Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Not Growing Up by Tommy Greenwald

Author:Tommy Greenwald
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626721708
Publisher: Roaring Brook Press

But sadly, easier said than done. After Chad walked the second guy, Mr. Crabtree stomped out to the mound for a meeting. Chad looked scared to death.

“This guy’s a turd,” I said to Willy.

He nodded. “Tell me about it.”

Finally the coach went back to the dugout, and by some miracle, Chad got the next pitch over. The problem was, the kid hit it. It was a hard ground ball that went right through the third baseman’s legs.

“No!” bellowed Mr. Crabtree.

Luckily, the left fielder was backing up the play. Unluckily, his throw hit the kid who was sliding into second base, and the ball bounced out to right field. Luckily, the right fielder was a different boy from the one who was out there earlier. Unluckily, he was just as clueless. The poor guy was as frozen as a statue.

“THROW THE BALL!” screamed Mr. Crabtree. “HURRY UP! THROW IT!”

The right fielder did exactly that. He threw it right to Mr. Crabtree.

“NOT TO ME!” the coach thundered. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

By then, all three runners had scored. The third baseman looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole, and the left and right fielders looked like they wanted the third baseman to make room in the hole for them.

“BRING IT IN!” Mr. Crabtree hollered, and everyone on the field gathered at the mound. The coach started talking a mile a minute, but really softly. I had no idea what he was saying, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t, “Hey guys, whaddya say we forget about this whole thing and go get some ice cream?”

“I can’t believe this jerk gets to coach,” I said. “How is that possible?”

“Because nobody can do anything about it, that’s how,” Willy said glumly.

Well, that was all I needed to hear.

“Says you,” I said.

“Uh-oh,” said Katie.

I poked my head in the dugout. “Pssst, you guys!”

There were about three kids on the bench, all blowing bubbles with their gum and minding their own business. These were the bench-warmers, the ultra-scrubs, the kids who really, really didn’t care. They looked up at me with mild curiosity.

“What’s your name?” I asked the kid closest to me, who was sporting a pair of those wraparound goggles that no child should ever be forced to wear.

“Norman Beckles,” he said. Of course it was.

“You want to see something funny, Norman?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I pointed to a box of PowerBars that was sitting in the dugout. “Hand me two of those.”

He did.

Without anyone looking, I quietly unlatched the fence that led from the bleachers to the field.

“Moose! Coco!” I whispered. “Delicious delicious!” That was my code phrase for I’ve got treats. Their ears perked up to high alert, and their tails started smacking into each other.

I led them over to the fence and unwrapped the PowerBars. Then I threw them out onto the field—one to the third base side and one to the first base side. “Go get ’em!” I said to the dogs, who didn’t need to be told twice. They tore out there so fast, no one even knew what was happening until those PowerBars were long gone.

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