Screaming at the Ump Read Free Page B

from
America’s Next Top Model
was going to sign up at BTP.
    â€œSo no roommate, right?”
    â€œNot unless there’s another woman,” I said. “Put her on the third floor. She’ll get that extra bathroom all to herself.”
    This was the absolute highlight of getting ready for Academy. We were checking the list over to catch things a computer might miss, like making sure no woman had been assigned to room with a man. But really, what we were hoping to discover was the next great roommate name matchup. Dad’s umpire-school roommate had been Joseph Costello. Everyone called them Abbott and Costello, and somehow—this is the part I always wondered about, but Dad said he had no idea how it happened—Abbott turned into Ibbit, which is what everyone but Pop and I called him now.
    I loved this part, the name part. I guess there was a pretty good reason for it—my own stupid name. The way the story goes: my parents could not agree on a name, even after I was born. For days, the names my dad liked—Jeter, Gehrig, Robinson—were all just too much baseball for my mother. Finally, still unable to agree when I was almost a week old, she asked Dad, “Wasn’t there a poem or something about a baseball player named Casey? Could we maybe compromise and go with that?”
    She was right. There was. A very famous poem. But somehow, neither one of them thought about the fact that they were naming me for a fictional guy famous for striking out. I guess it’s better than naming me after Babe Ruth—a pig’s name AND a girl’s name. So I’ve got that going for me.
    Zeke was running down the student list with his index finger, and he stopped at room 208. “We’ve got a Bob Franklin and a Robbie Franklin, one from Delaware and one from West Orange. What’s the call?”
    â€œSame last name, probably both Robert, but different nicknames. Let’s come back to that.”
    â€œOkey dokey,” Zeke said. “Oh, look at this. “Didn’t we have a whole group of Mcs and Macs last year too?” Zeke asked. He read their names out loud: “MacGregor, Mackenzie, MacNamara, MacSophal, McDonaldson.”
    â€œI think that was the year before,” I said. “Did we end up breaking those pairs up into different rooms? No, wait. No! We realized later that we should have, because they all called each other
Mac
, remember?”
    â€œBut then they started with Big Mac and Fat Mac and Forehead Mac, right? You know I’m a fan of the creative nicknames.”
    â€œYeah. But let’s break those all up this year.”
    Zeke was staring at the printout. “MacSophal,” he said. “Remember that name?”
    â€œYeah, you just said it.”
    â€œCome on. Stay with me, Snowden. MacSophal. Remember J-Mac?”
    â€œThat relief pitcher with the Phillies? The steroid guy with the crazy beard?”
    â€œJimmy
MacSophal
,” he said.
    I reached for the dorm roommate form. “This guy’s name’s Patrick.”
    â€œOh,” Zeke said. “Different guy.”
    â€œWhat,” I said laughing, “you thought some former major leaguer was going to attend BTP?”
    Zeke shrugged. We got back to work.
    I heard a little girl’s voice ask “What are you doing?” I hadn’t even heard the door open.
    Zeke whispered, “No. Make her go away.”
    Pop once told me that if you see a stray dog, you don’t make eye contact. You remain calm, and you pretend it’s not there. You never look its way. That was my plan. And, apparently, Zeke’s too. It was one of those unspoken things between friends.
    Even though I was busy very much not watching Mrs. G.’s granddaughter, I could sort of
feel
her . . . walking around us. Like she was studying us or something. I wasn’t even sure I knew what the word meant, but I had the feeling she was
skulking
.
    â€œSo back to the