Field of Screams Read Free Page B

waiting for an answer, the shiny-haired man grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet. I stood, wobbling for a second.
    â€œFeeling steadier? Good. Shake it off,” the man told me.
    Shake it off? I thought. Is he crazy? I just got clobbered in the head with a fastball!
    â€œI—uh—” I started to say.
    â€œHit by the pitch—take your base!” the umpire yelled.
    â€œBut I—”
    â€œCome on, tough guy!” the man with the slicked-back hair interrupted. “You heard the ump. Go take your base.” He tucked his hand under my elbow and hustled me to first base. “Good, good,” he muttered, and trotted away.
    Who was that guy anyway?
    I stood at first base and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to get over my feeling of confusion.
    â€œBatter up!” the umpire called.
    I opened my eyes to see who was next at bat.
    Whoa. Hold up, I thought. Who is that guy? He doesn’t play on my team! And what’s with his uniform?
    The pants were baggy. The shirt was loose. The whole outfit looked like a sack. And instead of the red, white, and blue colors of my Shadyside Middle School uniform, it was white with black pinstripes.
    Come to think of it, my own uniform felt strangely heavy and loose. I glanced down.
    Black and white pinstripes! I was wearing pinstripes! How did that happen? Where was my uniform?
    Before I could think, the batter hit a grounder toward the shortstop. I took off from first base. The ball skipped past the shortstop and into the outfield.
    I rounded second at full speed, really running now. I slid into the bag and barely beat the throw to third.
    I stood and brushed myself off. A rough hand clapped me on the shoulder.
    â€œWay to hustle, Gibson,” a deep voice said in my ear.
    Gibson? Who was Gibson? I turned—and found myself staring at a man with a heavy red face.
    He had to be the third-base coach—why else would he be standing there? But he wasn’t my third-base coach. In fact, I’d never seen this guy before either.
    What was happening? Who were these people? Was I seeing things because of my knock on the head? Was I going nuts?
    I started to get a really weird feeling. . . .
    I licked my lips. “Sanders,” I corrected him. “My name is Sanders. Uh—who are you?”
    The man laughed. “That’s our Buddy. Always kidding around.”
    â€œQuit gabbing and get your head in the game,” the man with the shiny hair called from across the field.He had to be the head coach. But why didn’t I recognize him?
    I peered at the next batter— another person I didn’t know. In fact, I couldn’t find a single familiar face on the whole field—or in either of the dugouts. Eve, Scott, Glen—they had all disappeared!
    It was the same with the people in the bleachers. Total strangers, all of them. And they all wore funny clothes. For example, there wasn’t a woman there without a funny-looking hat on. And they all wore gloves. In the middle of the summer!
    And where were my parents? They had been in the stands five minutes ago. But now I couldn’t spot them anywhere.
    The pitcher zoomed a fastball down the center of the plate. The guy at bat took a huge cut at it. He crushed the ball, sending it sailing out of the park.
    â€œHome run!” people screamed.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you, Gibson? Don’t just stand there. Run home,” the third-base coach urged.
    I ran to home plate. Then I trotted to the dugout. As I passed the fence, I caught a glimpse of the parking lot.
    Whoa. A huge maroon car with an odd, rounded shape sat next to a pickup truck. The car looked as if it came from one of those old gangster movies. The truck was straight out of the Beverly Hillbillies reruns I sometimes watch.
    â€œUh—are we sharing the park with a classic carshow today?” I asked a freckle-faced kid in the dugout.
    He stared at me as if I were