Free Strikeout of the Bleacher Weenies by David Lubar

went hunting again. There were even more of them now, and they met in town this time. Mom and I went to the town square together, to watch the hunters head off.
    They didn’t manage to kill the werewolf this time, either. But they spotted him in the woods—a wolf far larger than any natural wolf, and far faster than any animal known to man. Based on the brief sightings, he seemed as comfortable on two legs as four.
    â€œNext month we’ll get him, for sure,” my dad said at breakfast.
    â€œBut why do you have to kill him?” I asked.
    â€œHe ate one of our sheep.”
    â€œWe eat our sheep all the time.” I pointed out the window toward our pastures. “We have dozens of sheep. He just took one.”
    â€œHe’ll kill a person, next,” Dad said. “Maybe a child.”
    I stomped my foot. “You don’t know that. You eat sheep. You’ve never killed a person. I eat sheep. Do you want to shoot me?”
    Dad gave me the glare that meant there would be no more discussion. I didn’t say another word, but I thought about nothing else. The moon is full every twenty-eight days. I had twenty-seven days to find an answer that didn’t involve silver bullets and bloodshed. I knew my Dad. And I knew the others. They wouldn’t give up until they got what they wanted.
    Neither would I.
    In school, I spent my free time in the library. That’s a place of power, if you know how to use it. I stayed there after school every day, and didn’t leave until they locked the doors. I kept searching until I found what I needed. Dad might rule our house, but there were other forces out there more powerful than even the strictest parent or the sternest rancher.
    I got in touch with the right people a week before the next hunt. I didn’t hear back from them, even though I’d given them my mailing address, e-mail address, and phone number. I was afraid they’d pay no attention to me. I was only a kid. I didn’t have any power. I didn’t have any special friends. I wasn’t important.
    But the night of the next hunt, as the hunters plotted their strategy and talked about how they would kill the werewolf for sure this time, a large black car drove into the town square, where everyone had gathered. The driver’s door opened. A man in a dark suit got out. He was holding a sheet of paper.
    â€œI need to speak to the mayor,” he said.
    Mayor Bellamy walked over to him. “What’s this about?”
    The man handed him a single sheet of paper. The mayor read it, let out a long sigh, and said, “Listen up, folks. The hunt is canceled. Everyone can go home.”
    There were cries and shouts from the crowd. The mayor raised his hand for silence. But he let the stranger give the explanation.
    â€œYou have hereby been notified that Canis lyconthropus, also known as the North American werewolf, has just been placed on the endangered-species list. Thus, it is unlawful to hunt, pursue, or disturb any member of that species, or to destroy their habitat. There are severe penalties and possible prison terms for violating this order.” He got back in the car and drove off.
    The hunters grumbled some more. Dad looked in my direction, as if waiting for an explanation or confession. I couldn’t think of anything to say. He shook his head, and then I could swear that he smiled. But just a little. I guess, if someone had to ruin the werewolf hunt, he was sort of proud that it was his little girl. At least, I’m going to tell myself that’s how he felt.
    As I walked to our car with my parents, Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’ve always been clever.”
    â€œThanks.” I was proud of myself, too.
    Later that night, there was a tap at my window. A pale man, with long, pointed canine teeth that looked like fangs, stood outside. He was wearing a black cape, and he seemed to be