The Zippity Zinger #4 Read Free

catcher behind the metal drain we were using for home plate. I adjusted the ball in my hand.
    Okay, here goes nothing.
    I stared at Papa Pete’s glove, brought my arm back behind my ear, whipped it around like a windmill, and released the ball. I was expecting my usual throw, which barely makes it to home plate.
    Bam! The ball shot out of my hand and fired right into Papa Pete’s glove. It was fast and hard and straight.
    â€œWhat was that?” I said in amazement.
    â€œHoly moly, Hankie!” Papa Pete said, and without saying another word, threw the ball right back to me.
    He put his glove up again. I took the ball, wound up, and let it go underhand. BAM! The ball shot out of my hand and headed straight for the center of his glove ... again.
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Professional,” Papa Pete said. “Did you take a throwing pill this morning?”
    â€œNo! I don’t know what’s happening,” I said. I looked down at my sneakers.
    There they were. My sister’s red socks, the monkeys half hidden by my pants. A thought ran through my head.
    â€œHey, Papa Pete! Throw me the ball, please,” I shouted. “I want to see something.”
    It couldn’t be. No ... it’s not possible.
    Papa Pete tossed me the ball, and I held it in my hand. I twisted it around so the stitching was directly on my fingertips.
    Papa Pete squatted and put his mitt out in front of him. “Don’t aim. Just throw.”
    I wound up like the last time and let the ball go. It flew across the courtyard and smashed dead center into Papa Pete’s mitt. I wasn’t doing anything different than I always did when we practiced in the park. Same windup. Same throw. Except this time I was throwing smoke. Why? There was only one thing that was different.
    It must be! It’s got to be! The socks!
    â€œHankie, I told you today was the day!” Papa Pete said. “I knew you could do this.”
    I was so excited. I was speechless. I had really thrown the ball and it really got to exactly where I wanted it to go.
    There are no words to describe the thrill that was rushing through my body. I vowed never to forget the feeling. I kept on throwing to Papa Pete. I didn’t want to stop. Ten throws. Twenty throws. Almost every one straight and accurate and fast. Nolan Ryan, Satchel Paige, Cy Young, Sandy Koufax. Step aside, gentlemen, and make way for Hank Zipzer. The man with the arm of steel.
    Suddenly, the door to the courtyard flew open and Ashley and Frankie came running out.
    â€œHank!” Ashley said, pushing her glasses back on her nose. “I can’t believe my eyes.”
    â€œYou’ve been holding out on us, Zip,” Frankie said, slapping me a high five. “Why did you tell us you can’t throw? That’s not what I see.”
    â€œWe were upstairs helping my grandma chop vegetables for soup,” Ashley said. “And we heard this bam, bam, bam. We looked out the window, and saw you throwing strikes. Hank, where have you been hiding that?”
    â€œHonestly, guys,” I said. “I’ve never thrown like this before. I don’t know what’s got into me.” I couldn’t tell them about the socks. They’d think I had gone nuts.
    Papa Pete walked across the courtyard and came over to Frankie and Ashley. He pinched both of their cheeks.
    â€œHow are my grandkids?” he said. Even though they’re not his grandkids, he calls them that and they love it. Every kid on the planet would want to be Papa Pete’s grandchild, that is, every kid who likes lollipops and root-beer floats and big hugs and free tokens for video games.
    â€œHow do you like the arm on this boy?” Papa Pete asked, giving me one of those big hugs I just mentioned.
    â€œZipparooney, you throw like a Yankee,” Frankie said.
    â€œCorrection. I throw like a Met,” I answered. It’s amazing that Frankie and I have remained best friends, even