Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle (6 page)

J
OHN TAKES HIS
position behind home plate. I turn around to make sure the team is on their marks. I nod to second base, and Big Danny shoves the rest of a candy bar into his mouth. Billy Rattle is at first. And somehow Greg McGinty has pushed his way into playing third base. Benny Schuster, who's normally at third, is playing the outfield.

“Ready when you are, Tammy.” Muscle Man is so cheerful that I want to smack him.

Instead, I do what John Marcos said. I pitch a long slow pitch, the kind that I do for the under-seven crowd.

Talk about a gift. This pitch barely crawls over home plate. Even a runt like Muscle Man could send it flying.

Good thing he's stiff, because if he was as relaxed as Billy Rattle or John Marcos, it would have gone clear across the railroad tracks and onto Sunrise Highway. Bad enough that it sails past Big Danny and into the outfield.

“Come on! Move it!” I shout to Matthew Donovan, who's closest to the ball. Or was that Michael?

The Donovan boys reach the ball at the same time and collide into each other.

Muscle Man touches first base and keeps running.

“Throw it here,” Big Danny yells, but the twins are too busy slamming into each other to pay attention to the second baseman.

Michael kicks Matthew in the shins. Matthew hurls a few choice curse words back at him. Benny Schuster scoots between them but gets pushed out of the way by both of them before he gets his hands on the ball.

Muscle Man rounds second, and Big Danny's hands are still empty.

A few of the other boys scramble toward left field and end up getting pulled into the fight by Benny and the twins.

“Let's rumble!” shouts Tony Mogavero, as he dives on top of the heap. All I can see is a mound of arms and legs. It's hard to tell who's who.

Left field is turning into a free-for-all.

The ball pops up from the middle of the crowd, landing splat onto a place where no one's standing.

Conchetta Marchetta runs from right field, steps over a pile of boys, picks up the ball and throws it to third, where Muscle Man is heading.

It's gonna be close.

Greg McGinty reaches for the ball. Muscle Man reaches for the base.

“Safe,” shouts John Marcos.

The only chance we have of tagging him out is if he tries for the home run. “Come on, stupid. Run for home.” I wish it so hard that I must have said the words out loud, because Billy Rattle gives me an odd look. Muscle Man stays on third.

Greg throws the ball to me, and it lands, rock solid, at my stomach.

Billy Rattle scratches the top of his head. “What do we do now?” He waves John Marcos over. Greg McGinty, without being invited, joins the group.

“He's on third. How's he going to kick?” asks Billy Rattle.

“He should have thought of that before he challenged everyone. I think he should forfeit his man on third. Those are the rules.” I bounce the ball a few times to sound official.

“I'm not exactly sure there are rules for a game like this one.” Greg McGinty looks me square in the eye instead of down at the ground like he's supposed to when we're having a talk on the field.

“How about we put in a runner?” says John Marcos.

“What? We've never done that before,” I say.

“You've never played one against thirteen,” says Greg.

“Hey, Benny!” shouts John.

Before I can take a breath, Benny's standing next to all of us, towering over everyone, even Greg, who's two years older.

“We need you to take third,” explains John.

In a leap and a bound, Benny's on third base, waiting to run.

I look back at my team. Huh. My team. My players. The group that's supposed to stand behind me.

No one says nothing.

“Anyone know the rules about a runner?” I shout to the outfield. “Is this really fair?” I wave my arms at the base.

There's not a peep from anyone.

Big Danny sways back and forth. “I don't feel so hot.”

“That's because there's a runner on third,” I shout back.

“Maybe you shouldn't have eaten all that candy,” says MaryBeth from way out in right field.

“No, something is…” Big Danny turns a funny shade of green. And then he hurls his ice cream and candy bars all over second base.

“Oh, that's disgusting!” cries MaryBeth, and the game is called for the day.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
I decide to call for Muscle Man, just in case he has any ideas of not showing up.

“Where are you going?” asks MaryBeth, her blonde hair tied up with ribbons that match her shorts. I look down and notice her shoes match too. Jeez.

“I figured I'd call for him, in case he gets lost,” I say.

“I'm coming with you.”

I walk up to Mrs. Kutchner's with MaryBeth three steps behind me.

As soon as I knock, Mrs. Kutchner answers the door, smiling.

“Where's Muscle M—” I hesitate. It seems I've forgotten his real name.

“Hi, Mrs. Kutchner.” MaryBeth smiles.

“Hello, MaryBeth,” says Mrs. Kutchner.

“I was wondering if Douglas would be able to play with us. We're playing kickball and we want to finish our game,” says Miss-Matchy-Matchy-with-her-hair-ribbons-and-sandals.

“Douglas,” Mrs. Kutchner calls up the stairs, “your friends are here for you.”

I want to correct Mrs. Kutchner and explain to her that I am not his friend. Something about the way she looks at me makes me stop.

Muscle Man's wormy voice floats down from upstairs. “Tell them I'll be out in a minute, Grandma.”

Mrs. Kutchner, MaryBeth, and I stare at each other. Each one of us has a make-believe smile on our face.

“You still making those lemon drop cookies, Mrs. Kutchner?” I ask.

Before I can even finish, MaryBeth has her pointy elbow lodged in my gut.

“What'd I do?” I whisper.

“Don't be rude,” she scolds.

“I'm not. I'm just making conversation.”

Mrs. Kutchner laughs. “It's been a bit hot outside, but as soon as the weather cools, I'll make a batch. Would you girls like some?”

“I wouldn't want to put you through that trouble,” says MaryBeth.

“It's no trouble.” Mrs. Kutchner smiles.

“Yeah, that would be great. I'd love a big bunch.” I try to sound polite. “Please,” I add.

MaryBeth's elbow is back in my gut.

“She said it's no trouble,” I whisper.

Muscle Man comes bounding down the steps, not at all like a person who is about to be destroyed.

“Hi, MaryBeth. Hi, Tamara. How nice of you to come and get me.”

“Yeah, real nice.” I walk him straight over to where the other kids are waiting.

“Oh, Tammy, before I forget…” Muscle Man pulls a paper out of his back pocket. “I told you I'd come through for you.”

“From Kebsie?” I ask.

Muscle Man hands me the note.

I hold the heavy crinkled-up paper in my hand. It even feels different than a plain old regular letter. Now I understand what Tim said. Letters from your best friend are like gold.

“Aren't you going to open it?” asks MaryBeth. The others gather around me.

What Kebsie writes to me is personal and sacred. And the last thing I want to do is share it with the crowd.

I shove the letter in my back pocket. “Nope. Let's play ball.”

MaryBeth doesn't budge.

“I'm not opening it now,” I say.

“That's not what I'm waiting for.” She crosses her arms in front of her.

I move toward the Rattles' front lawn, where the others are taking their positions. MaryBeth refuses to follow. Instead she grabs Muscle Man and pulls him back so the two of them are standing arm-in-arm, staring at me.

“What now?” I ask.

MaryBeth rolls her eyes toward Muscle Man and mouths the words “Thank you.” Muscle Man looks like he's waiting for it too.

I roll my eyes at both of them. “All he did was pass on a note,” I explain.

If Miss Goody Goody ever wrote a note at school, she'd know that you really don't thank the person for passing it on. It's just what you did. There's no way I'm saying thank you to Muscle Man McGinty.

I'm so busy staring down MaryBeth Grabowsky that I almost miss the ball Big Danny throws my way. “Let's get this game started,” he says, and I want to run to second base and throw my arms around him for getting me out of this jam.

I give the ball a snappy bounce and take my position on the field.

I
TS TIME TO
strike this kid out. I don't care what Greg McGinty or even John Marcos says. Not one bit.

Benny Schuster's still on third as a substitute runner, and I'm not giving those long legs of his a chance to leap on home. Muscle Man isn't going to score a single run on my watch.

I roll three good hard balls. I make no bones about it.

John Marcos is trying to catch my eye. I avoid him, which is a hard thing to do since he's the one throwing me back the ball.

The only person I make eye contact with is Muscle Man McGinty. And all he can do is sigh every time my pitches fly past him.

In no time, Muscle Man McGinty is out, and it's our turn.

Billy Rattle is up first. His kick is respectable and should have been a solid double. But Muscle Man can't play outfield and second base at the same time, so Billy flies home.

Big Danny is next. That kid can send a ball clear off the block any time he wants to. And that's exactly what he does.

“That ball went so high that maybe your uncle Neil Armstrong will find it when he lands on the moon!” I shout as Big Danny rounds the bases.

John Marcos, Benny Schuster, and one of the Donovan twins all have home runs. Even Conchetta Marchetta makes it to third, and then Tony Mogavero brings her home.

Our strategy is simple really. All we have to do is kick it where Muscle Man isn't. Each kick sends Muscle Man scrambling to the other side of the field.

Each time we make it home, we high-five. Billy Rattle does a victory dance.

The score builds up fast. In no time at all, the score is Tamara and team 10, Muscle Man 0.

We're destroying this kid. He is toast. No, he is worse than that. He is burnt toast.

Surrounded by all these home runs and high fives, I can't help daydream about the moment when Muscle Man breaks down and tells us that he never should have challenged us. I imagine him exhausted, panting out his words, and confessing to us all that he's a wormy liar.

I'm ready for him. I remember every lie he's told, and I'm going to get him to admit to every single one. The Neil Armstrong Uncle lie. The Training for the Olympics lie. The James Bond Eyesight lie.

I'll make sure that after he's done confessing to us kids, he knocks on the door of every grown-up on Ramble Street. I wonder if Mr. Grabowsky will use the words
slippery slope
when Muscle Man tells him there was no Mr. Softee truck. Maybe Mr. Pizzarelli will find his Broadway show lie so repulsive that he'll take him down to the station house, just to scare him.

Oh, I'm sure there'll be tears. Maybe he'll even beg for forgiveness. I bet the other kids will stand with their mouths hanging open, and I will try my best not to tell them I told them so. They will feel foolish that they were so easily led. They will tell me that I am wise. And they will turn a cold, cold heart toward Muscle Man McGinty.

Oh, the joy. The joy.

I study Muscle Man, looking for a sign. An eye twitch. A quivering lip. A deep breath. So far, nothing. He's giving no signal that he's about to crack.

If he needs to go a few more rounds before he breaks down, then we can too.

I glance over at my teammates. Not a tired one in sight. We are ready to go the distance.

Muscle Man still wears his ear-to-ear grin. And I can't figure out why. This game is ours.

Janie Lee is up next.

MaryBeth straightens out Janie Lee's hair. “Now sweetie, all you have to do is kick the ball and run.”

I take one look at MaryBeth Grabowsky and her little sister, and I think I figure out why Muscle Man is smiling.

We have a weak link.

“Maybe Janie Lee should sit this one out,” I say.

“Are you kidding?” asks Big Danny.

“No way,” says John Marcos. “The score is 10 to nothing, Tamara. What's the problem?”

The problem is that Janie Lee is only five. She's an easy out, even for Muscle Man. I count the kids on our team. If Janie Lee is out every time she's up, then the score could only be thirty-four to nothing before Muscle Man is up again.

Thirty-four to nothing. That's not enough.

“This game is too important,” I say, ignoring the pouty look on Janie Lee's face.

MaryBeth puts her hand on Janie Lee's shoulder. “If my sister doesn't play, then I don't play.”

I shrug. But the truth is that I want MaryBeth to play. I want her to be here when Muscle Man breaks down. I want her to see him fall.

“Come on, Tamara, let the little kid play,” says Big Danny. He puts his hand on Janie Lee's other shoulder. “I don't play either if she doesn't play.”

“Me either,” says John Marcos.

Even the Donovan twins threaten to walk if Janie Lee doesn't play.

“Okay, okay. She's up now,” I say, finally.

I give Muscle Man my most dangerous glare, one that I hope shows him that even though my team is clueless, I know his plan.

I hope, for Janie Lee's sake, that the strikeout is quick and painless.

“Whenever you're ready, J. Lee,” shouts Muscle Man.

Janie Lee nods, and he throws her the first pitch.

It's not the fast, get-down-to-business pitch that I would have thrown. It's a slow, easy ball. A baby pitch. Even Muscle Man, who has no pitching technique at all, can do better.

Janie Lee kicks it, but instead of hitting the ball head-on, she nicks the top of it. The ball hardly goes five feet. Muscle Man is all over it. He's got the ball in his hands before Janie Lee can take three steps toward first base.

Even Janie Lee knows she's out. She snivels. For a moment, it looks like she's going to cry. And it's a sad fact that whenever a Grabowsky girl sheds a tear, every boy on Ramble Street scampers to her side.

“Run!” I shout.

“Go to first base, Janie Lee!” yells John Marcos.

“Try your best, sweetie,” adds MaryBeth.

Janie Lee heads to first base, running as fast as her five-year-old legs can carry her.

Muscle Man races toward her, except instead of moving at top speed, he moves in an exaggerated slow motion.

“I'm coming at you,” he says, but he hardly steps off the pitching mound.

It's all pretend, and everyone knows it except for Janie Lee.

The truth is that he can tag her out seven times if he tried and three times if he only half tried.

Janie Lee reaches first base. Still out of breath from her long run, she throws us all a big Grabowsky smile.

“Way to go, Janie Lee!” shouts Big Danny.

“You did it, honey!” screams MaryBeth.

Muscle Man runs to first base and high-fives Janie Lee, as if they're on the same team. The other kids jump up and down, like it's the winning run in the World Series.

Muscle Man and Janie Lee race toward the group with their hands up in the air. Big Danny, Benny Schuster, Conchetta Marchetta, Billy Rattle, Greg McGinty, and, of course, MaryBeth, all high-five them.

It's like one big love festival, and I'm the only one not feeling it. It's incredible. The kid doesn't even lose when he's losing.