Mickey & Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

sir?”
    â€œTake off that chicken head while I’m speaking to you.”
    Carefully, I removed my head.
    â€œWhat’s your name, sonny?”
    â€œJoe Stoshack, sir.”
    â€œOh yeah?” Carey sneered. “Any man who dresses up like a chicken is no man in my book. From now on, your name is Josephine. Is that clear?”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œJosephine, sir.”
    â€œGood,” Carey said, staring me down. “I want you to know some things right from the start. I don’t like mascots. Mascots are pathetic. This isn’t Halloween. This is baseball. If people want to see puppets, they can go to a puppet show. If we have to have a giant chicken to bring in the fans, so be it.But I don’t have to like it…or you.”
    â€œYes sir!”
    â€œAnd another thing,” Carey continued, “these girls are not here for your enjoyment, if you know what I mean. If I catch you fooling around with any of my players, you’re out of here, buster. They are professional baseball players, and damn good ones. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t have come out of retirement to manage this team. Is that clear?”
    â€œYes sir!” I said, fighting to hide the smile that was threatening to appear on my face.
    â€œOkay. Now go out there and do…whatever it is you do. Just stay out of my way and mind your p’s and q’s.”
    â€œYes sir!”
    I charged toward the door, but Carey wasn’t quite done with me yet.
    â€œJosephine!” he shouted. “Put your head on! Wear your full costume at all times on the field. That’s league rules.”
    I attached the head and charged for the door again. Unfortunately, there was a pipe hanging down from the ceiling that, though higher than my head, was lower than the chicken’s head. The pipe knocked the chicken head off mine and sent me sprawling to the locker room floor.
    â€œPathetic…,” Carey muttered, shaking his head and walking out the door.

6
A Real Chicken
    IT GETS WARM AND MUGGY ON SUMMER NIGHTS IN Milwaukee, especially when you’re inside a giant chicken suit. Fans were beginning to fill the bleachers at Borchert Field. The sweet smell of roasted peanuts wafted through the stands.
    â€œRed Cross blood donors will be admitted free at tomorrow morning’s game against the Racine Belles,” the public address announcer said. “Bring your Red Cross button. Game time is ten o’clock.”
    â€œHey, Chicken!” one of the fans hollered. “Buck, buck, buck, buck!”
    I had witnessed enough ball games to know the responsibilities of a team mascot. You dance around like an idiot. You pester the umpires and opposing players. You entertain the fans and do everything you can to keep them enthused. It’s a humiliating, degrading job, but somebody’s got to do it.
    I jumped on top of the Chicks dugout and proceeded to lead the crowd in a cheer.
    â€œGimme a C!” I shouted as loud as I could.
    Nothing. Nobody responded. Silence.
    â€œGimme an H!”
    Again, no response.
    â€œDown in front!” yelled a bald, fat guy a few rows back.
    â€œYeah, we can’t see!”
    â€œMommy, chicken is scary!” a little girl complained before bursting into tears.
    People behind the dugout started to boo and throw ice cubes at me. I decided to cool it for a while and wait until the game started to drag before continuing my cheerleading efforts.
    On the field, Max Carey was rapping out grounders to the Chicks infielders while the other team—the Rockford Peaches—played catch in the outfield.
    The first thing I noticed—and this totally blew me away—was that these girls could throw! I had never seen a girl throw like a guy before. The girls in my league didn’t seem to understand that when you throw a ball, your elbow is supposed to move forward first, and then you snap your hand forward