Mickey & Me by Dan Gutman Read Free Book Online

us a break when we need one later.” She threw him a wink before taking her position behind the plate again.
    â€œSmack one outta here, Mildred!” somebody hollered from the other dugout as the next batter stepped up.
    Mildred was a big girl, maybe even fat. But Connie Wisniewski wasn’t intimidated. She blew three fastballs by her, with the runner stealing third on the strikeout. Mickey’s throw was off line and she let out a curse. One out, runner on third.
    It occurred to me that the game they were playing wasn’t quite baseball, but it wasn’t softball either. It was something in the middle. There was base stealing, and nine fielders, like in baseball. But the pitching was underhand, with a very large ball, as in softball. And when somebody hit a foul ball into the crowd, the fans threw the ball back onto the field.
    The number-four batter for the Peaches stepped up. Max Carey waved for the outfield to move back a few steps, and I knew why. Managers always put their strongest power hitter in the number-four slot. That way, if the first three hitters get on, the cleanup batter might clear the fence and clear the bases.
    This cleanup hitter didn’t clear anything, though. She tapped a little dribbler to the right side of the diamond. Connie rushed off the pitcher’s mound, but she was moving slowly because of her bad leg. Ziggy couldn’t get there in time from her position at second base. The runner was safe at first. The runner at third stayed there.
    In the dugout, Max Carey didn’t curse or throw anything. He began to relay a series of signs to Mickey and the Chicks infielders. He touched the bill of his cap, stroked his elbow with the other hand, and wiped his hand across his chest.
    â€œWatch for the double steal!” a fan shouted.
    The manager of the Peaches was flashing signs back and forth with his base runners too. Something was up. The next Peach stepped into the batter’s box.
    On the first pitch, the batter swung and missed. The Peach runner took off from first. Mickey made the throw, but she didn’t throw down to second. She whipped the ball right back to Connie on the pitcher’s mound. The runner at third had taken a few steps toward home. Connie whirled around and pegged the ball to third. The runner was dead. She didn’t even get back to the bag.
    â€œYer out!” called the ump. The hometown fans roared in approval.
    â€œHa-ha-ha!” Max Carey clapped his hands. “I love that play.”
    The Peach who had been picked off third slinked back to her dugout in shame. Flustered, the batter popped the next pitch up to Merle—the love of my life—in center field for the third out, and the Chicks dashed off the field.
    â€œBeautiful!” Carey cheered as the players filled the dugout.
    â€œThat was a nice catch you made,” I told Merle as I slid next to her on the bench.
    â€œIt was nothin’, darlin’.”
    She called me “darlin’”! So far she had said I was cute, she called me “snookums,” “honey,” and now “darlin’.” I was in heaven. Trying my best to make small talk with her, I almost missed the public address announcement.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the home plate area, where the Milwaukee Chicken will throw a strike for freedom!”
    â€œI think they’re callin’ you, sweetie.”
    She called me “sweetie”!
    â€œGet on the field, Josephine!” barked Max Carey.
    Two burly guys were carrying a piece of plywood that was about ten feet tall and five feet wide, with a hole in the middle about the size of a poster. When they turned the plywood over and stood it up on home plate, I could see there was a cartoony painting of a goofily grinning Adolf Hitler on it. The hole in the board was where one of Hitler’s teeth should have been.
    â€œIf Chicken can throw a ball through Hitler’stooth,”