Wing Ding Read Online Free Page B

could hit the ball anywhere except into the hole? The yips again.
    But the yips were worst by far for baseball players. A yipified infielder turned every peg into an adventure. You never knew what the ball would do. The scary thing was, no one ever saw the yips coming. Or could predict when they would go away. Sometimes the condition disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Other times, it lingered all season…or longer. The harder a stricken player tried to get his groove back, the worse he would get. It was a sad and painful thing to see.
    â€œForget about the yips,” Slingshot said. “One bad throw is not the yips. Besides, we’ve gotthe Haymakers to worry about. They’re trouble enough.”
    â€œNot to mention locusts,” I added. I brought up my conversation with Skip Lou. How he’d said the Haymakers were trying to use the grasshoppers as an excuse to steal the All-Star Game. Our All-Star Game.
    Slingshot shook his head in disgust. “Why am I not surprised?” he asked, adding, “There’s no way we’re going to let that happen. We’ll think of something.” Stump didn’t say a word. I’m not sure he even heard us. All he could think about was his error.
    â€œYou admit it was a lousy throw,” he said.
    â€œDrop it!” I said. “We need a new subject.”
    â€œGood idea.” Slingshot agreed. “Let’s take a rest from baseball.”
    Stump heard that.
    He snapped to attention, eyes bugging so wide, you would have thought Slingshot had suggested we rob the Third National Bank or something crazy like that.
    â€œWhat else is there?” he sputtered. His mind was like a monorail. It had only one track.
    â€œKites,” I said. I told the guys about the plug for the Rambletown Kite Festival I’d heard on the radio that morning. I spoke quickly, so that Stump wouldn’t cut me off before I finished. He was still trying to wrap his brain around the idea that it might be possible, now and then, to think about something other than baseball. “We should enter as a team,” I concluded. “Get all the guys to do it.”
    â€œGreat idea,” Slingshot said.
    â€œWhatever.” Stump sighed.
    I didn’t say anything out loud, but I was thinking that aside from just being fun, the kite festival would be a good distraction for Stump. Help him blow off some steam before the All-Star Game. He really needed to lighten up.
    â€œOnly one problem,” said Slingshot. “I don’t have a kite.”
    â€œGot any money?”
    He fished a black nylon wallet out of hisback pocket and looked inside. “Nine dollars in lawn-mowing cash. I spent the rest on the new Grand Slam Baseball for Gamebot 3000.”
    Stump perked up. “Good investment,” he said of the computer game.
    I pursed my lips. I didn’t actually know how much a kite cost. There was only one way to find out.
    â€œLet’s ride down to the Toy Box. See what kind of selection they have.”
    â€œYou need one, too?” Slingshot asked.
    I was pretty sure we had an old kite in the garage somewhere. My family had picked it up at the beach a couple summers back. Looked like an owl. Every seagull on the beach had been terrified of it.
    â€œI’m set,” I said. “But it’ll be fun to go anyway. I love that store. C’mon, we’ll pick up Velcro on the way.”
    I opened the door, poked my head inside, and asked my mom if we could ride our bikes into town. She was cool with the plan.
    â€œBe back in an hour,” she said.
    â€œThanks, Mom,” I said.
    Stump, Slingshot, and I mounted our bikes and pedaled for town. Mr. Bones trotted alongside us, his tongue flapping in the breeze like a pink sock on a clothesline.

CHAPTER 6
    W e swung by Velcro’s house on our way to the Toy Box and found him in his yard fielding pop-ups off a pitchback.
    Mr. Bones raced over and greeted him with his usual