “You blow one more easy out, you’re toast.”
I gaped. Nothing like supporting a teammate.
Stump’s eyes flashed. His nostrils flared. He squared his shoulders and found his voice. “Just pitch the ball, Princess Pinky Muffin.”
The fearsome pitcher nearly choked on his toothpick. Jaw clenched, he stomped back up the mound without another word. Way to go, Stump!
We slapped mitts and I jogged into position.
“PLAY BALL!” cried the ump as heavy-hitting Gravedigger Veach dug in at the plate and base runners danced at second and third.
Flicker kicked and delivered.
First-pitch swinging, Gravedigger lashed a line drive over my head. The ball rocketed halfway to the left-field foul pole, then changed its mind and turned hard to the right. Borne by the wind, it crossed the entire width of the outfield before Buttered Toast tracked it down in the farthest reaches of right field for out number two. The base runners trotted back to their bags.
Spared disaster by the wind and a heads-up play by our right fielder, Flicker Pringle went back to work. He hurled two strikes past Mudfish LaRouche of the Pikerton Scrooges. One more would end the game. A hit would give the West the lead because with two outs, the runners would surely sprint on contact and the guy on second wouldn’t stop until he slid home with the go-ahead run. The drama pulled fans to the edge of their seats. East fans cheered themselves hoarse. Those rooting for the West simply prayed.
Flicker delivered. Mudfish checked his swing.
“BALL ONE!” declared the ump.
A second ball followed, just off the inside corner.
Half the crowd groaned. The other half sighed with relief.
Out in the trees, every last grasshopper shrieked.
I glanced over at Stump. He stared home with steely concentration.
Mudfish fouled off the next pitch. Then he fouled off two more, keeping the West’s hopes alive. A frustrated Flicker missed outside to fill the count: three balls, two strikes.
I glanced around the diamond. The base runners were coiled like Olympic sprinters waiting for the starting gun. With two outs and the game on the line, they surely would take off for home on Flicker’s next pitch. I dropped into a crouch, ready to spring at the ball if it came my way.
“Let’s go, East,” I called. “Let’s win this thing!”
Flicker brought his hands together above his head. Mudfish cocked his bat. The runner on second inched toward third. The runner on third leaned for home. The wind hammered. The locusts wailed.
Just then, a yellow comet streaked across the grass.
“Mr. Bones!” I shouted after it. “Come back!”
He did not come back. He flashed through the outfield and leaped the wall at a single bound.
By then the pitch was halfway to the plate. Mudfish met it with a wicked swing. Right up the middle the ball bounded.
Right at Stump.
The shortstop speared the blast on one bounce and turned toward first, where big Hoot Fewster opened his glove to receive the throw. As Stump gripped the ball, a mighty whoosh filled the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Slats fling off his mask and point toward the sky.
“Oh, Mr. Bones!” I cried. For I knew right then that my dog had finally rousted his mortal foes. The grasshoppers rose from the trees in a great, darkening cloud.
For a split second longer, the wind gusted as if it aimed to blow Rambletown Field clean off the map.
Then, abruptly, it stopped, checked at last by the combined power of ten billion pairs of wings beating hard against it.
Air pressure! I thought.
Stump never wavered. In the sudden calm, he whipped the ball. The red-stitched orb spun through the still air and found its mark, straight and true.
“OUT!” bayed the ump as the ball settled into Hoot’s outstretched mitt.
His cry seemed to break a spell.
Arms raised high, Hoot leaped into the air. Stump ran to meet him. I raced to join the party. Everybody else had the same idea at the same time, including Mr. Bones, who careened across the field and pounced on Stump’s back, riding him to the ground. Before I knew exactly what happened, I found myself rolling in a giant pig pile on the sweet, soft grass.
“Nice throw, buddy!” I shouted.
“Nothing to it,” came Stump’s muffled reply from somewhere below me.
Then I turned over on my back and looked up at the sky.
Not a locust in sight. As surely as Stump’s yips, they had vanished.
I hoped never to see either again.