The Zippity Zinger #4 (2 page)

8. Let me remind you, these were
pink
monkeys on
red
socks. Is that not reason enough?

9.

10.

**I skipped nine and ten because my brain stopped thinking of reasons after number eight. It does that. There's no arguing with my brain. When it's done, it's done.

BEFORE I OPENED THE DOOR, I looked through the peephole to make sure it was Papa Pete. If I stood on my tippy toes, I could just barely see a big, red blur in our hallway. Then a burst of garlic and vinegar fumes wafted under our door. It was Papa Pete in the hall, alright, wearing his red warm-up suit like he always does on Sundays, and carrying a bag of garlic dill pickles.

I twisted the top lock open and then the bottom one and Papa Pete flew into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

“Just in the nick of time,” he said. “Mrs. Fink is trying to get me to come in for a piece of her cherry strudel.”

Mrs. Fink is our next-door neighbor. She's always baking things for Papa Pete. Once, I heard my mom telling my dad that she thinks Mrs. Fink wants to have a romance with Papa Pete. When I heard her say that, I covered up my ears and starting yelling “peas and carrots, peas and carrots” really loud to block out the rest of the conversation. Trust me, you would have done that, too. Mrs. Fink is really nice—it's just that she cruises around our hall always wearing a huge, pink bathrobe and
not always
wearing her false teeth. That fact alone pretty much puts the whole romance topic off-limits for me.

“Hankie, we are going to have a great day. Very productive!” Papa Pete said. He grabbed my cheek between his thumb and pointer finger, and pinched. “Have I ever told you how much I love this cheek and everything attached to it?” he said.

“Only about a million and ten times,” I answered.

“Good, then make this the million and eleventh,” he said. He laughed as he went into the kitchen and put the bag of pickles into the refrigerator.

“Are you ready? Let's go to the park!” he shouted from the kitchen.

“I can't leave the apartment, Papa Pete,” I said. “No socks! They're still in the dryer downstairs.”

“There is a solution to every problem,” he said as he came back into the living room.

“Not to this one,” I said. “The only socks I could find were these.” I lifted my pants to show him Emily's red monkey socks.

“Do they fit?” he asked.

“They do,” I answered. “So what?”

“So you'll wear them to the park. Your pants will hide them, and with your handsome face, who is going to look at your feet?”

“No way, Papa Pete. My body is not leaving this apartment. Period.”

“Listen, Hankie. You want to learn to throw, right? Today is the day. I can feel it!”

“Do you know how many kids I know who will be at the park?” I shook my head. “No thanks, Papa Pete. I'm sorry you came all the way over here for nothing.”

“Wait a minute,” Papa Pete said, twisting his big mustache with his fingers. “Something tells me you're trying to wiggle out of this because you think you're not good at baseball.”

I didn't answer.

“Hankie, I wouldn't lie to you. You're getting better every time we try.”

“I catch like a five-year-old girl with a blindfold on,” I said. “Face it, Papa Pete, I'm no athlete and never will be.”

“Didn't you tell me on the phone that your school was having a big softball game this week?” Papa Pete said.

“It's the School Olympiad. The tryouts are tomorrow for the softball team.”

“Do you want to play?” he asked.

“Of course. It's my dream,” I answered. “But I'm horrible. I'm not going to try out.”

Papa Pete put his big hand on my head. “I want only positive thoughts running around in there. You won't succeed if you don't believe you can. Now, come, let's practice.”

“You're forgetting about these,” I said, pointing to the monkeys that were still staring up at me from my ankles. Papa Pete pointed his finger toward the ceiling and spun it around in a circle, which he does when he has a great idea.

“We'll have the catch in the courtyard outside the basement door. We'll be alone. You can wear monkey socks or rhinoceros socks and no one will see. End of conversation.”

Leave it to Papa Pete to figure it out in the best possible way. I ran to my room, picked up my mitt, and flew out the door.

Whoops! It was only when I pushed the button for the elevator that I realized I had forgotten something very important. I went back and opened the apartment door. Papa Pete was still standing there, tapping his foot.

“Did you forget something? Namely—me?” he said.

We went back into the hall and got in the elevator. Just as the door was closing, we caught sight of Mrs. Fink coming out of her apartment. She was carrying cherry strudel and her mouth was closed, so we couldn't really tell about her teeth.

Papa Pete grinned at me as the elevator door shut.

“Saved by baseball,” he said. We laughed as we rode the elevator down to the courtyard.

“RIGHT HERE,” Papa Pete yelled, pounding his fist into the center of his glove. “Put it right here!”

We were alone in the courtyard. Our apartment building towered over us on three sides, and the fourth wall was formed by the bricks of the building right next to ours. It was quiet there, and peaceful. The courtyard was starting to fill up with the smells of all the Sunday dinners cooking. I was pretty sure Mrs. Park was making Korean barbequed ribs, and I thought I smelled Mr. Grasso's sausage and peppers cooking on top of his stove. On Sundays, Ashley's grandmother always makes the greatest soups with wontons and pork and Chinese cabbage floating around like delicious little boats. I was wondering how wontons float when I suddenly realized that Papa Pete was talking to me.

“Hank, where are you?” he said. “Are we going to play ball or are we going to day-dream?”

“Sorry, Papa Pete, I was thinking about wonton boats,” I said.

Papa Pete came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“You've got to clear your brain of everything but the ball,” he said. “The key to throwing is concentration. You have to keep your eyes on the target and focus. Where your head goes, your body goes. Where your body goes, your arm goes. And where your arm goes, the ball goes. It's that simple.”

“Simple for you,” I said. “Obviously, you can't smell Mrs. Wong's wontons.”

“One thing at a time,” said Papa Pete. “Play ball now. Eat wontons later.” He handed me the ball. “Keep your eye on the center of my glove and let one rip.”

Papa Pete walked back to the other side of the courtyard and squatted down like a catcher behind the metal drain we were using for home plate. I adjusted the ball in my hand.

I stared at Papa Pete's glove, brought my arm back behind my ear, whipped it around like a windmill, and released the ball. I was expecting my usual throw, which barely makes it to home plate.

Bam!
The ball shot out of my hand and fired right into Papa Pete's glove. It was fast and hard and straight.

“What was that?” I said in amazement.

“Holy moly, Hankie!” Papa Pete said, and without saying another word, threw the ball right back to me.

He put his glove up again. I took the ball, wound up, and let it go underhand. BAM! The ball shot out of my hand and headed straight for the center of his glove ... again.

“Excuse me, Mr. Professional,” Papa Pete said. “Did you take a throwing pill this morning?”

“No! I don't know what's happening,” I said. I looked down at my sneakers.

There they were. My sister's red socks, the monkeys half hidden by my pants. A thought ran through my head.

“Hey, Papa Pete! Throw me the ball, please,” I shouted. “I want to see something.”

Papa Pete tossed me the ball, and I held it in my hand. I twisted it around so the stitching was directly on my fingertips.

Papa Pete squatted and put his mitt out in front of him. “Don't aim. Just throw.”

I wound up like the last time and let the ball go. It flew across the courtyard and smashed dead center into Papa Pete's mitt. I wasn't doing anything different than I always did when we practiced in the park. Same windup. Same throw. Except this time I was throwing smoke. Why? There was only one thing that was different.

“Hankie, I told you today was the day!” Papa Pete said. “I knew you could do this.”

I was so excited. I was speechless. I had really thrown the ball and it really got to exactly where I wanted it to go.

There are no words to describe the thrill that was rushing through my body. I vowed never to forget the feeling. I kept on throwing to Papa Pete. I didn't want to stop. Ten throws. Twenty throws. Almost every one straight and accurate and fast. Nolan Ryan, Satchel Paige, Cy Young, Sandy Koufax. Step aside, gentlemen, and make way for Hank Zipzer. The man with the arm of steel.

Suddenly, the door to the courtyard flew open and Ashley and Frankie came running out.

“Hank!” Ashley said, pushing her glasses back on her nose. “I can't believe my eyes.”

“You've been holding out on us, Zip,” Frankie said, slapping me a high five. “Why did you tell us you can't throw? That's not what I see.”

“We were upstairs helping my grandma chop vegetables for soup,” Ashley said. “And we heard this
bam, bam, bam.
We looked out the window, and saw you throwing strikes. Hank, where have you been hiding that?”

“Honestly, guys,” I said. “I've never thrown like this before. I don't know what's got into me.” I couldn't tell them about the socks. They'd think I had gone nuts.

Papa Pete walked across the courtyard and came over to Frankie and Ashley. He pinched both of their cheeks.

“How are my grandkids?” he said. Even though they're not his grandkids, he calls them that and they love it. Every kid on the planet would want to be Papa Pete's grandchild, that is, every kid who likes lollipops and root-beer floats and big hugs and free tokens for video games.

“How do you like the arm on this boy?” Papa Pete asked, giving me one of those big hugs I just mentioned.

“Zipparooney, you throw like a Yankee,” Frankie said.

“Correction. I throw like a Met,” I answered. It's amazing that Frankie and I have remained best friends, even though he's a Yankees fan and I'm a Mets fan.

“Whoever you throw like, I want you to pitch for my team in the Olympiad,” said Ashley.

“What team is that?” asked Papa Pete.

“The Yellow Team.” Ashley turned to Papa Pete. “You're looking at the first female manager of an Olympiad softball team in the history of PS 87,” she said proudly.

“My hat is off to you,” said Papa Pete, taking off his hat and saluting Ashley. “I always knew you'd be a big shot someday.”

“Hi, guys,” said a nasal little voice from behind us. It was Robert Upchurch, third-grade nuisance. He had spotted us. No matter where we are in the building, Robert will sniff us out like a mouse smells cheese and want to join in. He's like our shadow. A very bony, long-winded, nose-blowing shadow.

“Perhaps you'd all enjoy it if I gave you a brief history of the Olympiad,” Robert said.

“Perhaps you can skip it, dude,” Frankie said. But once Robert has it in his mind to tell you about something, you have no choice but to wait it out. The boy has got a brain like a tape recorder, and once he's on “play,” there's no shutting him off.

“The Olympiad is an all-school competition now in its twenty-seventh year at PS 87. Everyone in the third grade or above is either put on the Yellow Team or the Blue Team,” Robert droned on. The kid was on autopilot. We all started to yawn, but that didn't stop old Robert. No, sir.

“We participate in three events to test our mind, body, and spirit. The softball game is the traditional test of the body, the Brain Buster Quiz is our mind test, and the Triple C Competition is the spirit test.”

“Triple C, that sounds serious,” said Papa Pete.

“Actually, it is extremely serious,” said Robert. “It stands for Clean and Clutter-Free Competition. Last year, Terry Sladnick set a school record in this event by washing her hair every day of the school year, including weekends, without getting even one split end. Now that's what I call clean and clutter-free.”

“Are you finished with the lecture, Robert?” Ashley said. “Because I have business to discuss with Hank.”

“Actually,” said Robert. “I have more to say.”

“Actually, you don't,” said Frankie, “because if you do, I'll have to tie your lips together with a red ribbon and give them away for Christmas.”

“Hank,” Ashley said, putting her business face on. Ashley is the business manager of our magic group, Magik 3, and we picked her for that job because when she means business, she means business. “I want you to pitch for the Yellow Team. You'll be our secret weapon.”

“Let me take your temperature, Ash,” I said. “That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. You have to trust me. Today was an accident.”

“Come on, Hank. If you did it once, you can do it again,” Ashley pleaded.

“I agree,” added Papa Pete. “I've been telling him there is a wonderful baseball player inside him, just waiting to come out.”