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Matthew Birnbaum took aim and pitched.
Whoosh.
Charlie Ping had his first strike of the day. Every other time at bat, he'd hit the first pitch.

Whoosh.
Caroline couldn't believe it. The parents and brothers and sisters in the bleachers were going wild. She could hear Herbie Tate's booming voice: "That's two, Birnbaum! Strike him out!"

Matthew Birnbaum took a deep breath and pitched. But his pitching arm was tired, and his luck had run out. Charlie Ping swung a third time and connected with a splat that probably could be heard in downtown Cincinnati, three states and a large river away. The ball sailed up and away and over the fence.

Ping jogged, smirking, around the bases while the scorekeeper recorded the run. At least no one was on base. But now the score was tied: 32 to 32.

A little black kid with too big sneakers came up to bat, struck out, burst into tears, and was led away to be consoled by the Half-pints' coach.

Now it was the Tater Chips' turn at bat, and one run would do it for them.
One run.
Caroline called a brief time-out and sent them, all but Kristin, to the men's room. All she needed was Eric the Beaver, who was up next, to start his ballet dance in the batter's box.

He didn't. He swung with enough energy to send a slam to the next county, but the bat only caught the edge of the ball and hit an odd little bouncing drive toward first base. The pitcher ran for it, collided with the first baseman, and they both fell down. Eric the Beaver could have made it to first base in the confusion. But he tripped over an untied shoelace; while he sprawled on the baseline, the ball rolled past; Eric picked it up politely and handed it to the first baseman.

Eric the Beaver was out.

Hastily Caroline ordered her remaining players: "Check your shoelaces I" J.P. jumped from his seat and went down the line on the bench, retying everyone's sneakers.

If only she could put Matthew Birnbaum in to bat. He could get the run that would win the game. But Matthew's turn wouldn't come for six more players.

Jason, the first baseman, was next. Caroline sighed. Jason had struck out every time at bat. Jason swung at everything: high balls, low balls, wild pitches, butterflies, and blowing leaves. Once someone had tossed a candy wrapper on the field when Jason was at bat, and he had swung at that.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Jason struck out so quickly it might have qualified for a world record. He was used to it; but he came back to the bench with his lower lip quivering, anyway.

And now Poochie—David Tate—was up.

"If only he had his glasses," Caroline muttered to J.P. "He can't even see to the pitcher's mound."

"He's gutsy, though," J.P. whispered back. "It takes a lot of guts to be a blind ballplayer."

Poochie marched toward the batter's box and aired a few theatrical practice swings. Then he took his place and assumed his batting stance, with his behind stuck out and his face scrunched up.

"No, Pooch!" Caroline yelled. "I mean David! You're backwards!"

Poochie remembered. He switched from right to left. At least he had a chance if he batted left-handed. Sometimes, just by accident, the ball bumped into the bat.

And it did this time. An aimless, looping pitch somehow casually ran into Poochie's awkwardly held bat, and Poochie moved the bat a little bit so that the ball reversed its direction and went out into the field. A few feet, at least.

"A bunt!" yelled Caroline. "Run, Pooch!"

Poochie squinted, trying to see where first base was. But he had lost his sense of direction when he switched from right-handed batting to left. He ran toward third.

The pitcher picked up the ball from where it lay in the dust. He walked it over to first base, handed it to the first baseman, and turned away with a smug smile.

But the first baseman dropped it and it rolled.

The crowd in the bleachers went wild.

Poochie, who had just begun to realize he was running in the wrong direction, had stopped in confusion and embarrassment. Now the crowd cheered him on. "Go the other way, Tate!" they yelled.

Poochie trotted back to home plate, looked around, got his bearings, and headed for first.

The first baseman had run after the dropped ball, collided with the second baseman, and now they were in the middle of a fistfight. The pitcher, who had started back to the mound thinking the game had ended in a tie, looked around, startled, then ran after the ball and picked it up. Now he and Poochie were both heading in a dead heat for first base.

And Poochie got there first. Angrily the pitcher heaved the ball out toward right field. But the right fielder had headed over to the sideline to buy an ice cream from the cart that was parked there.

The pitcher stomped, sulking, back toward the mound. The first baseman and the shortstop were both on the ground now, wrestling, biting, and kicking.

The right fielder was licking his ice cream sandwich and waving to his mother, who was aiming a camera at him from the bleachers.

And the ball rolled on and on.

Poochie began to run. When he rounded second base and headed toward third, the center fielder responded to the roaring instructions from the crowd and headed after the ball.

Poochie touched third base and the third baseman, a girl with two ponytails, stuck out her tongue at him as he passed.

The center fielder threw the ball toward the pitcher. But the pitcher was sulking, with his back turned, and didn't see it coming. The catcher ran in, picked it up, stumbled over an unbuckled strap from his too big chest protector, and fell, causing a cloud of dust to rise.

When the dust cleared, Poochie was standing on home plate looking triumphant.

"I hit a home run!" Poochie yelled. "I told you I would!"

And the game was over.

"Dear Mom," Caroline wrote. "I'm sorry I haven't written all week. Forget everything I said in my first letter, anyway. Everything is all switched around.

"Lillian has quit her real estate course, so I don't have to baby-sit anymore. And Ivy's earache is all better. Did I tell you that poor little Ivy had an earache?

"So now that I am not baby-sitting, I am coaching David's baseball team. Did I tell you that Poochie's real name is David?

"J.P. is working at Herbie Tate's Sporting Goods, running Dad's computer for the summer. Did I tell you that Dad has a computer?

"In his spare time, J.P. is trying to teach the twins to whistle 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic.' Did I tell you that the twins can whistle? Isn't that the most amazing thing? And J.P. doesn't seem to mind that they spit when they whistle.

"Lillian says that there is a museum in Des Moines after all—I thought there wasn't—and she will take me to it sometime, whenever I want to go.

"But I'm not sure I'll have time. We have a big game coming up against the Squirts. We have a chance of becoming champions. And Poochie, I mean David, will have his glasses by the next game.

"Did I tell you that Poochie needed glasses? And was left-handed so he needed to be switched around? And that was the whole, entire problem, right there.

"Now that everything is switched around, J.P. and I actually like Des Moines quite a bit. Wait till you see the shirts that we will bring back to New York at the end of the summer.

"They say:

MEET YOUR FATE
WITH HERBIE TATE

and they come in all sizes, even Adult. So if you would like one, just let me know and I can get it at a discount.

"Or jogging shoes, if you'd prefer.

"Love,
"Caroline"