Free Wing Ding by Kevin Markey Page A

rummaged around for the kite. I found it tucked away on a shelf behind a bunch of empty flowerpots: a yellow nylon owl with two big black eyes, just as I remembered. Wound on a red spool, the string appeared to be in good shape. I hoped it was. The way the wind screamed, piano wire probably would’ve been a good bet.
    I wrapped the kite around the top metal tube of my bike frame, tied it in place with its own string, then grabbed my mitt and pedaled through a strong headwind to Rambletown Field for practice. As he always did, Mr. Bones trotted along beside me.
    When we got to the ballpark, I saw right away that the grasshoppers had not returned to the field. They were still camped in the same grove of trees where we’d seen them the night before. That was the good news.
    The rest of it was bad.
    The toppled sections of outfield wall had not righted themselves. No grass had magically sprouted. The field looked more like my uncle Harry the time his dog mistook his toupee for a chew toy and ran off with it. Bald. Completely bald. Out beyond the damaged fence, a crew of city workers wearing hard hats and orange vests cleared downed tree limbs.
    As I surveyed the mess, the rest of the guys arrived for practice. One by one, they nodded my way. Billy Wishes even tried to wink. At least I think he did. It looked like he had something stuck in his eye. I took it to mean Slingshot had spread the word about my plan.
    Skip Lou walked onto what was left of the field, carrying three big blue plastic buckets.
    Mr. Bones poked his snout into one of the buckets. I don’t know what he expected to find. Grass seed, maybe. But the buckets were empty. He looked at me. I looked at Skip Lou.
    â€œWe’re going to try a little game,” Skip Lou explained. “First let’s run through our usualroutine.” He blew his whistle, signaling the start of practice.
    The guys and I quickly formed a double line at home plate. Skip Lou had trained us well. We knew the drill. He gave another blast, and Ocho and Ducks took off on a fast lap around the diamond. We always started practice by running the bases.
    Stump and I went next. We crossed first base and made the big turn toward second, Stump chugging along on the inside, I to his right. The Glove and Velcro breathed down our necks a few steps back. We ran like undercooked eggs to stay ahead of those two speed merchants.
    Without any grass it was hard to tell where the base paths ended and the field began. The diamond looked like one big mud puddle waiting to happen. I hoped the wacky weather forecast didn’t include rain.
    â€œYou got your picture in the paper,” I puffed as we crossed second in a cloud of wind-whipped dust.
    â€œYep,” Stump said, digging for third.
    I didn’t press him for an opinion.
    â€œHow’s the wing?” I puffed. “Any better?”
    â€œWing’s not hurt. Just won’t work.”
    As we rounded the bag, he elbowed me hard in the ribs and darted away. I caught up and he jostled me into foul territory.
    â€œQuit it,” I said. “Just warming up. No points for finishing first.”
    Stump batted me again.
    A real bat would have been nice. The flying kind. They eat insects. Maybe a flock of them would devour the grasshoppers, which had started droning again in the trees where they roosted.
    â€œQuit what?” Stump puffed.
    â€œQuit…oh! Never mind!” I got it. The yips struck again! I swung wide to avoid his flailing elbow.
    We crossed the plate stride for stride, then joined Ducks and Ocho at the backstop to urge on the guys still running. Not that we couldactually see anyone. Stirred up by our footfalls and the steady gale, a dust storm had completely engulfed the diamond. I couldn’t make out much of anything more than three feet in front of my face.
    â€œHoly smokes!” Ducks exclaimed.
    â€œThicker than any smoke I ever saw.” I blinked.
    As we stared, first the Glove, then