Return of Mr. Badpenny by Brian Bakos
The first pitch screamed right past me for a strike. I swung at the next one and popped it foul for another strike. My teammates’ disappointment washed over me in waves from our bench. I hunkered down and readied for the next pitch.
Let this be the last one, I prayed, just get it over with.
But it wasn’t. The ball blazed in tight, right on me. I stumbled back and fell on my butt.
The opposing fans roared with laughter, Melissa’s shrill cackle stabbed out. Billy Preston took the return throw, grinning wickedly. I got up and brushed my uniform, choking on miserable anger.
He’d tried to hit me on purpose!
No, that couldn’t be right. Why would he send the worst hitter to first and then have to face the top of the batting order with two runners on base? Even Billy wouldn’t be that arrogant.
“Get him out! Hey! Hey! Get him out!” the crowd chanted.
Well, maybe that inside pitch was accidental, but Billy was sure enjoying my humiliation just the same.
“Heeey batter-batter-batter!” the Slugger fielders jeered.
Suddenly, Mr. Badpenny was at my side, whispering into my ear: “Let me help you get a hit, Tommy.”
I could scarcely think. Through the dust and the blazing sun I saw my teammates’ disappointed faces, Melissa’s smirk, Billy’s I’ve-got-you! grin. My head baked inside the helmet; sweat trickled down my neck. The ugly roar of the crowd and the insults of the Sluggers filled my ears.
“Get him out! Hey! Hey! Get him out!”
“Do you want me to help?” Mr. Badpenny said.
My eyes misted up. In a small voice I could scarcely recognize as my own, I said: “okay.”
I stepped up to the plate. Badpenny stood behind me and placed his hands on the bat, burning into mine. Billy wound up. The ball hissed toward me. I felt my arms swing the bat with incredible power.
CRACK!
The force of the blow vibrated up to my armpits and down to my toes. The ball rocketed straight at Billy Preston’s head. He ducked, but the ball knocked his cap off and sent him sprawling into the dirt.
It flew over the center field fence like a rifle shot. The Slugger players gaped. A stunned silence gripped the park.
Billy Preston wobbled to his feet, rubbing the back of his head. With his dusty uniform and sweaty, tangled hair, he looked utterly defeated.
Then a tremendous roar shook the stands and the Jaguar bench. I just stood like an idiot. Johnny O rounded second base and headed for third.
“Run,” Mr. Badpenny urged.
As if in a dream, I jogged the base paths, the cheers making every step buoyant. I seemed to be running on a cloud. When I reached home plate, my joyous teammates hoisted me on their shoulders and bounced me around.
“I knew you could do it!” Quentin shouted.
I felt like some pagan god being lifted toward the heavens by my worshippers. People left the bleachers and joined our delirious parade. Even Melissa whooped along with everybody else.
When things settled down, Coach Bloch presented me with the Player of the Week trophy.
Me!
13: Player of the Week
Word of our magnificent upset victory got around school pretty quick on Monday.
We were not an official school team, but since all us Jaguars went to South Middle School and most of the Sluggers went to North, people looked upon our success as a victory over the cross-town rival. North had wiped us out bad this year in football and basketball, and we Jaguars had restored our school honor.
People regarded me with awe. Guys who had scoffed at the Jaguars were now asking if they could join. I got to feeling pretty puffed up. Who wouldn’t in my place?
At one point I hooked up with Quentin, Brett and Tony. We strolled down the hall, falling into step like a military procession. People looked at us with respect – at me. For once Quentin was bathing in my glory.
“Hi, Tommy!” Debbie Ulrich said as she passed us going the opposite direction.
My heart jumped into my mouth, but I didn’t change my casual expression. She slowed a little and flashed this incredible smile. Perhaps she expected me to detach myself from my male admirers and talk to her, but I kept moving.
“Hi, Debbie,” I said.
I gave my her my coolest semi-smile, not too friendly, but enough to leave things open for later – maybe. Debbie was way up in the female hierarchy. Before today she had regarded me as little better than road kill. She’d have to pay for that.
Quentin nudged my arm. “Wow! I wish she’d smile at me like that.”
“Mmm,” I replied, trying to sound a little bored.
Then we came to the hallway where Greg Rolando’s locker was, and I began to feel a lot less assured. My aura started dropping away like a coat that was too big for me, and I felt highly vulnerable.
The hall seemed as dark and ominous as a dragon’s cave. Chilly mist belched from it and wrapped around my ankles, tickling me with icy fingers.
Inside this darkened hallway, hidden in the murk, Greg Rolando stood against the lockers shaking so hard that the walls bounced metallic echoes. Bob Stewart was there, too, moaning in his hospital bed. And Billy Preston stood rubbing the bump on his head, amazed that his brains were still inside his skull.
Suddenly I could hardly breathe. I didn’t want my friends around suffocating me any longer with their admiration. I broke from my entourage and retreated up the stairs.
“See you guys later,” I said.
“Yeah, later, Tommy,” they replied.
I didn’t want to think about those battered people lurking in the back hall – especially not Billy Preston. If he’d been an instant slower, the ball would have struck him square and I don’t think he’d have much of a head left now.
Billy had been in the way, though, hadn’t he? He knew the risks, and nobody had forced him to be out there showing off. Besides, it was Mr. Badpenny who had aimed the ball at him, right?
I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that lie. In my quieter moments, when people weren’t slapping me on the back and saying how great I was, I understood that it was my anger that had put Billy’s head in the bull’s-eye. Badpenny had only been my tool.
Melissa bumped into me again that afternoon, only this time she didn’t try to knock me over.
“Oh, hi, Tommy,” she said, smiling, “That was a great game Saturday.”
“Yeah ... thanks, Melissa.”
I was astonished at her friendly attitude but recovered quickly enough.
“It’s about time somebody cut Billy Preston down,” she said. “He thinks he’s so cool.”
Melissa glanced over her shoulder at the two girls she was with. They looked away, as if to mind their own business, but their ears were still turned our direction.
“So, Tommy, were you planning to go to the spring dance Friday night?” Melissa asked.
“I hadn’t thought about it much,” I said. “Maybe.”
She moved in close, and her cologne wafted into my nostrils like some magical incense.
“It should be fun,” she said. “The DJ is really good.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Melissa said. “He played at North last week. Everybody liked him.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Well, gotta go, Tommy. Maybe I’ll see you at the dance?”
“Yeah. Bye, Melissa,” I said.
The three girls walked off, or rather Melissa herded the other two away, making sure they didn’t hang around to talk to me.
Dang! Not long ago I would have fallen on my face if Melissa had come on half this strong. I’d have instantly forgiven all her past meanness. I’d have been the first one at the dance, just praying that she’d notice me.
But that was before I had become Player of the Week. Things were different now – in ways I wasn’t sure I liked.
Back home, the trophy looked very impressive on my shelf. It stood, gleaming, in a place of honor right beside my
Jenkie stopped by to pick me up for baseball practice after school. Roberto came, too, even though he still wasn’t well enough to play. They both gazed longingly at the trophy.
“Imagine that,” Jenkie said, “the greatest moment in Jaguar history, and I had to miss it!”
Roberto nodded. He was holding a tissue to his nose, and his eyes were all bloodshot. But this hadn’t prevented him from coming to pay homage.
“Look at this.” Jenkie pointed to a puffy bruise under his left eye. “My little brat cousin slugged me with one of his toys at the family reunion. Pretty good for a six year old, eh?”
“What did you do to get back at him?” Roberto asked.
“What could I do? Everybody thought he was being so ‘cute.’” Jenkie shook his head. “And to think I could have been at the game. Man, I’d have given anything to see that home run, Tommy!
“The Sluggers won’t be in any hurry to play us again,” Roberto said.
I shrugged.
“Don’t be so modest,” Jenkie said.
I wasn’t being modest. I don’t know exactly what I was feeling, only that it didn’t feel very good.
14: Demise of the Swallow
Back in my room, away from my admirers, I had to face the Player of the Week trophy alone. Every time I saw the big, gleaming thing, it seemed to get duller and smaller until it didn’t look much more impressive than a Cracker Jack prize.
By Wednesday I could barely stand to look at it. I was a lousy cheat and knew it!
Beside the trophy on the shelf, the ME-262 seemed to expand and become more menacing. The shark-like fighter plane looked ready to pounce on the trophy and swallow it whole. I even imagined that the plane had rolled closer to the trophy when I wasn’t looking, maneuvering into attack position.
“I’m going out of my mind!”
I took the airplane down. The trophy didn’t look any better, though. It just sat there, tinny and cheap looking. If the thing had a voice, it would be laughing at me. Finally, I covered it with an old T shirt.
“Where am I going to put this?” I held up the model fighter in both hands.
It hogged too much space on my desk. I could hang it from the ceiling but didn’t like the idea of it hovering over me like some jet propelled vampire bat. It would give you a coronary if you walked in at night without turning on the lights. I fished the empty model box out of my wastebasket.
The picture on the box top showed the jet fighter streaking through the sky, cannons blasting, while an American bomber tumbled down in flames before it. Sure enough, the swastika on the fighter’s tail was rotated clockwise, as Quentin had said.
I read the historical info on the back:
“The ME-262 Schwalbe (Swallow) was the world’s first operational jet fighter.”
Interesting name. No wonder it wanted to swallow the trophy.
“Fortunately for the Allies, Nazi Germany’s leadership was slow to recognize the vast potential of this revolutionary new weapon. Had the ME-262 been deployed earlier, it might have strongly influenced the outcome of World War Two.”
I looked at the picture on the box top again. Nobody was bailing out of the American bomber. What must it have been like inside – all shot up and burning?
A shudder ran through me. I wondered how many kids had never been born because the men who were supposed to be their dads had got blasted out of the sky while fighting to stop the Nazis from taking over the world.
We’d been studying World War Two in history class and had watched a movie about Hitler. Sometimes he’d be talking to a small group of people in a quiet, friendly way. He would smile, laugh, and pat little kids on the cheek like some kindly uncle.
Other times he’d be speaking to a huge crowd, and he’d be totally different. He’d scream and rant like a mad man, flailing his arms around. It was as if some horrible monster had crawled inside him and was bellowing out hatred. And the crowd roared back, even more bloodthirsty than a bunch of Slugger fans.
Talk about a man with two faces ... like somebody else I knew.
Yet the Germans had followed Hitler to the bitter end, until they were totally crushed. And the millions of innocent people the Nazis murdered – many for no other reason than that they were Jewish, or even part Jewish. People like Mom. People like me!
Until now I’d scarcely ever thought about my Jewish heritage. I’d certainly never thought it made me any better or worse than other people.
“So, Tommy,” said a little voice in my head. “What monster have you got lurking inside?”
“I’m not a monster!” I said.
“Oh, come now, Tommy.” The voice was silky-smooth. “Everyone has an Inner Nazi buried deep down just waiting to come out, don’t you know?”
I hated this voice because it was so cold and vicious. I hated it even more because it spoke truths I didn’t want to admit. But I couldn’t afford to ignore it. I had to choose. Now!
I grabbed the airplane hard, cracking the fuselage, and dashed out of my room. I bolted down the stairs and out the back door, stopping briefly in the kitchen for a pack of matches.
In the backyard behind the big lilac bush, I set the plane down on a rock. It looked up at me with hatred, its body broken and twisted, aching to shoot its plastic cannons at me.
“Swallow this, you stinking Nazi!”
I lit a match and shoved the flame into the fighter’s shark snout. I lit another and set fire to a wing. Soon the whole airplane was blazing, thick black smoke curling up. A change in the breeze sent a puff of the smoke into my lungs, and I nearly fell over from the poisonous stench.
I moved a safe distance away and watched the plane collapse into a puddle of flaming liquid plastic. For the first time in weeks I felt good.
Soon, Badpenny would be out of my life, too. One way or another.
15: The Reckoning
Saturday arrived at last. I snatched the Player of the Week trophy off my shelf as if I were uprooting a poisonous plant. Then I stuffed it into my gear bag, where nobody could see it, and took off for the baseball field.
As I rode my bike, the gear bag became heavier, as if it contained a load of cast iron. I stopped and shifted the bag strap to my other shoulder. After a while, I had to stop again and shift the load back.
I passed Bob Stewart’s house. He and his mom were walking to their car in the driveway. Bob was wearing an ugly neck brace. He didn’t see me, thank heaven.
Finally, the bag became intolerably heavy, and I had to get off and walk the bike. When I arrived at the field, I practically shoved the trophy into Mr. Bloch’s hands.
“What’s the rush, Tommy?” he said. “Maybe you’ll get to keep it another week.”
“Yeah, right.”
I felt about 1,000 pounds lighter. Quentin sauntered up and blew an enormous bubble with his gum.
“How’s it going, Tommy?” he asked when the bubble finally collapsed.
“Fine,” I said.
“We gonna knock these guys off, too?” He gestured toward our opponents.
“No doubt,” I said.
We were playing the Bulldogs. They were good, but we could beat them – especially since Roberto and Jenkie were back in the lineup. A couple of new guys were sitting on the bench, too. They looked over at me as if I were Mickey Mantle.
“Hi, Tommy,” one of them said.
“Hi,” I said.
I sat on the bench as far away from them as possible and looked out toward the field where the Bulldogs were warming up. The heat wave from last week had moved off leaving glorious weather in its place. Big clouds drifted by, covering the sun’s glare.
I forced myself to scan the spectator stands along the third base line. There was Mr. Badpenny, sitting in his usual spot four rows up. Actually, he was only half there. The other half of him was floating around in my own mind like a bloated co
I slammed my fist hard into my glove. Quentin and the others looked over at me.
“Something wrong, Tommy?” Jenkie asked.
I shook my head, a single sharp jerk that said I didn’t want to talk. Jenkie looked away. Mr. Bloch blew his whistle.
“All right, guys, let’s show ‘em our stuff!” he yelled.
In the past week, Mr. Bloch had changed quite a bit. He now had almost as much attitude as the Slugger coach. The whole team had attitude. We swaggered out on the field for our warm up.
“Hi Tommy!” a voice called from the stands along the first base line.
I saw Melissa waving to me.
“Looks like you’ve got a new girlfriend,” Quentin said, poking me with his elbow.
“Yeah,” I muttered.
Then an idea barged into my head with so much force that it almost knocked me over. Perfect! Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
I took off my cap and waved to Melissa.
The players in the starting line up were rushing past to take their positions in the field. This was our “show off for the crowd” time. Toss the ball around, hit some flies to the outfielders, try to look cool.
The new guys stood off to the side. I walked up to one of them.
“Cover second base a while for me,” I said. “Okay?”
The guy lit up as if Santa Claus had just dropped his whole bag of goodies at his feet.
“Sure, Tommy, thanks!”
I walked the fence along the third base line, swinging a bat around like I was warming up. Badpenny watched me from the stands. With every step I felt his eyes following me, his wicked mind jabbing at me like a sharp needle.
I gestured to him, just a little flick of my finger so as not to draw attention from the spectators. Badpenny drifted down – a black, misty stream like the poisoned smoke from the burning fighter.
The people he passed over fidgeted, looking around for the source of the strange feeling they were getting. Mr. Badpenny came beside me and placed a hand on my shoulder. I flinched under it.
“We had a great time last Saturday, didn’t we, Tommy?” he said.
I didn’t answer. I just stood quietly, gathering up my strength.
“I can help you again,” Badpenny said. “You could win the trophy for another whole week. Think of that!”