Screaming at the Ump Read Free

exact-right way to umpire a game.
    Zeke was examining a video camera. “Can you give me one of those memory cards?” he asked, pointing at the little box where we kept all the camera stuff.
    I handed him one. “We forgot the first-aid kits,” I said. “I’ll check on those. Be right back.”
    I walked through the gym back to the first classroom, where the desks were already in neat rows. I finally found Dad and Bobbybo unstacking desks in the classroom at the end of the hall. Pop was supervising.
    â€œDo you need the first-aid kits restocked?”
    â€œIt’s on the master list, isn’t it?” Pop said.
    â€œWe probably won’t need them right away,” Dad said.
    â€œFamous last words,” Pop said.
    â€œWell, we don’t do much fieldwork at first, so no opportunity for anyone to get hurt.”
    â€œThen watch a student get stabbed with a pencil in the first hour here. It’s never a mistake to be ready for everything.”
    Bobbybo smiled at me, and I knew why—Pop always spoke in life lessons, and I bet he’d missed Pop, and Dad, and everything. I was sure Behind the Plate was a hard place to be away from. Luckily, I never had to find out for myself.
    â€œJust tell Mrs. G. you’re taking care of it,” Dad said. “So she can mark it off the list.”
    â€œWill do,” I said.
    I crossed the hallway to the office. Mrs. G. was sitting with her granddaughter.
    â€œHi, Sly,” I said. For some reason, my voice sounded like I was talking to a baby. She scowled at me.
    â€œBaby, you know my daughter, Dana, right?” Mrs. G. said.
    I’d heard of her. I nodded.
    â€œShe’s been taking on some extra jobs—you know how that goes. She’ll be coming to pick up Sylvia later.”
    Mrs. G. talked to me sometimes like I was fifty or something. “Sure, sure,” I said. Because I couldn’t really say, “Mrs. G., I’m twelve. What do you think I really know about extra jobs and little kids?” Not to mention mothers.
    She was still talking. “Anyway, Dana’s sitter quit, so I have Sylvia with me here today. Is there anything she can do to help you boys get ready?”
    â€œSly!” the girl said. “No one calls me Sylvia, Grandma.”
    â€œI don’t think so, thanks. I was just getting the first-aid—”
    â€œThat is
exactly
the kind of thing Sylvia can do. Get the kits—they’re in the clos—Oh, why am I telling you? Sylvia, this boy could run this whole school by himself if he had to.”
    I didn’t really think I could run the school, but I did know a lot.
    I pulled the first-aid boxes from the supply closet, then climbed to the top shelf and pushed aside random spare parts from leg guards, helmets, and chest protectors (the Snowdens were of the you-never-know-when-you-might-need-this school of never throwing anything away) until I found the checklist of all the things that needed to be in each kit.
    I showed Sly the list and explained that she needed to open every kit, check the expiration dates, count out bandages, and make sure everything on the list was in the box.
    â€œHey, what if a bandage is kind of gross, like this one?” She held one up that was half opened and nasty looking.
    â€œThen you throw it out.”
    â€œCould I keep it?”
    The kid was creepy. “I guess,” I said.
    â€œCool.”
    By the time I got back to the batting cages, Zeke had finished checking all the cameras. He was holding one and playing with its buttons.
    â€œDoes your dad know this one’s broken?” he asked.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with it?”
    â€œThis thing doesn’t stay closed, so you have to keep your hand on it. It’s no big deal or anything, as long as whoever’s using this camera knows about it.”
    Dad and Pop joined us then, and Zeke showed them the sort-of-broken camera.
    â€œSo how many are