Wing Ding Read Online Free Page A

were still content with the smorgasbord down at Rambletown Field. They hadn’t felt the need to branch out. A nice breeze chased clouds across a deep blue sky. The wind puffed steadily.
    â€œSo, Mr. Resident Insect Expert, what’s your game plan?” I asked Slingshot. “For the Haymakers tomorrow, I mean. First we take care of the Haymakers, then we take care of the grasshoppers.”
    Pitching against the powerful Haymakers required only slightly more courage than fending off an army of mutant zombies. Those guys came at you relentlessly. If you messed up, they’d eat you alive. Kind of like the way the locusts were eating our field.
    â€œSame plan as always,” Slingshot said,flipping the ball to Stump. “I just have to do my best and trust my stuff.”
    â€œDefinitely,” agreed Stump. “Trust your stuff.” He caught the ball and zinged it to me.
    â€œYowch!” I yelped. “You trying to burn a hole in my hand or something?”
    Stump smiled with satisfaction, his green eyes steely under the brim of his low-pulled cap.
    I looped a lazy fly to Slingshot, who made a basket catch and kept the ball moving.
    Stump gathered himself and whistled another hot one my way. For a friendly game of catch, he sure was firing bullets. I’ve eaten ballpark hot dogs with less mustard on them. And I happen to like mustard. Not to mention hot dogs.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I demanded.
    â€œNothing. I’m just throwing.”
    â€œHard enough to kill me,” I said.
    The next time around, Stump managed to put even more zip on the ball. Fortunately Icaught it. If I’d missed, I think it would have punched a hole through the front of the house. The thing whizzed like a meteor.
    A real meteor would have been nice. They say a huge one was what killed off the dinosaurs. A nice little space rock would take care of the grasshoppers.
    â€œAll right, that’s it,” I said. “Explain.”
    Stump dropped his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, kicking the grass. “I just need to know I still have it.”
    â€œStill have what?” Slingshot asked.
    Stump sighed. “My arm. My throwing arm.”
    â€œOf course you do,” I said. “You have a strong arm, and I have the sore hand to prove it.”
    â€œWait a minute,” Slingshot said. “Is this about what happened yesterday? Forget it! There was no error on the play. Bug invasion, remember? People were screaming. Everybody was already running off the field. No one was paying any attention to your throw.”
    â€œI was paying attention,” said Stump quietly.“I didn’t even know about the swarm until after I fired the ball into the stands.” He shook his head. “I can’t get it out of my mind.”
    â€œYou better get it out of your mind,” I said. “We need to focus on the Haymakers.”
    We drifted back to the porch and sat down on the top step. Mr. Bones picked up the baseball in his mouth and cocked his head. He wanted to keep playing.
    Stump was a great shortstop, always had been. He was like a one-man Bermuda Triangle. Balls hit his way just disappeared into his glove. Nobody covered more ground than he did. And nobody pulled the trigger quicker on a double play or got the ball faster to first.
    â€œIt happens,” Stump insisted. “Haven’t you ever heard of the yips? A guy wakes up one day and all of a sudden he can’t hit the side of a barn. Nothing has changed—he does everything the same way he always has. Only difference is, now the guy stinks.”
    I’d heard of the yips, all right. The word wasslang for a mysterious twitchiness that sometimes infected athletes, making them muff routine plays. The yips were a rare and terrible thing. They could crop up in any sport. If a basketball player started bricking free throws he had always drained with his eyes closed, that was the yips. A golfer who suddenly