Joey Pigza Loses Control by Jack Gantos Read Free Book Online Page B

He puts them up his nose and shoots them out at people. But usually he has a few drinks first. Have you been drinking?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Never. But Dad and I do have a lot in common.” I tossed the peanut over the fence. “Never mind about the snack,” I said, and rubbed my hands together. “I was just trying to be polite.”
    She shrugged, then pulled a jersey out of her bag. “I believe this is for some kid named Pigza.” She handed it to me.
    I unfolded it. On the tar-black front was printed STEEL CITY SPORTS in thick yellow ink, like what they use on highway lines. I turned it over. J. PIGZA was printed across the back above a big number 17. “How did you know this was my lucky number?” I asked.
    â€œI have some inside information,” she said, and nodded toward Dad, who was scolding some kid for loving his mother too much.

    â€œAnd you’ll need a cap too,” the lady said. She reached into the bag and handed one to me. S.C.S. was sewn onto the front in shiny gold thread. “And cleats. Are these the right size?”
    They were. “Yes,” I said.
    Then she pulled out the best thing I had ever seen. It was a black sweatband with a yellow number 17 on it. “That’s not for your wrist,” she said to me. “I understand you have a little buddy—you can slide this around his belly.”
    â€œThis is so cool,” I said, and just stared at it. “Pablo will love it.”
    â€œNow put your jersey on,” she said. “You can’t get into the game without an official PAL jersey.”
    I yanked my shirt up over my head like it was covered with red ants. I put on my jersey and smoothed it against my flat belly and breathed in the rubbery smell of the lettering.
    â€œYou need baseball pants,” she said. “Carter forgot to tell me.”
    I looked down at my jeans.
    â€œYou can wear what you have on, but to look really sharp you have to get the matching pants. What waist do you wear?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said.
    She leaned forward and put her thumb on my belly button, then kept reaching around me until she got
some measurement. “Skinny,” she said. “You need to fatten up a bit.”
    â€œLike Hansel?”
    â€œIn a way,” she said. “It’s just if you play the game you need a couple extra pounds. I think your Dad is going to have to put you on a large-pizza-a-day diet.”
    I grinned. I loved pizza. “Extra cheese and extra vegetables!” I sang like I was ordering one over the phone.
    â€œYour wish is my command,” she sang back, and pulled a phone out of her pocket and dialed. “Hello. I’d like to order a pizza for delivery Yeah. Extra cheese and extra vegetables. Yeah. What?”
    Dad was yelling at some kid to pay attention or else he’d bury him up to his neck and use his head for second base. She held her hand over the phone and hollered, “Hey, Carter. Shut your trap! I’m ordering a pizza.”
    Dad turned around with his mouth open.
    â€œThat’s right,” she said. “Put a sock in it.” Then she returned to the phone. “The PAL field over by Clemente Memorial. Yeah. Steel City Sports. Cash. Okay.” Then she hung up.
    â€œBy the way,” she said, and stuck out her hand, “I’m Leezy Fiddle, the sports store sponsor for your team and the gal that keeps your dad from going around the bend every game day.”

    â€œNice to meet you,” I said.
    â€œI’ll be seeing more of you,” she replied. “Right now, I better go chill down the coach before his head pops.”
    Dad was threatening to wrap masking tape around some kid’s eyes and make him “play by instinct! Like a freakin’ Luke Skywalker!”
    Leezy walked over and stood behind him. She was taller than he was and slapped the brim of his cap down over his eyes. He whipped around like he