Ten Thumb Sam by Rachel Muller Page B

It’s just throw and catch, throw and catch. You’ve got to find your rhythm.”
    â€œI don’t
have
any rhythm,” Sam protested.
    â€œKeep practicing,” said Martin. “You’ll get it eventually.”
    Sam practiced for weeks with everything he could get his hands on: tennis balls, rubber balls, beanbags,even bars of soap. At night he dreamt of golden balls spinning high above him in a shining arc. But when he woke up he was still Ten Thumb Sam.
    â€œAll right, enough already,” Martin said as he dodged a wayward beanbag one afternoon. “You’re hopeless at this!”
    â€œBut I’m still learning,” Sam protested.
    â€œLearning what, exactly? You
still
can’t keep more than one thing in the air at a time. But, hey,” Martin shrugged, “you tried.”

    Sam crossed juggling off his list and went to see his cousin Tony Zuccato. He found him practicing his tumbling act with the other Zuccatos in the big top.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Tony asked the others after Sam had explained the purpose of his visit. “Shall we give the kid a try?”
    Tony’s sister, Tina, grinned at Sam. “Why not?”
    Sam was determined to get it right this time. He watched his cousins closely and listened carefully as they explained every move they made on the tumbling mat. But when it was his turn to tumble, he could barely manage a simple somersault, let alone a triple cartwheel or a flying leap.
    â€œI’ll get it,” he promised through gritted teeth.
    Sam threw himself into his new sport. He practiced every moment he could. When the Zuccatos were performing inside the big top, Sam was outside on the grass, attempting handstands and backflips. But for all his hard work, Sam just couldn’t get his limbs to cooperate.
    After being knocked flat for the seventeenth time in one morning while assisting his young cousin, Tony Zuccato had to speak up. “I’m really sorry, kid. You just don’t have the moves.”
    â€œBut I’ll keep working!” Sam pleaded. He looked around at the rest of the Zuccato team. His cousin Harry had a bruise under one eye. Frankie’s arm was in a sling. Only Tina, who was holding a block of ice to her knee, was able to meet Sam’s gaze.
    â€œSorry, Sam,” she said. “No hard feelings, but you’re just too clumsy to be a tumbler.”

    Sam offered to help Mr. Poponopolis with his dog act.
    â€œDon’t see why not,” Mr. Poponopolis said, scratching his bald head thoughtfully. “The dogs certainly seem to like you.”
    It was true that Mr. Poponopolis’s dogs liked Sam,especially when he scratched them behind their ears or stroked their bellies. But liking someone is one thing and obeying them is quite another. No matter what Sam ordered them to do, the terriers just wagged their short tails and stared up at him blankly. He tried begging them, pleading with them, bribing them with soup bones and doggie treats. In desperation he even got down on all fours and demonstrated the actions he wanted the dogs to perform. They didn’t budge.
    â€œI don’t understand it,” said Mr. Poponopolis. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Roll over,” he said to the nearest dog. The dog rolled over.
    â€œRoll over,” said Sam. The dog stayed put.
    Mr. Poponopolis shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, Sam.”

    The Fritzi sisters were grooming their champion stallions when Sam approached them and asked if he could work with the horses.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Erma Fritzi, biting her lip. “They’re high-spirited animals. They can be very dangerous. They’re not ponies, you know.”
    Imelda Fritzi rubbed her skinny hands together anxiously. “Are you sure it’s all right with your parents?”
    â€œI’m sure,” said Sam.
    â€œI don’t know,” Erma repeated.
    â€œIt’s not that we