Free The Zippity Zinger #4 by Henry Winkler Page A

team are you participating in today, Mr. Zipzer?” he asked.
    I didn’t answer, but Ashley jumped right in.
    â€œHe’s pitching for the Yellow Softball Team,” she said right into his face. “And I’m not sure whether you know this or not, Principal Love, but I am the first female softball team manager in the history of PS 87.”
    â€œOf course I know that, Manager Wong,” he said. “I read my newsletter cover to cover. I believe it’s a new age for women and that their particular age makes no difference in this age.”
    Wow, he was doing it again. I think that sentence is going in the same book. Maybe he’ll call it Long Sentences That Make No Sense At All by Leland Love. I’d use my library card to check that one out.
    As we were going up the stairs, Nick McKelty was racing down them. He was already wearing his blue T-shirt and carrying the bases to set up the softball diamond.
    â€œHey, Yellow Team punks,” he said. “I don’t know why you guys even bothered to show up today. You got no chance of winning. We’re going to wipe the bases with you.”
    â€œYeah, and my name is Bernice,” Frankie said.
    No matter how many times I hear Frankie say that, it always makes me smile.
    â€œAnd my name is Bruce,” McKelty shot back and laughed his hyena laugh as though he had said something funny. His comeback was so un-funny that we couldn’t even come back with a comeback.
    â€œGotcha!” McKelty said, and flicked me under the chin. “And good luck with your little throwing arm today. Hope it doesn’t give out on you.”
    When we hit the second floor, Mr. Rock passed by us in the hall. He’s the music teacher and a really cool guy. In fact, he’s the teacher who first suggested to me that maybe I have dyslexia. And he didn’t make me feel bad when he said it.
    â€œHey, kids,” he said. “Hurry to your classroom and pick up your T-shirts. You should warm up before the game. Ashley, are you ready with your starting lineup?”
    â€œPretty much,” Ashley answered, “except for Hank. He’s giving me a hard time about pitching.”
    â€œYou kids go on ahead,” Mr. Rock said to Ashley and Frankie. “Let me have a word with Hank.”
    I tried to avoid his eyes. When Mr. Rock looks at you, you’re forced to tell the truth.
    â€œSo, what’s up?” he said. “Are you having last-minute jitters?”
    â€œFirst, last, and in-between minute jitters,” I said. “I can’t pitch. Everyone knows that.”
    â€œAshley thinks you can. Frankie, too. They told me you’re the team’s secret weapon. They say you’ve got a mean fast pitch.”
    â€œI only threw that pitch for one day. Then it disappeared. I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know where it went.”
    â€œIt’s in there somewhere,” Mr. Rock said, pointing to my middle section. “If you did it once, you can do it again. Just concentrate on what you’re doing.”
    â€œThat only works for most people,” I said. “Not for me.”
    Suddenly, it smelled like there was an open can of old tuna fish next to us. Mr. Rock must have smelled it, too, because we both turned our heads at the same time. Yup, there he was. Nick McKelty, the mouth breather, letting out gobs of bad breath. I looked down and the fabric of my shirt was starting to wrinkle.
    â€œA little pre-game chatter?” he said, shooting some of his fishy breath over my way.
    â€œMr. McKelty, isn’t there some place you need to be?” Mr. Rock said.
    â€œYeah, the pitcher’s mound.” Nick the Tick grinned. “I’m gonna have the Yellow Team for lunch.” He gave me a slap on the back with his paw-sized hand. “This little guy is my first course.”
    McKelty galloped off down the hall. I looked at Mr. Rock.
    â€œWhat’s the use?” I