Free Wing Ding by Kevin Markey

its belly and took over the city. War over.
    Maybe the grasshoppers were something like the Trojan horse. Instead of Greek soldiers, they carried fear and doubt. When the locusts swooped down, triggering Stump’s error, they unleashed a storm of doubt in his mind. The more he worried, the worse he threw; the worse he threw, the more he worried. Around and around it went, like a merry-go-round. Except it wasn’t merry. It was horrible.
    My theory was rough. I’d need to work out the details. But it seemed to hold some promise.
    If I was right, the way to fix Stump would be to knock the fear out of him. Send it packing with the grasshoppers.
    Before going to bed that night, I picked up the phone and called Slingshot.
    â€œSlingshot, it’s me. Remember when I had my slump?”
    â€œWho could forget? You struck out, like, thirty-seven times in a row.”
    â€œYeah, well, you know how you guys woke me up in the middle of the night and did all that hocus-pocus stuff to cure me?” Even now, a year later, I could still taste the nasty potion they’d made me drink.
    â€œSure,” said Slingshot. “The magic was make-believe, but the show we put on made the guys feel better. They thought you were cured, and that gave them the confidence we needed to beat the Haymakers and win the pennant.”
    â€œExactly,” I said. “I think we should do the same thing for Stump.”
    â€œForce-feed him a concoction of red pepperflakes, milk, and foot powder?”
    â€œI wouldn’t go that far. But we need to do something startling, something that will shock him out of the yips.” I explained my idea about the Trojan horse. Then I outlined my plan.
    When I finished, Slingshot didn’t say anything for a moment.
    â€œHello?” I said.
    â€œWalloper,” he breathed at last. “It just might work. Either that or he’ll drop dead on the spot! If you can get the green light from Stump’s parents, I’ll take care of the rest.”
    â€œDeal,” I said.
    â€œWhen do we go for it?”
    â€œNight before the All-Star Game,” I said.
    â€œI’ll get right to work on the design,” Slingshot said by way of saying good-bye.
    He clicked off.
    I punched in Stump’s number. I hoped his mom or dad would answer.

CHAPTER 13
    C louds drag-raced across the sky the next morning. Treetops swayed like hula dancers. I ducked back into the house with the paper and gave the weather report to Mom and Dad:
    â€œA hurricane without rain.”
    Mom clucked sympathetically. Dad snorted.
    â€œGo fly a kite!” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said. “I’m serious. It’s blowing like crazy.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean,” he said. “Perfect kite weather!”
    Right! The Rambletown Kite Festival. I’d almost forgotten. Today was the day. I hoped the distraction would be good for Stump. Takehis mind off the yips for a bit.
    â€œCould I take that old kite of ours to the festival after practice?”
    â€œI don’t see why not,” Mom said.
    â€œI wish I could go, too,” Dad said. “Too bad I have to work.”
    We sat down for breakfast. Over a bowl of Pirate Crunch, I flipped through the inky newspaper to see what Gabby had written.
    A photograph of Stump leaped off the first sports page. It showed him fumbling away the ball against the Haymakers. Ouch. Not the kind of picture you want in the paper.
    Gabby’s caption helped ease the pain:
    Rambletown’s All-Star shortstop Stump Plumwhiff commits a rare error against the Haymakers yesterday. Gale-like conditions made play difficult.
    â€œThank you, Gabby,” I said aloud. She’d called Stump an All-Star, noted that he didn’t usually make errors, and indirectly blamed the weather. Most important, she’d left the yips outof it, just as she’d said she would.
    After finishing the paper and breakfast, I went into the garage and