Screaming at the Ump Read Online Free PDF

that got me mistaken for a girl—my hair really was too long. So was Dad’s. If Pop had had hair, I bet his would have been too long, too.
    Dad was still shaking his too-long-haired head when he went upstairs to bed.
    ***
    A long time ago, I fell on my knee when I was climbing the fence behind the rear field’s first-base dugout. I probably needed stitches, but I didn’t want to tell my dad, because I’m not supposed to climb on school property. As any self-respecting kid could tell you, if you break the rules and nobody finds out, you don’t get in trouble. It was kind of hard to admit I’d done something wrong when I knew I might be able to get away with it. So I just took care of it myself with one of the first-aid kits. I never told anyone.
    But the stupid cut kept opening. And each time, it hurt like a whole new injury.
    That’s what I was reminded of every time Dad talked about Mrs. Bob the Baker. The way that even when you think something has healed, it can keep opening, all raw and red, and hurt you over and over again.

Old-School Rivalry
    A S I was leaving the next morning, I took a quick look around.
    By the time the school day was over, my quiet home would have again been invaded. There would be eighty guys here I’d never seen before. They would have met all the instructors, toured the campus, learning which field was which and where the lecture hall, cafeteria, and classrooms were, the batting cages, all of it. They’d have gotten set up in their rooms with their roommates—except, of course, for June Sponato and Jorge Washington.
    I tried to memorize how clean it all looked, because the ground would soon be littered with spit-out sunflower seeds, ground-out cigarettes, and random pieces of trash. This used to be Mrs. Bob the Baker’s least favorite day—she said it was a form of torture watching her quiet home turn into a college campus for dumb athletes overnight. She never really got it.
    Dad and Pop did more classroom teaching and less fieldwork the first two days as they waited for all the staff to arrive. Some instructors straggled in late because the minor league baseball season had just ended. The ones who’d been umping road games had to get home to pull their stuff together before heading to Clay Coves.
    Umpire Academy was the first step toward becoming a major league umpire. Three of Dad’s graduates had made it to the majors already. In a way, that seemed like something to be really proud of. But BTP was one of only three umpire schools in the country. And most people would agree it was considered the third best. Still, it was the only place I ever wanted to be.
    ***
    Middle school was supposed to be this big-deal change from elementary school, but it was pretty much the way I’d imagined it. Subject classes were just as boring as everything had been in fifth grade, except now we got to move from room to room instead of just being bored in the same classroom all day. I had lunch the same period as Zeke, which was good. And it was great to hang out with some of the guys I hadn’t seen much over the summer—Charley Haddon, Franco Spinelli, Andrew deFausto.
    Day two of school was going fine until I ran into this older kid, Chris Sykes, in the hall. “Snowden,” he said, with something that was probably pure hatred sticking in his voice.
    â€œHow you doing, Chris?” I said. I put my Sly-Avoidance Technique into place and continued down the hall to the auditorium, where there was some assembly for new students.
    I didn’t see Chris Sykes often, but when I did, he always pointed me out to his friends and whispered something. He was a great athlete, and he had one of those fathers—there were a lot in our town—who thought they knew everything about every sport.
    The reason Chris Sykes hated me had to do with a call my dad made. It wasn’t even a call on the field. Dad used to volunteer as an ump for Little