The Zippity Zinger #4 (11 page)

AFTER THE MEDAL PRESENTATIONS, Papa Pete offered to take everyone out for a celebration. We walked over to McKelty's Roll 'N Bowl, where Papa Pete is a regular at the coffee shop. We were a big group—Frankie and his parents, Ashley and her parents, Robert and his mom, Emily and me and our parents, Papa Pete, and, of course, Cheerio.

Papa Pete ordered root-beer floats for everyone except Cheerio. He had his favorite—an order of chili fries. Light on the chili, though, because it gives him gas. Believe me, you don't want to be around Cheerio when he's got gas.

Papa Pete made a toast to all the kids, not just for winning, but for participating in the Olympiad. Then I clinked my spoon on my glass to get everyone's attention, and stood up.

“I want to thank the two best friends any winning pitcher could have,” I began. “First of all, my manager, Ashley, who wouldn't take no for an answer.” I turned to Ashley. “Ash, I don't know how you knew that I could do this, but because you did, I feel better than I've ever felt in my whole life.”

“Better than when we got that stink bomb and threw it down the elevator shaft while Mrs. Fink was in the elevator?”

“Ashley,” I whispered. “What are you, nuts?”

I turned to my mom and tried really hard to laugh. “That Ashley,” I said. “She has such a wacky imagination.”

My mom gave me another one of her “we need to talk about this” looks. I thought I had better go on with my speech really quickly, before there was time for any questions from the parent section.

“Frankie, you are the man,” I said. “It's amazing how you talked me through that last inning. Without you, I would never have been able to do what Ashley knew I could do but I thought I couldn't do.”

“Zip, if I understood one word of what you just said, I think I would be deeply touched,” said Frankie.

Everyone at the table laughed.

“To the good Doctors Wong, and to Dr. and Mrs. Townsend, and to Mrs. Upchurch, thank you for having great kids,” I went on. “And to Papa Pete, who has been playing catch with me for as long as I can remember, I'd like to make you the honorary inventor of the Zippity Zinger.”

“Hankie,” said Papa Pete, wiping some whipped cream off his mustache. “Of all my inventions, and that includes the Knockwurst with Baked Beans and Sauerkraut on Corn Rye with Only Yellow Mustard Special Sandwich, the Zippity Zinger is the one I'm most proud of.”

I looked over at my sister. She was sitting next to Robert. Don't gag or anything, but they were holding hands.

“Emily, none of this would have happened without your lucky monkey socks, so thank you for having them in the first place. And congratulations on winning the Brain Buster. I really do appreciate how smart you are, especially since it takes a lot of pressure off me. At least Mom and Dad got one smart kid.”

Emily reached over to try to give me a hug, but, fortunately, I was quick enough to avoid her arms. Wrapping herself around me was not necessary. Plus, it was completely unacceptable in a crowd.

“And, last but not least, I want to thank my mom and dad for showing me that you don't need a lucky charm to launch a Zippity Zinger.”

My mom smiled and blew me a kiss, which I'd rather she wouldn't do in public, but I've learned that there's no stopping her. My dad took the pencil out from behind his ear and waved it at me. That was big because unless he's going to write a word down or across, his pencil lives behind his ear full-time.

Suddenly, I felt a hot wind on my neck. Then I smelled onions burned in a tar pit. I turned around and looked directly into the mouth of Nick McKelty. His teeth headed in every direction—north, south, east, west—except up and down. He was laughing like a hyena.

“The Zippity Zinger, that's a laugh,” he said, spraying small drops of saliva on my chin. “There's no such thing. You're just one lucky little dude.”

“You're right, McKelty,” I said. “I am lucky. And I am little. But guess what, big guy? I won.”

I held up the gold medal. The reflection from the disco ball caught it and a ray of golden light flickered on McKelty's face.

“Nick, I'll bet yours looks great in the light, too,” Ashley said.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” I said. “You don't have a medal. What a shame.”

“Hey, there's always next year when you repeat fourth grade,” Frankie added.

I picked up my root-beer float and clinked glasses with Frankie and Ashley. McKelty stomped away to where his father was waiting for him at the shoe counter. The last thing I saw before I turned back to the table was him spraying foot deodorant into a pair of size nine red-and-tan bowling shoes.

He does that so well. There's a future for everybody.

“This calls for a toast,” I said. I raised my glass high in the air. Unfortunately, I raised it too high. Way too high.

The thing I'd like to mention here about root beer with ice cream floating in it is that when you fling it in the air, it sails out of the glass, goes straight up, and lands with a big plop on the front of your pants—in the immediate area of your zipper.

When I looked at the root beer spreading like a wild river across my pants, it looked like one thing and one thing only. I am sorry and embarrassed to have to bring this up, but the truth is, it looked like I had peed in my pants.

If I had thought my mom blowing me a kiss in public was embarrassing, you can imagine how I felt when I saw her hands moving toward me with a napkin.

“Mom,” I shouted. “Stop right there. Think about what you're doing!”

She froze. I froze. My zipper froze.

Man, that ice cream was cold.

1. Put your hands over your stomach, double over, pretend you're about to throw up, and run out.

2. Drop to the floor as if you're looking for a quarter that fell out of your pocket and crawl to the front door.

3. Take your friends' drinks and pour them on you, too, and then tell everyone you're going to a costume party as a root-beer float.

4. Pull your shirt out of your pants, pull it down over your knees, and hop out of the room like a rabbit.

5. Bowl yourself out of there. Get a running start, dive belly-first onto the oil-slick lane, put your hands in front of you, and head for the ten pin. Exit on the other side of the pins. This is a little dangerous, so don't try it unless it's an extreme emergency—and then, don't forget to keep your hands stretched out in front of you.

You know, I could keep going with this list, but Papa Pete ordered me a fresh root-beer float, and it just arrived, so I think you should finish the list yourself. Let me know what you come up with.

By the way, did I mention to you that I won a medal today? I'm pretty sure it's real gold. But even if it isn't, I'm so proud.

HENRY WINKLER is an actor, producer, and director, and he speaks publicly all over the world. In addition, he has a star on Hollywood Boulevard, was knighted by the government of France, and the jacket he wore as the Fonz hangs in the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, D.C. But if you ask him what he is proudest of, he would say, “Writing the Hank Zipzer books with my partner, Lin Oliver.”

He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Stacey. They have three children named Jed, Zoe, and Max, and two dogs named Monty and Charlotte. Charlotte catches a ball so well that she could definitely play outfield for the New York Mets.

 

LIN OLIVER is a writer and producer of movies, books, and television series for children and families. She has written over one hundred episodes of television and produced four movies, many of which are based on children's books. She is cofounder and executive director of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, an international organization of twenty thousand authors and illustrators of children's books.

She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Alan. They have three sons named Theo, Ollie, and Cole. She loves tuna melts, curious kids, any sport that involves a racket, and children's book writers everywhere.