Mickey & Me by Dan Gutman Read Free Book Online Page A

boomed the announcer, “he will be throwing a strike for freedom!”
    â€œNobody told me I would have to throw a ball,” I complained, shrinking back into the dugout.
    â€œGet out there,” Mickey said as she and the rest of the team grabbed me and pushed me out of the dugout, “and quit your bellyaching!”
    The two burly guys—each of them had a name tag that said BOB on it—took me by my wings and half led, half dragged me out to the mound. One of the Bobs flipped me a ball. I kept shaking my chicken head.
    â€œWhat are you, chicken?” a fan yelled, to the amusement of the crowd. That got the rest of them going, and in seconds the whole place was either jeering or cheering for me.
    â€œJust to make things interesting,” the announcer said, “if Chicken throws the ball through Hitler’s tooth, each and every man, woman, and child in the ballpark tonight will receive a free pass to see Judy Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis, now playing in air- conditioned splendor at the Palace Theater on Wisconsin Avenue.”
    â€œOoooooooooooooooooh!”
    â€œB-but I need a warm-up,” I protested. “I haven’t practiced.”
    â€œShut up and throw,” one of the Bobs said. “We ain’t got all night.”
    â€œYeah,” said the other Bob, “and you better throw it through the hole, Chicken, ’cause I really want tosee that picture.”
    I toed the rubber and fingered the huge ball, doing my best to wrap my hand around it. I’ve always had a pretty good arm, but I wasn’t used to this kind of pressure. At our Little League games, usually only the moms and dads showed up. There must have been four or five thousand people watching me.
    â€œYou better not miss, Chicken!” somebody yelled.
    â€œIf he does, let’s fry him!”
    â€œYou can do it, sweetie pie!” Merle shouted from the Chicks dugout. “Concentrate.”
    I looked over at her. She had her hands clasped together, like she was praying. Man, she was beautiful. I wanted to throw the strike just for her.
    Right above Merle, in the third row behind the Chicks dugout, I spotted that kid who had shown up for the mascot job. He was giving me a dirty look.
    The crowd began to clap their hands and stamp their feet in rhythm.
    I gripped the ball and concentrated on Hitler’s face. I took a deep breath. It was hard to do a regular windup with the chicken suit on, but I did the best I could. As I let go of the ball, my forward momentum almost caused the chicken head to fall off.
    The ball sailed two feet over Hitler’s head. The crowd let out a groan.
    â€œOhhhhh!” moaned the announcer. “Too bad, Chicken! Maybe next time!”
    â€œBooooooooooooooo!”
    â€œHe’s a bum!”
    â€œGet a new chicken!”
    â€œKill the chicken!”
    I ran off the field, dodging lemons, bottles, and other junk that came flying out of the stands. Luckily, I made it back to the Chicks dugout with only a few small objects hitting me.
    Connie, Merle, Mickey, and Tiby told me to forget about it. They said that hardly anyone can throw very accurately under the circumstances. Max Carey just looked at me.
    â€œPathetic,” he muttered. “Just pathetic.”

8
Trick Play
    IN THE BOTTOM OF THE FIRST INNING , THE CHICKS offense exploded. A clean single, an infield hit, and an error loaded the bases for Mickey, who delivered with a double in the gap to drive in all three runs.
    Dolores Klosowski got a double too, and Ziggy singled her home. Connie Wisniewski poked a grounder through the infield.
    By then, the fans were going crazy. When Teeny Petras got hit by a pitch, they started booing. The manager of the Peaches came out to protest that the ball had hit Teeny’s bat, but she held up her left arm to show that the seams of the ball had made an impression in her skin. The umpire waved her to first. Tiby Eisen got hit too, on the hand. Max