The Spy Who Came North from the Pole (4 page)

The pitcher wound up again.

Zinnnng! Smack
.

“Better,” said the catcher.

“The man on the mound isn't Sam,” whispered Mr. Pin to Maggie.

“How do you know?”

“Sam already knows how to throw a split-finger fastball.”

“Now, don't work on the ball,” said the catcher to the pitcher who wasn't Sam Spitter. “No nail marks, grease, or spit. There isn't time if you're a relief pitcher. Besides, it isn't right.”

“Okay, Sam,” said the pitcher. “The Spitter pitchers don't throw spitters.”

“Right,” said the catcher.

“So the catcher is Sam Spitter,” whispered Maggie to Mr. Pin, clutching the chain-link fence. “But if Sam's the catcher and the pitcher looks just like him and his name is also Spitter,
who
is the pitcher?”

“His twin,” said Mr. Pin calmly.

“Twin Spitter pitchers!” said Maggie. “I can't believe it!” It was a good thing a bus rolled by, or she might have been heard.

“But I don't think Sam wants anyone to know there are two of him. That's why he's wearing a disguise,” explained Mr. Pin.

“Try the split-finger again,” said Sam from behind his mask.

Zinnnng! Thud
. This time the catcher couldn't catch the ball.

“Great!” yelled Sam. “Now you've got it. Remember to be at the park early next week for the night game.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

The two pitchers finished their practice as the sun set on Thillens Park. They packed their gear, locked the gate, and Sam's twin drove them away in the pickup truck.

As the two detectives walked back to the bus stop, Maggie said to Mr. Pin: “Sam's twin is a good pitcher.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Pin.

“He's as good as Sam,” said Maggie.

“He's just as good,” said Mr. Pin. “Especially if Sam's in a slump.”

“The Cubs could win the pennant,” said Maggie. “Maybe even the Series.”

“With good pitching,” said Mr. Pin to Maggie as the bus pulled up. “And I wonder … what will happen at that game next week?”

3

Back at the diner Mr. Pin spent most of the evening in his back room, putting together a small model of Wrigley Field. He had just finished the upper deck and was about to glue on the lights.

“Wrigley Field was the last of the old ballparks to put in lights,” said Mr. Pin to Maggie.

“Why did they do it?” asked Maggie.

Mr. Pin held up the tiny cardboard lights with a tweezer and replied, “So people can find the frosty malt vendor.”

“Seriously.”

“So the players can find the dugout at night,” Mr. Pin went on. “So the manager can see who's pitching.”

Maggie wasn't sure she was going to get a real answer about the lights that night from Mr. Pin. So she left Mr. Pin muttering something about “all the great old ballparks, and old Wrigley didn't want the lights after all.” Maggie went upstairs to feed her gerbils.

Mr. Pin looked at his model of Wrigley Field. He held the lights in his tweezers and thought out loud: “If the lights are on, the manager can see who's pitching. But if the lights are off, no one knows who's on the mound. Very interesting. I wonder …”

It was growing late, and the Sox were playing on the coast. The game was on the radio. “Now here's the pitch,” said the announcer. Mr. Pin wadded up a piece of paper. Then the rock hopper penguin went into a spectacular windup, pivoted on his webbed feet, and slammed a sinker into a wastebasket.

“There are no minor leagues at the South Pole,” said Mr. Pin.

4

The sky was dark. But the lights were on at Wrigley Field.

It was an important game for the Cubs. It could also be an important game for Sam Spitter. Sam had told his brother to come early to this night game. Something just didn't feel right to Mr. Pin. So he called Walter and told him he would be at this game. When the manager gave Mr. Pin two free tickets behind the Cubs dugout, the penguin detective didn't complain.

“Bill ‘the Babe' Bruseball is starting pitcher,” said Maggie to Mr. Pin. She was listening to a play-by-play on a radio headset.

“Sam Spitter is in the bull pen, ready for relief if the Cubs need him,” said Mr. Pin, enjoying his first frosty malt.

“Right,” said Maggie. “I wonder how many innings Bruseball will pitch before they bring in Sam.”

“I hope he doesn't pitch,” said Mr. Pin.

“Do you really think something is going to happen?”

“Absolutely.”

Maggie put her elbows on her knees and watched as the game began. The Cubs were only one-half game out of first. If they won this game, they would be tied for first and might win the division. But Mr. Pin had said that something strange might happen to one of the Cubs pitchers. It was enough to make anyone nervous.

Mr. Pin bought his second frosty malt.

Berta Largamente was singing the “The Star-Spangled Banner” while Maggie fumbled with her Cubs program. Mr. Pin had solved a case for Berta when a conductor disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. But that was another story.

The game was slow and tense. The Mets and the Cubs traded runs for six innings, and the score was tied 4 to 4. Mr. Pin had decided to limit himself to one frosty malt each inning. But the innings were long, and Mr. Pin was getting hungry fast. There didn't seem to be a vendor in sight, so the rock hopper penguin told Maggie he would be back, and he set out to find one.

Mr. Pin headed up the concrete aisle, peanut shells crunching beneath his feet. He looked to each side and, just a few rows ahead, spotted a vendor carrying a cool case of frosty malts. Mr. Pin paid the vendor and was about to return to his seat when a foul ball flew over the dugout in his direction. With a quick hop, Mr. Pin snagged the ball out of the air. The crowd roared.

“Great fielding from that penguin,” said the announcer.

“Nice catch,” said the vendor.

And that was when Mr. Pin suddenly realized who the vendor really was.

“Sam Spitter!” said Mr. Pin, twirling the ball on the tip of his wing.

“Shhhh,” said Sam. “Don't let anyone know who I am.”

“I almost
didn't
know who you were,” said Mr. Pin. Sam was wearing another disguise: a long gray wig that hung over his eyes and large black-framed glasses that covered most of the rest of his face. A fake nose was cleverly attached to his glasses.

“Why are you wearing a costume?” asked Mr. Pin.

“I'm selling frosty malts,” said Sam.

“A good job, but you might need to pitch soon.”

“I'm not pitching this game,” said Sam.

Suddenly everyone stood up and started yelling like crazy.

“Out of the park,” said Mr. Pin. “The Cubs are ahead now by one run.”

“They won't need a relief pitcher yet,” said Sam over the roar of fans.

“What happens if they do?” asked Mr. Pin.

Sam wouldn't answer.

But Mr. Pin already knew. “Your brother's going to pitch, isn't he?” It wasn't really a question. “He's warming up in the bull pen while you're out here selling frosty malts. I also know why. But even though your brother's a great pitcher, you're the one who has to pitch.”

“I can't. This is the worst slump I've ever been in. I'd lose it for the Cubs. And how do you know my brother can pitch?” asked Sam.

“Thillens.”

“You were there?” asked Sam.

“With my partner,” said Mr. Pin. “Anyway, I think Wavemin would give your brother a chance if I talked to him.”

“You would do that? He never had the chance to try out that I did. He had chicken pox and a pulled hamstring the day the scout came.”

“No problem,” said Mr. Pin. “I do know that if your brother—”

“Slim.”

“Right,” Mr. Pin went on. “If your brother Slim wins the game, somebody'd find out and the Cubs would forfeit. You'd be doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. Slim will get his chance. I'll see that he does.”

With the Cubs' third out, the organ began to play and the Mets left the field. Bill (“the Babe”) Bruseball went to the mound. Mr. Pin and Sam watched as the Babe threw a fastball and narrowly missed the batter. The next pitch hit the batter, sending him to first.

Then the Babe hit the next batter, too, putting the leading run on first and the tying run on second.

“He won't be up much longer if he keeps hitting batters,” said Sam. “Seems always to happen to the Babe when he gets tired.”

Bruseball hit the third batter. The bases were loaded. Wavemin went to the mound.

Bruseball stared into the lights and rubbed his forehead with his cap. A breeze came off the lake. The park looked like a stage with Bruseball standing in the middle surrounded by spotlights. For now, it seemed that Wavemin was going to leave him in.

“Quick,” said Mr. Pin. “We don't have much time. Sam, I know how good you are if you just give yourself a chance. You can't give up because you're in a slump. Keep your fingers on the seams and just get out there and play because you love the Cubs and you love baseball.”

It was then that Mr. Pin looked down the aisle and saw Maggie buying a bag of peanuts. Mr. Pin caught her eye and pointed with his wing to the vendor. Maggie hurried over.

“Sam!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I am afraid there isn't time to explain,” Mr. Pin said to Maggie. “I need your help.” He drew what looked like a very small map of the ballpark on a frosty malt lid. He pointed to a spot marked with an
X
.

“This is where you're going,” said Mr. Pin. “When you get inside, watch the monitor. When Wavemin goes to the mound a second time, count to sixty. Then turn these dials. They look like the round knobs on a stove. I've drawn a picture so you know what to expect. Count to sixty again and turn them back.”

“Am I turning off all the lights?” asked Maggie.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Pin.

“But why …?”

“I'm afraid I can't tell you now,” said Mr. Pin.

“All right,” said Maggie as she hurried down the concrete ramp, studying the map as she went.

“Sam, come this way,” said Mr. Pin. “And bring your frosty malts.”

Sam followed Mr. Pin to the box seats near the dugout. Wavemin had given Bruseball one more chance. But it was a mistake. The Babe went into his windup and threw a perfect strike. Unfortunately, the Mets hitter met it with incredible force. The crowd groaned as they watched the ball sail over the bleachers and out of the park. The score was 8 to 5. It looked like real trouble for the Cubs.

Wavemin went to the mound. Bruseball had thrown his last pitch.

“When I give the signal,” said Mr. Pin, “hop over the wall and head for the mound.”

Bruseball was on his way back to the dugout. Wavemin signaled for who he thought was Sam to come in. Then all of a sudden the lights at Wrigley Field went out.

“Now!” shouted Mr. Pin.

It couldn't have been easy for a rock hopper penguin to convince Slim to trade clothes with his brother and become a frosty malt vendor all in sixty seconds. But somehow Mr. Pin was able to do it.

When the lights went back on, Sam was on the mound tying his shoes, Slim was walking up the aisle yelling, “Frosty malts,” and Mr. Pin was walking back across the infield toward his seat. The fans weren't sure who the short new manager eating a frosty malt was, but it didn't seem to matter.

Sam held the Mets at 8 to 5. In the bottom of the eighth the Cubs loaded the bases with Sam at bat. It didn't happen very often and might not happen again for a long time … but Sam hit a grand slam. Walter Wavemin went crazy. He jumped up and down and waved his arms in circles, hurrying the runners home. Sam's homer went over the bleachers onto Waveland Avenue and landed somewhere near a peanut vendor.

As for Slim, Mr. Pin convinced the manager to give Sam's twin brother a chance to try out for the Cubs. Wavemin said the Cubs didn't need any more relief pitchers since Sam was well out of his slump, but he said he'd see what he could do.