some kind of fancy dessert. It had more frosting than a birthday cake.
Slingshot wound up and let fly.
The huge Haymaker batter jumped all over the pitch, ripping a grounder toward second base. The Glove lunged, but his feet flew out from under him. As he hurtled across the icy ground on his back, the ball squirted away.Stump pounced on it and gunned it to Gilly at first.
“SAFE!” called the umpire.
The next batter worked the count full before Slingshot buckled his knees with a nasty curveball for strike three.
Luck smiled on us when, with one out, the next hitter scorched a liner straight to center. For the first time since I’d known him, Orlando didn’t have to move an inch to make the catch. It settled into his mitt like a pigeon coming home to roost. He flung the ball back in to the Glove, then waved his arm in the air.
“Time!” he hollered.
The umpire stepped from behind the plate and removed his mask.
“What is it, son?”
“I’m stuck,” Orlando yelled. “I can’t move.”
The Haymakers roared with laughter.
The ump waved to Skip Lou on the bench. “Better see what this is about,” he said.
Skip Lou jogged carefully to center, weavingaround the larger ice patches. I followed him out from third while Ocho and Ducks trotted over from their sides of the outfield.
“It’s the shoes,” Orlando whispered as we gathered around him. He was standing in the middle of a patch of ice the size of a hockey rink. “The spikes sunk into the mud. But it’s gotten so cold, so fast, the ground froze around them while I stood here. It’s like I’m nailed into concrete.”
“Quick,” Skip Lou ordered. “Unlace those crazy things and run to the dugout for a change. You did bring an extra pair, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I brought other shoes all right,” Orlando said.
He unlaced his sandpaper spikes and sprinted to the bench in his socks. Our fans cheered him every cold step of the way. Not the Haymakers, though. They pointed and jeered.
Ducks, Ocho, and I worked on freeing the modified golf spikes. After a good bit ofwrangling, we managed to pry them loose. I handed them to Skip, who raised them in the air to more cheers from the crowd.
“Well, boys,” he said with a shake of his head. “I have now officially seen everything. I’ll tell you what. Let’s end this game before anything else crazy happens.” He trotted back to the bench, and I ran in to third.
Orlando passed me going the other way. He seemed to have gotten taller. He was also walking funny. Kind of wobbly at the ankles. He reached the big frozen pond of center field and began to glide. Then I saw what was different. The kid from Florida had swapped his spikes for a pair of ice skates.
Everyone else saw what he was up to at the same time.
“This isn’t hockey,” hooted the Haymakers. “This is baseball!”
Orlando paid no attention. Sweeping into position with a textbook hockey stop, he sprayed a fountain of shaved ice from his silver blades.The crowd roared its approval. He was a good skater.
The Haymakers manager didn’t like it one bit. He charged out to the plate and thrust his face in the ump’s. His jaw pumped like a nutcracker’s as he complained bitterly about Orlando’s choice of footwear.
After listening politely for a few seconds, the ump threw his hands in the air.
“There’s nothing in the rule book about skates,” he said. “I guess he can wear them if he wants. Let’s just finish this crazy game.”
The manager reluctantly returned to the dugout. The Haymakers booed.
“BATTER UP!” roared the umpire.
Slingshot checked the runner on first, then snapped off a curve. The batter got a piece of it, rolling a slow one back up the middle. The ball squibbed over the mound, eluding Slingshot. Stump charged in, lost his footing, and flopped on his face. The ball hopped into short left field, where Ducks scooped it up and fired to mecovering the bag at third.
I caught his throw and swept my glove
Slingshot wound up and let fly.
The huge Haymaker batter jumped all over the pitch, ripping a grounder toward second base. The Glove lunged, but his feet flew out from under him. As he hurtled across the icy ground on his back, the ball squirted away.Stump pounced on it and gunned it to Gilly at first.
“SAFE!” called the umpire.
The next batter worked the count full before Slingshot buckled his knees with a nasty curveball for strike three.
Luck smiled on us when, with one out, the next hitter scorched a liner straight to center. For the first time since I’d known him, Orlando didn’t have to move an inch to make the catch. It settled into his mitt like a pigeon coming home to roost. He flung the ball back in to the Glove, then waved his arm in the air.
“Time!” he hollered.
The umpire stepped from behind the plate and removed his mask.
“What is it, son?”
“I’m stuck,” Orlando yelled. “I can’t move.”
The Haymakers roared with laughter.
The ump waved to Skip Lou on the bench. “Better see what this is about,” he said.
Skip Lou jogged carefully to center, weavingaround the larger ice patches. I followed him out from third while Ocho and Ducks trotted over from their sides of the outfield.
“It’s the shoes,” Orlando whispered as we gathered around him. He was standing in the middle of a patch of ice the size of a hockey rink. “The spikes sunk into the mud. But it’s gotten so cold, so fast, the ground froze around them while I stood here. It’s like I’m nailed into concrete.”
“Quick,” Skip Lou ordered. “Unlace those crazy things and run to the dugout for a change. You did bring an extra pair, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I brought other shoes all right,” Orlando said.
He unlaced his sandpaper spikes and sprinted to the bench in his socks. Our fans cheered him every cold step of the way. Not the Haymakers, though. They pointed and jeered.
Ducks, Ocho, and I worked on freeing the modified golf spikes. After a good bit ofwrangling, we managed to pry them loose. I handed them to Skip, who raised them in the air to more cheers from the crowd.
“Well, boys,” he said with a shake of his head. “I have now officially seen everything. I’ll tell you what. Let’s end this game before anything else crazy happens.” He trotted back to the bench, and I ran in to third.
Orlando passed me going the other way. He seemed to have gotten taller. He was also walking funny. Kind of wobbly at the ankles. He reached the big frozen pond of center field and began to glide. Then I saw what was different. The kid from Florida had swapped his spikes for a pair of ice skates.
Everyone else saw what he was up to at the same time.
“This isn’t hockey,” hooted the Haymakers. “This is baseball!”
Orlando paid no attention. Sweeping into position with a textbook hockey stop, he sprayed a fountain of shaved ice from his silver blades.The crowd roared its approval. He was a good skater.
The Haymakers manager didn’t like it one bit. He charged out to the plate and thrust his face in the ump’s. His jaw pumped like a nutcracker’s as he complained bitterly about Orlando’s choice of footwear.
After listening politely for a few seconds, the ump threw his hands in the air.
“There’s nothing in the rule book about skates,” he said. “I guess he can wear them if he wants. Let’s just finish this crazy game.”
The manager reluctantly returned to the dugout. The Haymakers booed.
“BATTER UP!” roared the umpire.
Slingshot checked the runner on first, then snapped off a curve. The batter got a piece of it, rolling a slow one back up the middle. The ball squibbed over the mound, eluding Slingshot. Stump charged in, lost his footing, and flopped on his face. The ball hopped into short left field, where Ducks scooped it up and fired to mecovering the bag at third.
I caught his throw and swept my glove
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