Foul Ball Frame-up at Wrigley Field (3 page)

“Let's go!” Kevin said, and we ran to our bikes. We couldn't wait to tell Omar the big news.

Kevin and I sped the four blocks to Omar's house, expecting to see the “media circus.” But all the TV trucks were gone. Mr. Ovozi's Pontiac Aztek wasn't even in the driveway. We rode up to a police car, where a young, clean-cut officer sat sleepily in the driver's seat.

“What's up, guys?” he said.

Kevin, whose heart was racing, took the lead.

“We're here to see Omar,” he said.

“Sorry,” the officer replied. “The family left this morning.”.

“Where'd they go?” I asked.

“Can't tell ya,” he said. “They're trying to find some privacy.”

Kevin bit his lip, trying to think of the next step.

“Joe, show him your picture,” he said.

I opened the photo on the phone and handed it to the officer. We explained everything to him, but he wasn't impressed.

“This could be any game,” he said, handing the phone back to me. “And it's so small and grainy, you can't make out anything.”

We argued our point for a while, but the officer couldn't have cared less. We rode off on our bikes before Kevin pulled to a stop.

“We've got to go to the press with this,” he said.

“What do you mean, the press?” I asked. “The
Cleveland Plain Dealer
?”

That newspaper was downtown. We couldn't get there on our bikes. But the Garfield Heights paper was within biking distance, at a local strip mall. That's where we headed.

“We're looking for the sports editor,” Kevin said as we walked into the one-room storefront. A burly man with long, white sideburns got up from his desk.

“I'm the news editor, sports editor, lifestyle editor—all in one,” he chuckled. “What can I do for you?”

We showed him the photo on the phone. We thought it was the story of the year, but he wouldn't run it.

“I'm not saying you're not friends with that Omar kid,” he said. “But you can't see his face in this photo. All I see is a bunch of bodies from the rear. This could be any game, any place, any time.”

Kevin and I were frustrated, but we were determined to prove the innocence of Omar—wherever he was. On Wednesday, for the third straight day, he failed to show up for school. Mrs. Reddick, our teacher, said he was doing his work from home, even though he wasn't at
home
home.

Meanwhile, the curse was getting worse. With a loss that afternoon at St. Louis, the Cubs saw their lead shrivel to 3 ½ games. With Cabrera out of the lineup, the Cubs were struggling to put runs on the board. On ESPN's
Pardon the Interruption
, Omar was the source of a heated debate.

Host 1:
They're calling this the Curse of Omar. Is that fair or no?

Host 2:
First of all, it has not yet reached curse status. If they fail to win the division, it will become a curse.

Host 1:
The Curse of Omar?

Host 2:
Hey, I don't want to throw this kid under the bus.

Host 1:
Ten seconds. Curse of Omar—yes or no?

Host 2:
If the Cubs don't make the playoffs, it will definitely be because of the Pepsi incident. So, yeah, then you'll have your Curse of Omar—if that's what you want to call it.

That evening, Kevin and I gathered for a pow-wow in my bedroom. He sat on the bed with my stuffed dog, C-Pup, and petted him nervously.

“We've got to identify this guy,” Kevin said about the Reds fan in the photo.

“That's impossible,” I said.

“Maybe not,” he said. “We know they were from the Cincinnati area. What were they talking about when they were sitting behind us?”

“They were just ripping into the Cubs,” I replied.

“No, they were talking about other stuff,” Kev said.

Kevin usually only got average grades because he didn't study much. But my mom said he was one of the sharper knives in the drawer. If anyone could piece this case together, he could.

“I remember them talking about a cafeteria,” he said. “I remember some of the names they mentioned. Like Barry Larkin.”

“He used to play for the Reds,” I said. “That's not really a clue.”

“All right. But there were others,” Kev said. “Daniel Hall. They said his name a lot. And something about Dino or Dino's. And there was that other guy—Ronnie Woo, or something. What else?”

I grabbed a notebook and jotted down every name or topic of conversation we could think of. We came up with a few, and then we looked them up on my mom's laptop.

Ronnie Woo Woo turned out to be a famous Cubs fan. He often said “wooooo” at the end of his cheers. The Reds guys were probably dissing him. Anyway, that didn't help.

But Dino's and Daniel Hall? Bingo! We Googled “Dino's and Cincinnati” and came up with Papa Dino's. That's a pizza place on the campus of the University of Cincinnati. We knew the guys were college age, so that's probably where they went to school. As for Daniel Hall, it wasn't a guy but instead a dormitory.

“Daniels Hall!” Kevin exclaimed when it popped up in our Google search. “That's it! That's got to be where they live!”

It was a brilliant deduction, but Kevin and I couldn't ID these guys from our computer in Cleveland. Nothing online provided the pictures or even the names of the Daniels Hall residents.

“There's only one thing to do,” Kevin insisted. “Drive to Daniels Hall and look for these guys.”

“Yeah, but one problem,” I said. “Cincinnati is five hours away . . . and we don't drive!”

Neither my mom nor Kevin's father was on board with this plan. Omar's cell phone number had been changed, and we couldn't reach him or his family. But one guy stepped to the plate: my dad.

He's an airplane mechanic, and he lost his job in Cleveland more than a year earlier. He found work three hours away in Dayton, and we've seen him only about once or twice a month. But Dad had been bothered by the Omar events, too. When I asked him if he could come home this weekend and drive us to Cincinnati, he agreed.

My dad is kinda short, like me, but he's tough and hardworking. He played linebacker in high school, and he spent four years in the National Guard. He believes in clean living. He has no tattoos, piercings, or facial hair, and he keeps his light brown hair short. He once rented the movie
Do the Right Thing
just because he liked the title.

“Gosh, I hope you follow your dad's example,” Mom always says.

Dad said he would come home on Friday evening, and we planned to leave for Cincy early on Saturday morning. In terms of the curse, the tension was building.

The Reds were in Chicago for a three-game series: Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and the season finale on Sunday afternoon. The Cubs' bats had been ice-cold since Cabrera was suspended, and through Thursday they led the Reds in the standings by only two games.

If the Cubs could win just one of the three games against Cincinnati, they'd clinch the division and make the playoffs. The Omar incident would be forgotten. But if the Reds swept all three games, the Cubs wouldn't make the playoffs. The “Curse of Omar” would be cemented into baseball lore.

Kevin and I watched the Friday night game at my house. As I mentioned, when Kevin gets nervous, he rubs his big tooth with his finger, creating a squeaky noise. There was a whole lot of squeaking going on in the bottom of the ninth inning.

The Cubs trailed 2–1, but they loaded the bases with one out. A single could knock in two runs and win the game—and the division.

“Oh, no!” Kevin cried.

The Reds' manager was bringing in their ace reliever: Aroldis Chapman. Known as the “Cuban Missile,” Chapman was perhaps the hardest thrower in human history. In 2012, he fired the fastest fastball ever recorded in a major-league game: 105.1 miles per hour! In 71 ⅔ innings that year, he gave up just 35 hits and struck out 122 batters.

“This is the last guy we want to face,” I said. “Just a fly ball or grounder would tie the game, but this guy strikes everybody out.”

Kevin and I fell to our knees, praying. You could see the worried expressions on the faces in the Wrigley Field crowd. They knew their team was doomed. I was glad, however, to see that at least one person cared for my friend. A middle-aged woman held up a sign that said “Do it for Omar!”

The Cubs batter didn't do it. He didn't crack a game-winning hit. He didn't tie the game with a sacrifice fly or run-scoring grounder. Instead, he struck out on four pitches. The next hitter followed suit. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. Game over.

“Darn it!” Kevin yelled, pounding the floor.

The Cubs now led the Reds by just one game with two games to go.

“You know,” Kevin said, “these Cubs are going to go up in flames, and I'm not gonna let Omar take the fall!”

“I like your spirit,” said a man's voice.

I turned around, and there was my dad. He had just walked in the front door. I stood up, and he gave me a long hug.

“Do you think you two can identify that Reds fan if you see him?” Dad asked.

“I'm pretty sure,” Kevin said.

“All right, then let's give it a try,” Dad said. “You and Omar are like nephews to me, and I'm tired of him taking the blame for this.”

We were all pumped to get to Cincinnati and Daniels Hall.

“Can we leave right now?” I asked.

“We'll leave at six in the morning,” Dad said. “Be ready.”

And we were. At the crack of dawn, Kevin was standing in our driveway in his Indians jacket. He was admiring my dad's car, which wasn't really my dad's.

“Cool ride!” Kevin said of the deep-red Dodge Challenger. A Challenger is a sporty “muscle” car, like a Ford Mustang or Chevrolet Camaro.

“Thanks,” Dad said as we climbed in. “It belongs to my boss. I told him we were on a mission to save Omar, and he handed me his keys. He said, ‘This will get you there a little bit faster.'”

The Challenger's engine growled as Dad merged onto the highway. Kevin's face was beaming.

“How fast does this go?” I asked, proudly.

“I won't be speeding, Joe,” Dad said.

“I know, but how fast?” I asked

“A hundred and seventy,” he replied.

“Sweet!” Kevin exclaimed.

Four hours later, we roared into Cincinnati. Spotting Daniels Hall on the U of C campus was easy. It was a towering presence—a red-brick building twelve stories high.

Our task was daunting: find at least one of the two Reds fans amid the (gulp) seven hundred students who lived in the building.

The big problem was that Kevin and I didn't exactly remember what the two guys looked like. We knew they were white and athletic and had short hair, and we vaguely recalled their faces.

As we roamed the lobby, cafeteria, and dorm-room hallways, we saw about twenty guys who looked like that.

Fortunately, Kevin had a plan, which earned my dad's approval. With a notebook and pen, Kev and I walked up to a guy who looked like our potential Reds fan.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Yes?” he replied.

“We're doing a class project to see how much today's young people know about our national pastime,” I said. “So we were wondering if you wouldn't mind taking our baseball trivia challenge.”

“Hah!” he said. “Sorry, guys, but I don't follow baseball.”

That was fine. We crossed him off our suspect list. A minute later, Kevin spotted a potential candidate—a guy in a U of C Bearcats hoody who was getting off the elevator.

“I think this might be the guy who was in the Votto jersey,” Kev said.

The guy, who introduced himself as Brian, accepted our trivia challenge.

“When was the last year the Cubs won the World Series?” I asked.

“Uhm . . . like two hundred years ago—I don't know,” he said.

“Who is Ronnie Woo Woo?” Kevin asked.

“Ronnie who-who?” he responded.

“Sorry,” Kevin said, “but you failed the test.”

“I failed the . . . . What kind of test is this?”

“To be honest,” I said, “we're trying to find two Reds fans who were at Wrigley Field last Friday.”

“That game where the kid spilled the pop?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, he's our friend,” Kevin said.

“That Omar kid is your friend?” Brian asked.

“Our best friend,” I said. “We think a Reds fan who lives here knocked the cup out of his hand.”

Brian's eyes widened. He headed toward a quiet corner of the lobby.

“Come over here,” he said, waving his hand.

We headed over. My dad, who had been monitoring us from afar, joined us.

“I know the person you're talking about,” Brian said in a hushed voice. “He was bragging about it last Saturday in the cafeteria. He said if the Reds make the playoffs, the team should pay him a million bucks, because he's the guy who knocked the Pepsi out of that kid's hand.”

“You're serious,” my Dad implored.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “But then when it was all over the news, he got quiet. He doesn't want to get in trouble.”

I showed Brian the photo on my phone.

“Yeah, that looks like him,” Brian said.

“What's his name?” my dad asked.

Brian was hesitant to respond. My dad, though, wasn't going to leave without an answer.

“Look, son,” my dad implored him. “This guy is ruining the life of an eleven-year-old boy, and now he's hiding like a coward. If he's not going to take responsibility, we need to
make
him take responsibility. Do you hear what I'm saying?”

Brian nodded.

“His name is Blake Utley,” Brian said. “He lives on my floor, but he's not here now. He and some of the big Reds fans went back to Wrigley for the final series.”