Wall Ball by Kevin Markey Read Free Book Online Page A

baseball. It almost took my mind off the fact that Rambletown Field was stillburied under ten feet of snow.
    Almost.
    Then I happened to glance out the window and catch a glimpse of Mount Rambletown. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought one of the presidents winked.
    Seeing that thing looming like a gigantic soft-serve ice-cream cone brought me back to reality in a hurry. It reminded me that we could gab about baseball all we wanted; but until the snow melted, the Rounders wouldn’t be playing much of it.
    Not very well we wouldn’t.

CHAPTER 11
    M y fears were borne out at practice the next afternoon.
    Mr. Bones and I arrived at Rambletown Field at four o’clock sharp on Tuesday and immediately started shoveling snow off the diamond.
    Again.
    Or at least I did. Mr. Bones scampered up the heaps of snow piled around the edge of the infield and slid down on his belly.
    “He should be in the Olympics.” Gabby laughed, snapping away with her camera. “The bobsled. But that obnoxious plaid coat has got to go.”
    “Shhh! Don’t let him hear you,” I said. “Hedoesn’t know it’s plaid. Dogs are color-blind.”
    “Ahhh,” said Gabby. “That explains it.”
    She took another picture.
    “Please don’t put that in the paper,” I begged.
    Gilly Wishes showed up and helped me dig out third base. Then I helped him clear a path from home to first. The other guys worked to get the rest of the diamond into some kind of shape. The town plows had already visited the outfield, I could see, leaving behind their usual thin layer of snow.
    As we shoveled, Skip Lou ambled about, giving encouragement. He stamped his boots on the frozen ground and slapped his thick gloves together.
    “Fine afternoon for baseball!” he said unconvincingly. “What a great time of year. Excitement in the air, first game of the season only days away!”
    I looked up at the sky. I didn’t see any excitement in the air. The only thing I saw were snow flurries.
    Skip smiled broadly and wandered away to greet the rest of the team.
    Gilly and I exchanged perplexed glances. Poor Skip was in serious denial.
    After we finished scraping snow off the field, practice began. The infielders started by tossing the ball around the horn. Having learned our lesson last week, we removed our winter mittens and wore only our baseball gloves. From the mound, Slingshot fired the ball home to Tugboat. The catcher squeezed the ball and whipped it to me at third. I quickly turned and gunned it to the Glove at second base, who flipped it to Stump, covering the bag. Stump relayed it to Gilly at first, who tossed it back to Slingshot. Then the whole thing started over again.
    “Hot potato!” called Tugboat, scorching the ball to me. “Get rid of it fast.”
    A real hot potato would have been nice. It would’ve warmed up our cold, red hands.
    Meanwhile, Skip Lou worked with theoutfielders. He stood at the edge of left field and hit flies to Ducks, Orlando, Ocho, and all-around back-up player Kid Rabbit. They raced to get under the ball and make the catch. Whoever snagged it on the fly scored a hundred points. The first player to get to five hundred would replace Skip at bat.
    Skip smacked a long, high drive. The fielders took off after it, their scarves flapping in the wind like kite tails.
    “I got it!” cried Orlando.
    Running full tilt, he reached out with his glove. The ball settled into it as lightly as a bird returning to its nest. Then Orlando slammed on the brakes. If he had been a car traveling on a dry road, his tires would have laid down serious rubber. But he wasn’t a car. He was a baseball player, sliding out of control across a slippery field toward a looming wall.
    “Look out, Orlando!” I yelled from third.
    Mr. Bones dashed over and hid his eyes behind my knees.
    None of us could bear to look.
    We didn’t have to. Our ears told us all we needed to know.
    Sha-bam!
    Orlando had done it again. He had made a great catch and nearly killed himself doing it.