Rounding Third, Heading Home! Read online

  About this Book

  “If you like Matt Christopher, you’ll love David Aretha. This is a classic underdog story that Little Leaguers are bound to enjoy.”

  —Dan Gutman, author of Honus & Me, Babe & Me, and eight other Baseball Card Adventures

  Jacob’s Little League team, Morey’s Funeral Home, is a perennial loser. But this ragtag team of ten-year-olds has a new coach and a positive attitude for opening day. Standing in the way of a championship is the best team in the league—the Bankees. To beat their hated nemesis, they will need help from everybody, including Rupa, the team’s worst player. Can Morey’s Funeral Home make a mad dash to victory?

  About the Author

  David Aretha has written and edited more than two dozen baseball books, including Top 25 Baseball Skills, Tips, and Tricks for Enslow Publishers, Inc.

  Contents

  Cover

  About this Book

  Title Page

  Chapter 1: “Ya Gotta Believe”

  Chapter 2: Nine Clowns I Call My Teammates

  Gary Smolenski: “Gas”

  Riley Dinkelberg: “Gutsy”

  Evan Dixon: “Wonderbaby”

  Jeffrey Quinn: “The Prince”

  Gus Voot: “Bu-bye”

  Tashia: “Profanity Jane”

  Jackson Joseph: “Joseph Jackson”

  Marty Gluckman: “Deadpan”

  Rupa Kovner: “The Quiet Man”

  Chapter 3: Opening Day: All Things Are Possible

  Chapter 4: Pitcher’s Off His Rocker! He Throws Like Betty Crocker!

  Chapter 5: Tuesday With Rupa

  Chapter 6: Slaughtered by United Bank & Trust

  Chapter 7: A Lesson About Perfection

  Chapter 8: “Storming” Through the Playoffs

  Chapter 9: The Mad Dash

  Note to Our Readers

  Copyright

  More Books from Enslow

  Chapter One

  “Ya Gotta Believe”

  Patrick Quinn, the ’ol left-hander, toed the rubber and stared me down. Now pushing forty years old, graying at the temples, Quinn had nothing left but guile and guts. I was ready for him.

  I tapped my bat twice on the plate and focused on his next delivery. I leaned in, waiting … waiting.

  This was my final at-bat, my last shot. Relax, a part of me said, go with the pitch. But my other self wanted to blast the daylights out of the ball. I remembered reading about Babe Ruth’s 714th and last home run, a five-hundred-foot monster that roared out of Forbes Field. “Boy,” bellowed the Babe, “that last one felt good.” And for a brief instant, I thought I heard broadcaster Russ Hodges after Bobby Thomson’s “Shot Heard ’Round the World” in 1951: “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! And they’re going crazy! They’re going crazy! Oh-ho!”

  Finally, Quinn wound, kicked, and fired. With his face distorted in intense concentration, he unleashed his best effort. Like the great slugger Ted Williams had preached, I looked for the spin on the ball. But it didn’t spin. It didn’t tumble. It wasn’t a curve or slider, cutter or change, splitter or knuckler. This pitch came in fat. Straight down Main Street. Room service. Right in my wheel-house. Bells and whistles went off in my head. I went for the fences like the great Babe Ruth … and blooped a pop-up right to the pitcher.

  “Arrgh!” I grunted in disgust.

  “Don’t sweat it, Jake,” Coach Quinn said, as my hit plopped like a dead bird into his mitt. “It’s the first practice of the year.”

  He smiled and addressed my teammates in the field. “Bring it in, guys!”

  And with that, the team known as Morey’s Funeral Home trotted quickly toward the bench.

  Yes, my team is named after an undertaker’s business establishment. But that’s how it is in the Little League circuit in Hickory Oak, Michigan. Any small company can get its name slapped on a team’s jerseys as long as the owner writes a check for $300. “It could be worse,” my mom had joked. “The Princess School for Ballet is looking to make a name for itself.” Personally, I don’t mind the funeral bit. It lends itself to good headlines:

  “Morey’s Sends O’Sullivan’s to the Grave”

  “Morey’s Puts the ‘Fun’ in Funeral”

  “Morey’s: Can You Dig It?”

  Anyway, this day—the first Saturday of April—was more a day of rebirth. After five brutal months of Michigan winter—cold, clouds, and dirty snow—spring was coming alive. Our town’s famous oak trees, as well as maple and magnolia, were budding. A sheen of baby grass covered the outfield, and a warm breeze fluttered across the diamond. We felt energized.

  “It’s a beautiful day for baseball,” beamed Gary, our team’s hyper-enthusiastic baseball junkie. “Let’s play two more hours!”

  “That’s not what he meant,” retorted Marty, our solemn-faced teammate who spoke in brief sentences in a dour tone. “He meant let’s play two games.”

  “I know what Ernie Banks meant!” Gary shouted. “What do you think I am, a moron? I was paraphrasing! Improvising!”

  “Gary, guys, gather up,” Coach said. “Everyone in the dugout.”

  Our “dugout” wasn’t really dug out, like in the big leagues. It was just a bench behind a fence, but it did have a special feature: a tin roof. Pretty classy, huh? The only drawback was the occasional pop-up that landed on it, which can only be compared to cymbals crashing inside your head.

  But we liked our field, which my friend Riley called a kid-sized Field of Dreams. The infield featured manicured grass with a strip of dirt leading from the mound to home plate, just like at Comerica Park (home of my Detroit Tigers). Center field and right field were more than two hundred feet away—unreachable for even the strongest ten-year-old sluggers. But left field was a tantalizing 175 feet. The chain-link fence in left soared more than twelve feet high, giving us our very own “Green Monster,” just like at Boston’s Fenway Park.

  Our ball field rested in humble Hickory Park, which was nestled in a quiet, pleasant neighbor-hood—much like Wrigley Field in Chicago. Small brick houses with lots of tall, ancient trees surrounded the park, which we called The Hick. I’ll never forget the sounds of the season: the rustling of leaves mixing with ball field chatter. Sweet memories. …

  I don’t have any siblings, so my teammates were kind of like my brothers and sister. (Yes, there’s a girl on my team. I’ll get to her later.) Not only did we all hail from the same school, Hickory Oak Elementary, but most of us had also been on the same Little League team since first grade. We’ve always been sponsored by Morey’s, which has followed us around like the Grim Reaper.

  Our teams have been like the Baltimore Orioles and the Pittsburgh Pirates—consistently lousy. The coaches didn’t keep score in first grade (thank goodness!), and the following years we stumbled in with records of 5–9 and 4–10. Highlights included snack time, cap flipping, fence climbing, and bench parents shouting, “Get down from there, and cheer on your teammates!” Pathetic baby stuff.

  But this year was different. We were fourth graders, ten years old—double-digit maturity. Even at our first practice, I witnessed commitment never before seen by the boys of Morey’s. Much of the turnaround was due to our new head coach.

  Our previous coaches were moms and dads, whose only skill was filling out the lineup cards so randomly that no one could possibly complain of unfair treatment. Coach Quinn, on the other hand, was the real deal. He had played baseball in college, starting at second base for the Central Michigan Chippewas. As the father of Jeffrey, our teammate, he had always wanted to coach us but was too busy making obscene amounts of money in real estate. This year he made time for us, and I for one was eternally grateful.

  “Oka
y, guys, listen up,” he said. Coach Quinn had a perpetually smiley face. He effused enthusiasm, and he always seemed to be bopping to some beat—as if an iPod had been surgically implanted in his brain. His positive vibe energized the whole team.

  All ten of us grabbed some bench: Jeffrey, Riley, Jackson, Evan, Gary, Gus, Marty, Tashia, Rupa, and me. We listened up.

  “I think we’re going to have a great year this season, guys,” Coach said.

  “Oh yeah, right,” quipped Tashia.

  “I’m not talking about wins and losses,” Coach said. “I’m talking about having fun with your teammates. Learning new skills. Enjoying the thrill of laying down a perfect bunt or turning a double play.”

  “Like that’ll happen,” Riley interrupted.

  “Hey!” Coach shot back. “Riley. Look at me. I want every one of you to look me in the eye.”

  That caught my attention, since my dad was notorious for looking in the clouds or at the ground when he talked.

  “The only way we’re going to be successful this year is if we believe in ourselves—and our teammates,” Coach said. “We might not be the New York Yankees, but all of you have unique skills that can help us win games. Tashia, I like how you stay down on those ground balls. Rupa? Where’s Rupa?”

  Rupa was easy to miss. He had a severe speech impediment—so bad that he was afraid to talk, or even interact with anyone. A smaller kid, he usually melted into the background. He also was the worst player on the team, which is why Coach called him out for praise.

  “Rupa, in baserunning drills, you were turning the corners like Derek Jeter. You were awesome, buddy!”

  Rupa mustered a rare, brief smile.

  “Maybe we can be like the Worst to First Twins of ’87,” Gary offered.

  “Or the Miracle Mets of ’69,” I added.

  “There you go, guys,” Coach said. “Ya Gotta Believe!”

  “Actually,” interjected Gary, “that was the slogan of the ’73 Mets.”

  “Well, we’ll make it Morey’s motto,” Coach said. “On the count of three, ya gotta believe. One … two … three …”

  “Ya gotta believe!”

  “All right,” Coach said. “Next practice, Tuesday at 5:30. Eat your Wheaties!”

  We all dispersed, feeling that this year was going to be a whole new ball game. I quickly packed my equipment bag and trotted toward my dad, who waited near the backstop.

  “Jacob,” Coach said in a very subdued tone. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

  “I need you to be a leader out there,” Coach said.

  I stared back and eventually nodded. No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

  “That was a nice compliment,” said my dad, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I said, still perplexed. “Do they have captains in Little League?”

  “No,” Dad said with a laugh, even though I didn’t think it was a dumb question. “But you can be like a captain by how you act and play.”

  “Yeah. … Are you going to coach at all this year, Dad?”

  “Well, Mr. Majus is going to help Coach Quinn. But I’ll be the scorekeeper again.”

  Coach Majus, a quiet old man with a big gut, had been our third base coach the previous two years. He was Gus’s stepmother’s father. Coach Majus actually made it to the major leagues back in 1965, but you won’t find his name on baseball-reference.com. Though he did play with the Cleveland Indians, he never got into a game.

  Gus said that in one game, Coach Majus entered the on-deck circle as a pinch hitter in the ninth inning. But the batter ahead of him grounded into a game-ending double play, killing his big-league dream. Now, his only tie to the game is hitting us balls in practice and coaching third base. He never gives us any advice and says hardly anything.

  While Coach Quinn and Jeffrey loaded their BMW X3, I slunk into Dad’s ’98 Ford Escort. “What do I need a new car for?” Dad always asks. “It gets you from point A to point B, doesn’t it?”

  When my dad, Douglas Vehousky, was a kid, he idolized Tigers pitcher Mark Fidrych. They called Fidrych “The Bird” because his curly blond hair made him look like Big Bird on Sesame Street. Fidrych electrified Tiger Stadium as a rookie in 1976. Like my dad, he was also tight with the buck. In fact, he used to fish for dimes in pay phone coin returns.

  “That’s because he made only $16,000 as a rookie,” Dad said. “Can you believe that?”

  My dad knows a lot about baseball’s past—and history in general. That’s what he teaches at Schoolcraft College. Dad looks like a quirky professor, with circle-frame glasses and long sideburns. He seems to specialize in the history of misery: economic catastrophes, famines, plagues, and the like. He likes to talk about suffering on a grand scale (“Did you know that 75 million people died from the Black Death in the 1340s?”) in order to make me “appreciate” what I have. But his history lessons usually bring me down. Moreover, on a teacher’s salary, he can’t afford a BMW X3.

  We live in a two-bedroom brick ranch house on Ogleby Street. It’s not big, but I can play baseball in the basement with a Wiffle bat and a tennis ball, spanking liners off the cement walls. My mom sews dresses for money and decorates nicely despite Dad’s tight budget.

  Though recently traumatized by turning forty, Mom (Bridget) has the spirit of a kindergartner. She cracks up at whoopee cushions, Spongebob, and Bobby from King of the Hill. She’s also really good at doing voices—when she reads me books before bed or imitates my stuffed animals. The funniest is Chewy, my goofy-faced teddy bear who takes everything literally.

  “Hey, Chewy,” I said on the night of my first practice. “This year we’re gonna beat the pants off United Bank & Trust.”

  “I hope they’re wearing clean underwear!” responded Mom in Chewy’s toddler-like voice.

  “We’re going to kill them!” I said.

  “You’ll go to jail!” Chewy replied.

  “We’ll hand them their lunch!”

  “Hot dogs or hamburgers?”

  “We’ll mop the floor with them.”

  “Do you clean windows, too?”

  Mom broke into laughter.

  I went to bed that night musing about Morey’s Funeral Home. Could our new coach turn us clowns around? Could I meet his expectations as a team leader? Could we unseat the great power, United Bank & Trust, and finally win the league championship?

  “Ya gotta believe,” I whispered to Chewy.

  “Believe what?” he said.

  Chapter Two

  Nine Clowns I Call My Teammates

  “You’re not a real ballplayer,” my dad once said, “until you have a nickname.” I thought he was exaggerating until, one day, I looked it up. Seemingly every other guy in The Baseball Encyclopedia has a nickname. Some are silly and singsongy. Major League Baseball has seen the likes of Yo-Yo Davalillo, Still Bill Hill, and Emil “Hill Billy” Bildilli.

  In the old days, some nicknames touched on a player’s ethnicity, such as reliever Al “The Mad Hungarian” Hrabosky, a door-slamming relief pitcher in the 1970s. I can’t tell you much about Lou “The Nervous Greek” Skizas except that he probably wasn’t as relaxed as “Cool Papa” Bell. Other nicknames are pure poetry, such as “Blue Moon” Odom and “Sudden” Sam McDowell, whose fastball reached the plate in a hurry.

  Some nicknames refer to a player’s physical attributes. “Pee Wee” Butts, I’m guessing, had a tiny heinie. Nick “Old Tomato Face” Cullop may not have been the handsomest pitcher in the league. Other nicknames focused on players’ habits or shortcomings. “Fidgety” Phil Collins didn’t inspire confidence, nor did three-time twenty-game loser Bill “Can’t Win” Carrick. Moreover, teammates probably kept their distance from “Spittin’” Bill Doak.

  Morey’s Funeral Home had enough goofballs that it wasn’t hard to tag them with nicknames. Featured below are personal profiles of every player on the Morey’s roster. Gary, Riley, and I came up with the nicknames.

  Gary Smolenski: “Gas”<
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  Gary’s nickname had nothing to do with the amount of baked beans he consumed. (That was his personal business!) It had everything to do with Pete Rose, major-league baseball’s career hits leader (4,256). Every now and then, Gary announced Rose’s immortal line, “I’d walk through hell in a gasoline suit to play baseball.” And you know what? He would.

  Highly charged and wild-eyed, Gas channeled all of his energy into baseball. He grunted when he swung the bat and chased after fly balls in the outfield—even when he played shortstop. He was every teacher’s nightmare, but every coach’s dream come true.

  Riley Dinkelberg: “Gutsy”

  Riley was no Gold Glover at third base (his usual position), but he had incredible guts. On the last day of third grade, he ventured into the teachers’ lounge—strictly off-limits to all students—and plunked 75 cents into the school’s only beverage machine. Mr. Clark abruptly whisked him out of the lounge and to the principal’s office—but not before Riley cracked open and chugged an icy cold Mr. Pibb. Riley has joked about it ever since. He jokes about everything, which makes him a fun benchmate during those tense one-run games.

  Evan Dixon: “Wonderbaby”

  Everybody on our team was ten years old. Except Evan. He was seven.

  I first noticed Evan when he was a toddler. He was shorter than his bat, but when I tossed him balls, he smashed liners over my head. “How old are you?” I asked him. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug.

  Evan is too good to play with his peers, so his dad placed him in our league. Though he didn’t have the arm to play third base or short, he made all the routine plays at second and could swat hits past diving infielders. If any Morey’s player had big-league potential, it was Evan Dixon. Remember the name.

  Jeffrey Quinn: “The Prince”

  Riley and I called Jeff “The Prince” (though not to his face) because he possessed everything a kid could ask for. He had a flat-screen TV in his bedroom, had been to Disney World four times, and owned a bat bag that was big enough to store his own personal catcher’s equipment—not to mention Wonderbaby! Jeffrey had once been very happy-go-lucky and fun to play with, but he gradually became more moody and snotty. Riley said he had become spoiled rotten. Jeffrey certainly was one of our better players, but I grew weary of his “country club” attitude.