Kristy and the Walking Disaster (4 page)

"It was an accident," he told me.

With Jackie, it's always an accident. And once he gets started, it's hard for him to stop. Have you ever heard the saying that "bad things happen in threes"? Well, with Jackie, they happen more like in fifteens.

"Come on, let's clean up," I said. I'd meant just for Jackie and me to clean up, but Shea and Archie pitched in, too. They're used to helping their brother out.

When the kitchen was clean and nonsticky

again, and another pitcher of lemonade had been made (we made it in the sink and I carried the pitcher to the refrigerator), I said, "Is everything ready for Bo's party now?"

"Yes," answered the boys.

"Good. Then we're going outside." I was not about to wait around for another disaster, and disasters were less apt to happen outside.

"What are we going to do?" asked Archie, as he and his brothers were putting on their jackets.

"I need to practice for Little League," said Shea importantly.

Of course, my ears pricked up at that. "Little League?" I repeated. "Jackie, are you in Little League, too?"

"Naw," said Jackie, staring at his feet.

Shea snorted rudely, but I ignored his behavior. "Go get your baseball equipment," I told him.

A few moments later, the Rodowsky boys were swinging bats, and tossing balls in the air. I was standing on a flat rock which Shea assured me was the pitcher's mound. "Okay, batter up!" I called.

"Me first! Me first!" cried Jackie. He leaped next to an old magazine (home plate).

I pitched the ball. It was a good pitch - I mean, an easy one. If I'd been pitching in a

real game, it would have been like saying to the other team, "Okay, just go ahead and score yourself a run." But Jackie missed the ball. Not by much, though.

Archie missed my next easy pitch, too, but then he's only four, and also left-handed, which makes things a little more difficult.

Shea, on the other hand, slammed the ball so hard, and it traveled so far, that even Bo couldn't find it.

"Home run! Home run!" shouted Shea. He jumped gleefully up and down on the magazine.

"Kristy, Kristy, can I pitch now?" asked Jackie. "I want to try pitching."

"Good luck," Shea muttered sarcastically, but I was the only one who heard him.

Jackie took his place on the rock. He wound up his arm like professional ball players do. He threw straight to Shea - and somehow, somehow, the ball hit the house next door. Being, boing, boing, slurp. It bounced down the roof and landed in a rain-filled gutter.

"Jackie!" exclaimed Shea.

"Oh, brother," I said. "Now we're going to have to go over there and tell your neighbors there's a softball in their gutter."

"Don't worry about it," said Shea. "Four others are there, too. Our dad's going over on

Saturday to get them out. He can just get this one while he's at it."

"Do you have another ball?" I asked.

"We'll use a tennis ball," said Jackie, heading for the garage. "I'll get it. I want to try batting again. I know I can hit the ball."

Jackie was a disaster on the ball field, just like he was anywhere else, but he was determined to play. And he did hit the ball from time to time. He reminded me of David Michael. I really admired him.

While Jackie was getting the tennis ball, we heard a huge crash in the garage. Since I was tired of disasters, all I said was, "Whatever it is, pick it up, Jackie!"

"Okay!" he shouted back.

Jackie returned with the tennis ball.

"Anything broken in there?" I asked.

"Nope."

A miracle.

Jackie handed the ball to Shea, who pitched it to him.

"Keep your eye on the ball!" I called.

Whack! Jackie slammed the ball. "I hit it!" he yelled, and made a dash for first base.

Shea caught it on the fly, but Jackie kept running. He ran all the way around the yard to home plate, where he was met by Shea. Shea held the tennis ball in Jackie's face. "Fly

ball," he informed him. "You're out. Jackie, you will never be in Little League." He didn't have to add, "Because no one would want you," but that's what he meant, and we all knew it.

"Yes, I will," replied Jackie stubbornly. "I will be in Little League. I'll practice and practice. I'll get as good as you. I'll get better than you. I'll be the best player in the universe." Jackie punctuated his speech by tripping over his shoelace.

Sheesh. He's even worse than David Michael, I thought. But I was pretty sure I had a new member for my softball team. A few minutes later, I was positive. I noticed that the worse Jackie played, the harder he tried. He wouldn't give up. Maybe he just needed some confidence and coaching. Watson had said those things were very important. (Watson, by the way, had been extremely flattered when I'd gone to him about organizing a team. He had also been extremely helpful and extremely nice.)

I told Jackie about my softball team. Jackie's face lit up like candles on a birthday cake. I kind of wished Watson could have seen that smile.

That night I got some interesting phone calls.

The first was from Jessi Ramsey. "Guess what," she said. "Matt Braddock wants to be on your team."

"Great!" I exclaimed. Matt's a terrific kid and a terrific ball player - but he was born deaf. He can't hear or speak. You have to communicate with him using sign language. Luckily, a lot of the kids in Stoneybrook learned some sign language after they met Matt, so this isn't much of a problem.

Then Mallory called. "I talked to my brothers and sisters. Nicky, Claire, and Margo want to be on your team," she said. "I tried to talk Vanessa into it, but she's not interested. And the triplets are in Little League."

Next to call was Dawn, saying that two of the three Barrett kids she often sits for were interested, plus three friends of theirs (whom I didn't know).

The last call was from Claudia. "I haven't found a single kid for your team," she wailed.

"Don't worry about it," I told her. "I've got twenty already."

"Wow!"

"Yeah."

It was time for a planning session with Watson.

Chapter 6.

Boy. I did not have any idea what I was getting myself into when I decided to coach a softball team, even after I talked to Watson. It seemed like such a nice thing to do - organize a team for kids who were too embarrassed or too young to be in Little League or to play T-ball. Well, it was a nice thing. I knew that. And Watson knew that, which was why he was so encouraging. But it was also . . . Well, you'll see what happened.

Anyway, as soon as I found out that twenty kids wanted to be on my team, I got to work. First, I made a few lists. The Baby-sitters Club is always doing this, and it's very helpful. One list, the most important, was of the names and ages of the kids on the team, and their special problems. It looked like this:

I looked at my list. I did a little math. The average age of my team was 5.8 years - just under six. These were young kids. Of course, if they were older, they'd have joined Little League. Well, some of them would have.

Then I made a list of questions to answer:

A zillion phone calls later, Watson and I had found answers to all but the last question. Thanks to Watson, we got permission to meet at the playground of Stoneybrook Elementary School. This was convenient since a lot of the kids lived nearby. We would meet on Tuesdays after school, and on Saturday afternoons.

Some of the club members volunteered to help me. Some of them also sounded pretty uncertain. For instance, Jessi said, "I'm a dancer, not an athlete. I barely know the difference between a football and a baseball." And Claudia said flat out, "I hate sports . . . but I'll help you." Mary Anne and Dawn were more helpful, and said, "We don't know much about sports, but we love the idea of your team. Just tell us how to help." Mallory was pure help: "I've lived with Little League for two seasons now. I know all there is to know about kids and ball games. I'll do anything - except watch Claire have a tantrum."

Tantrum? Uh-oh.

The purpose of the team? Watson and I talked about that for a long time, and Watson

did not say one jerky thing. We agreed that the purpose of the team was the reason I'd started it - to coach kids who wanted to improve their playing skills, but more importantly, just to have fun. I figured I could put the twenty kids on two sides each time we met, and we could have a game - after coaching. Coaching first, 1 decided, then a game. Maybe just a seven-inning game, or an even shorter one. Coaching (and I promised myself I would never lose my temper with any kid, no matter what) followed by a game should be a lot of fun.

Does Bart think I'm cute? Well, how would I know? Maybe the better question was, Had Bart thought I was cute? I hadn't seen him since I'd walked Shannon over to his house. And I'd probably never see him again, considering we went to different schools and had different friends. I tried to put Bart and my Gigantic Crush out of my mind.

That was not too difficult. On Saturday afternoon, we held our first team meeting. Every single kid showed up! So did Dawn and Mallory.

"Where'd you get all that equipment?" Dawn asked me in awe, as she looked at the things surrounding me - four bats, five mitts, a

catcher's mask, a softball, and a wiffle ball (for Gabble).

"Oh, it's all ours. With six kids in your family," (1 count Andrew and Karen as part of my family, of course), "two of whom are guys in high school, you'd be surprised at what accumulates. Some of it's mine. The only thing we're low on is balls. All Sam and Charlie have are hardballs, and I couldn't find any tennis balls."

The twenty kids gathered around me eagerly. We were standing at the edge of the blacktopped part of the playground, near a four-square court. I saw that a few parents had come along, and I began to feel nervous. I felt like a teacher on her first day at school when some parents have stuck around to see how good she is. One of the mothers was Mrs. Braddock, and I knew she was just there to translate everything I said into sign language for Matt, but still. . . .

The kids were looking at me expectantly. I edged away from the blacktop and said, "Let's sit down. I want to talk to you for a few minutes."

The kids plopped down in the grass. Dawn and Mallory sat on either side of me. The parents hovered in the background (except for Mrs. Braddock).

"First," I said, "I just want to introduce myself to the three kids I don't know, the Barretts' friends." It was easy to spot them in the crowd. They were the only faces I didn't recognize.

I pointed to the oldest-looking one. "You must be Buddy's friend," I said. "I'm Kristy Thomas."

The boy nodded. "I'm Jacob Kuhn, but call me Jake. I'm eight," he added.

The other Kuhns turned out to be Laurel, who was six and so shy that Jake had to say her name and age for her, and Patsy, who was five, Suzi Barrett's friend.

"Well," I said, "I want you guys to know that we're here to play softball, but mostly we're here to have fun. I'm going to coach you and teach you skills during the first part of each afternoon, and then we'll divide into two teams and play a game. If you think you're not a good player, don't worry about it. There's no pressure here. This is just fun. Got it?"

I saw a few eyes light up, Jackie's among them.

David Michael raised his hand, just as if he were in school. "I'm a klutz," he said.

"I don't care," I replied. "Everybody here is good at some things and not so good at others."

Jamie Newton raised his hand. "I'm afraid of the ball," he admitted.

"I can never hit it," Claire Pike announced.

"Then those are the things we'll work on," I said, smiling. "Now. How many of you are friends with Matt Braddock?"

A few hands went up, including the Barretts' and the Pikes'.

"Matt is deaf," I explained to the others. "He can't hear and he doesn't talk. But I'll tell you something. He is one super ball player." (Matt beamed when his mother signed that to him.)

My stepsister Karen raised her hand. "We can talk to him, though," she informed everyone. "We can talk to him in his secret sign language, just like his mother is doing now."

"That's right," I agreed. "I'll show you the signs you need to know to play ball with Matt."

"I already know them!" said Nicky Pike proudly.

"Me too," said Buddy Barrett.

"Great. Now today, instead of having a practice first, I think we should just hold a game. I haven't seen many of you play, and - "

"Wait!" cried Jackie. "Don't we need a team

name? If we're going to be a ball team, we need a name like the Mets or the Dodgers or the Red Sox."

"Yeah!" cried all the kids.

Suddenly they were shouting out dozens of suggestions - the Stoneybrookers, the Tigers, the Big Leaguers. But when Jackie yelled out, "How about Kristy's Crushers?" everyone agreed.

"And we could spell 'Crushers' with a 'K'," added Margo Pike. "You know, to go with Kristy. Kristy's Krushers."

"No!" cried Karen. "That's wrong. That's not how you spell 'crushers.' You spell 'crushers' with a 'C'!" (Karen takes her spelling very seriously.)

But she was voted down. Every other kid liked "Kristy's Krushers-with-a-'K.' "

"And we should have team uniforms," added Jake Kuhn. "The kids in Little League do."

I hadn't thought about that. It seemed expensive. "Where will we get uniforms?" I wondered aloud. Even Watson hadn't thought of that.

"How about team T-shirts?" suggested Mallory, corning to my rescue. "If each of you could get a plain white T-shirt, you could iron on 'Kristy's Krushers.' You know, with those letters you get at Woolworth's."

This seemed to appease the kids, even though we all knew that T-shirts were not as good as real uniforms.

"Well," I said, "let's get a game going here. Everyone stand in a line."

It took a few moments, but the kids organized themselves into a long, straggly line.

"Now count off in twos," I instructed them. "One, two, one, two. . . ."

I gathered the Ones and the Twos. "These are your teams," I said. "We'll toss a coin to see which one is up at bat first. Then I'll assign positions to the rest of you."