Never Blame the Umpire Read Free Page A

I guess it was that poem that helped me get in his creative writing class. Even though Ginny and I aren’t in the same classes, we still see each other a lot. We ride the bus and have lunch together. There’s an activity period where we go outside and play volleyball or kickball. And every morning there’s an assembly. A guest artist comes to the school and gives a program or lecture. Ginny and I always sit together.
    So even though Ginny isn’t playing baseball, this summer is better than last summer was.
    I tell Ginny, “If I’m going to convince Mr. Gallagher that he was right to choose me, I’d better finish my assignment for tomorrow. I still have one poem to write.”
    “Okay,” Ginny says. “And congratulations on your game-winning hit.”
    “Thanks. I’ll meet you at the bus stop in the morning.”
    I go back to the living room, pick up my colddinner, reheat it in the microwave, and take it to my bedroom. I set it on my desk, open my notebook, pick up a pen, and look at the poem’s first line, which I’ve already written in my notebook:
     
What I remember most
     
    In class today, Mr. Gallagher had us write that line. One of our assignments for tomorrow is to write an unrhymed poem at least eight lines long using that as our first line. He told us, “Think of a single event in your life. It can be something that happened at any time in your past—five years ago, last year, last month, just a few days ago, or even today. You can make up details if you want, but you can also describe the moment exactly as it occurred. It doesn’t have to be a big, dramatic event. You can just start writing about the first thing that pops into your mind.”
    I know I can do this assignment because it’s a lot like what I did with my soccer poem. Just write about a single moment. So I do what he said. I start writing about the first thing that pops into my head, and the lines start to flow. I don’t even have to think about what to write. My pen seems to move under its own power as it rushes across my paper. I write the final line and read over what I’ve written. I realize that I didn’t even worry about the length, and the poem turned out to be even longer than Mr. Gallagher said it had to be.
     
What I remember most
    is the way my arms felt
    when ball hit bat,
    the way the ball darted,
    like a scared rabbit
    toward the outfield,
    the way the dust
    billowed above home plate,
    the way Andy pumped
    his arm in the air,
    the way the team cheered me
    and called me a hero,
    and the fact that Mama and Dad
    weren’t there to see any of it.
     

Four
breakfast with mama
    I don’t know if it’s the tapping on the door or Mama’s words, but something wakes me from a really good dream—the kind that makes you feel warm inside. I try to hold on to it as long as I can. After the second or third “Kate” I know it’s no use. I’ll never get back to that wonderful dream.
    In the few seconds it takes me to answer Mama’s “Time to get up” with “Okay, Mama,” I can’t even remember what the dream had been about. It was probably something that would have made a good poem or story, but it’s gone now.
    I wonder if that happens to other people, getting pleasant dreams interrupted right in the best parts and not being able to finish them. Ginny claims she doesn’t dream much, but I can’t believe that. Howcan someone not dream? It seems like almost every night I have one dream right after another all night long. When I don’t dream, I wake up in the morning feeling a little bit disappointed. To me, the best thing about sleeping isn’t even the rest I get, it’s the dreams. It’s like watching a movie or even reading a story, but without doing the work it takes to actually read a story.
    I just wish scientists could find a way to videotape dreams so we could have a permanent record of them. I keep my notebook right next to my bed, and once in awhile I’ll grab my pen the second I wake up and scribble out some