Don't Jinx It! A Little-Leaguer's Superstitions

On my bike, I pedaled as fast as I could toward Hawes field; I went through stop signs and red lights at full speed. When the street turned into the downhill stretch, I pumped the pedals several more times and coasted. I reached into the basket and grabbed the Ding Dongs. I opened the pack using my teeth, but I tugged too hard and the package tore open and one of the Ding Dongs got away. Ahhhh! I felt the bump under my butt when my back wheel ran over it.

  Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! I jammed on the pedal brakes leaving a ten-foot-long skid mark on the street. I ran back to inspect the damage.

  The Ding Dong no longer looked like a Ding Dong.

  Once shaped like a hockey puck, now the Ding Dong was flat in the middle and bloated on each side; tire tread markings were pressed into the foil. Though smushed, there was no breach of chocolate or crème. The foil had held. I had a decision to make and very little time to make it. Hex the streak or eat Ding Dong road-kill? I scraped it up off the pavement.

  Back on my bike, now I was seriously worried about missing the start of the game. I took no more chances; I could finish the rest of the food on the bench. Up ahead the field was in sight. I could see red uniforms on the field and black ones in the dugout.

  “I’m here, I’m here! I shouted.

  I hopped off the bike, letting it run free; it ghost-rided for a while and crashed to the ground near the dugout fence.

  The game hadn’t started yet. The opposing pitcher, Gary McQueen had just finished his warm-ups. The first pitch was just a moment away.

  “John, what in the world!” Coach Sonnet said. “You’re late.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find my bat.”

  A few snickers came from the bench. They all knew about the bat, but nobody could have imagined the nightmare I went through to use it that day.

  “Hey ump!” Coach Sonnet walked over and said something to the umpire. I was panicking. What if they don’t let me play? Does my streak end?

  Coach Sonnet walked back with a blank look on his face. “You gotta bat last. Sorry, but that’s what happens when you’re late.”

  Whew! I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. I was too good a hitter to be batting last, but throughout the streak I’d batted in several different spots in the order, so no jinx there. On the bench, while the game started, I downed the last of the fish and sipped some Mountain Dew; then I began to work on the smushed Ding Dong as our leadoff batter walked up to the plate to face the son of Big Foot.