was screaming, and the kid was rounding third and digging for homy, and --- unbe-froggable! --- the "ball" was heading back home too! the ball, the batter, the pitcher all racing for home plate, and it was the batter, the new kid out of nowhere, who crossed the plate first, at the same time scooping up his book, twirling his borrowed red cap back to the cheering others, and jogging on past the empty stands and up the hill to the boulevard; McNab gasping, croaking after him: "Don't stop till yer outta town, runt! Don't let me ever catch ya!"
And that's how Jeffrey Magee knocked the world's first frogball for a four-bagger.
*¤* nihua *¤*
Chapter 8
And how he came to be called Maniac.
The town was buzzing. The schools were buzzing. Hallways. Lunchrooms. Streets. Playgrounds. West End. East End.
Buzzing about the new kid in town. The stranger kid. Scraggly. Carrying a book. Flap-soled sneakers.
The kid who intercepted Brian Denehy's pass to Hands Down and punted it back longer than Denehy himself ever threw it.
The kid who rescued Arnold Jones from Finsterwald's backyard.
The kid who tattooed Giant John McNab's fastball for half a dozen home runs, then circled the sacks on a bunted frog.
Nobody knows who said it first, but somebody must have: "Kid's gotta be a maniac."
And somebody else must have said: "Yeah, reg'lar maniac."
And somebody else: "Yeah."
And that was it. Nobody (except Amanda Beale) had any other name for him, so pretty soon, when they wanted to talk about the new kid, that's what they called him: Maniac.
The legend had a name.
But not an address. At least, not an official one, with numbers.
What he did have was the deer shed at the Elmwood Park Zoo, which is where he slept his first few nights in town. What the deer ate, especially the carrots, apples, and day-old hamburger buns, he ate.
He started reading Amanda Beale's book his second day in town and finished it that afternoon: Ordinarily, he would have returned it immediately, but he was so fascinated by the story of the Children's Crusade that he kept it and read it the next day. And the next.
When he wasn't reading, he was wandering. When most people wander, they walk. Maniac Magee ran. Around town, around the nearby townships, always carrying the book, keeping it in perfect condition.
This is what he was doing when his life, as it often seemed to do, took an unexpected turn.
*¤* nihua *¤*
Chapter 9
John McNab had never in his life met a kid he couldn't strike out. Until the runt. Now, as he thought about it, he came to two conclusions:
1. He couldn't stand having this blemish on his record.
2. If you beat a kid up, it's the same as striking him out.
So McNab and his pals went looking for the kid. They called themselves the Cobras. Nobody messed with them. At least, nobody in the West End.
The Cobras had heard that the kid hung around the park and the tracks, and that's where they spotted him one Saturday afternoon, on the tracks by the path that ran from the Oriole Street dead end to the park. He was down by Red Hill and heading away from them, book in hand, as usual.
But the Cobras just stood there, stunned.
"I don't believe it," one Cobra said.
"Must be a trick," said another.
"I heard about it," said another, "but I didn't believe it."
It wasn't a trick. It was true. The kid was running on the rail.
McNab scooped up a handful of track stones. He launched one. He snarled, "He's dead. Let's get 'im!"
By the time Maniac looked back, they were almost on him. He wobbled once, leaped from the rail to the ground, and took off. He was at the Oriole Street dead end, but his instincts said no, not the street, too much open space. He stuck with the tracks. Coming into view above him was the house on Rako Hill, where he had eaten spaghetti. He could go there, to the whistling mother, the other kids, be safe. They wouldn't follow him in there. Would they?
Stones clanked off the steel rails. He
And that's how Jeffrey Magee knocked the world's first frogball for a four-bagger.
*¤* nihua *¤*
Chapter 8
And how he came to be called Maniac.
The town was buzzing. The schools were buzzing. Hallways. Lunchrooms. Streets. Playgrounds. West End. East End.
Buzzing about the new kid in town. The stranger kid. Scraggly. Carrying a book. Flap-soled sneakers.
The kid who intercepted Brian Denehy's pass to Hands Down and punted it back longer than Denehy himself ever threw it.
The kid who rescued Arnold Jones from Finsterwald's backyard.
The kid who tattooed Giant John McNab's fastball for half a dozen home runs, then circled the sacks on a bunted frog.
Nobody knows who said it first, but somebody must have: "Kid's gotta be a maniac."
And somebody else must have said: "Yeah, reg'lar maniac."
And somebody else: "Yeah."
And that was it. Nobody (except Amanda Beale) had any other name for him, so pretty soon, when they wanted to talk about the new kid, that's what they called him: Maniac.
The legend had a name.
But not an address. At least, not an official one, with numbers.
What he did have was the deer shed at the Elmwood Park Zoo, which is where he slept his first few nights in town. What the deer ate, especially the carrots, apples, and day-old hamburger buns, he ate.
He started reading Amanda Beale's book his second day in town and finished it that afternoon: Ordinarily, he would have returned it immediately, but he was so fascinated by the story of the Children's Crusade that he kept it and read it the next day. And the next.
When he wasn't reading, he was wandering. When most people wander, they walk. Maniac Magee ran. Around town, around the nearby townships, always carrying the book, keeping it in perfect condition.
This is what he was doing when his life, as it often seemed to do, took an unexpected turn.
*¤* nihua *¤*
Chapter 9
John McNab had never in his life met a kid he couldn't strike out. Until the runt. Now, as he thought about it, he came to two conclusions:
1. He couldn't stand having this blemish on his record.
2. If you beat a kid up, it's the same as striking him out.
So McNab and his pals went looking for the kid. They called themselves the Cobras. Nobody messed with them. At least, nobody in the West End.
The Cobras had heard that the kid hung around the park and the tracks, and that's where they spotted him one Saturday afternoon, on the tracks by the path that ran from the Oriole Street dead end to the park. He was down by Red Hill and heading away from them, book in hand, as usual.
But the Cobras just stood there, stunned.
"I don't believe it," one Cobra said.
"Must be a trick," said another.
"I heard about it," said another, "but I didn't believe it."
It wasn't a trick. It was true. The kid was running on the rail.
McNab scooped up a handful of track stones. He launched one. He snarled, "He's dead. Let's get 'im!"
By the time Maniac looked back, they were almost on him. He wobbled once, leaped from the rail to the ground, and took off. He was at the Oriole Street dead end, but his instincts said no, not the street, too much open space. He stuck with the tracks. Coming into view above him was the house on Rako Hill, where he had eaten spaghetti. He could go there, to the whistling mother, the other kids, be safe. They wouldn't follow him in there. Would they?
Stones clanked off the steel rails. He
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