Wall Ball Read Free

leg,” I said. “The doctor says he’ll be out for the season. If we have a season, that is.”
    “Poor kid. What rotten luck.”
    “He says the leg doesn’t actually hurt too much. If fact, he seems to be kind of enjoying himself at the hospital.”
    “Really? What’s to like about hospitals?” my dad asked as he started dicing peppers. He chopped so fast, he would put a Marine Corps barber to shame. Bits of vegetables flew all over the place.
    “Comic books,” I explained, smiling at thememory of Gasser in the hospital. “And ice cream.”
    After Gasser’s snowboarding accident the day before, the whole team had visited him in the hospital. We’d found him propped up in a mechanical bed with a big stack of comic books by his side and a bowl of ice cream in front of him. Despite the heavy cast on his leg, he had been grinning as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world.
    “What’s so humorous about a broken leg?” asked Tugboat.
    “The humerus is an upper arm bone,” said Slingshot. He wanted to be a doctor one day. “The major bones of the leg are the femur, the tibia, and the fibula.”
    “The broken leg stinks,” said Gasser. “It’s the fibula. But this place isn’t half bad.”
    He showed us a special button on a cord by the side of his bed. He said he could press it whenever he wanted and a nurse would appear with a snack.
    By way of demonstration, he hit the button. Somewhere out in the hall, a bell sounded. Seconds later, a nurse dressed in light blue scrubs poked her head into the room.
    “Everything all right?” she asked.
    “May I have some ice cream?” Gasser asked politely. “Strawberry this time, please.”
    “But, Mr. Phipps,” she said, “you’ve already eaten three bowls.”
    “I’m still hungry though,” Gasser said. “And my leg is starting to ache a little bit.”
    “Hmmm,” said the nurse. “That’s no good, is it. I’ll see what I can do.”
    She turned briskly and disappeared down the hall.
    I have to say, we all had been very impressed.
    “It’s better than chicken pox,” Gasser gloated. “It doesn’t even itch.” He eyed the fiberglass cast that covered his leg from ankle to knee. “At least, not yet it doesn’t.”
    One at a time, all the Rounders had signedthe cast and wished Gasser luck. He assured us he’d be home in a day and on the bench for every game of the coming season.
     
    The aroma of melting cheese and frying ham began to fill the kitchen. Mr. Bones sat by my side, intently eyeing Dad as he worked at the stove. From time to time the dog’s tail wiggled and he licked his chops.
    “Voilà,” said Dad. He clicked off the burner and slid his creation out of the frying pan and onto a waiting platter.
    “Yum,” said my mom, arriving at the table just as breakfast did. “Your father makes the world’s best omelets.”
    “Definitely the biggest,” I said.
    “One Bolivian Special coming right up,” crowed Dad.
    We’d learned about Bolivia in geography class. The South American country was about the size of California and Texas combined. It had once been part of the Inca empire. Spanishwas one of the official languages. There were a lot of llamas. That was about all I knew about Bolivia.
    Dad said, “Red, yellow, and green peppers, con queso.”
    “And jamon ,” I added, saying the Spanish word for “ham.”
    “Delicious in any language,” my mom said, tucking into a wedge of omelet.
    Dad beamed.
    “Eat up,” he said. “There’s plenty.” He shuffled off to get dressed, his squirrelly slippers sweeping the floor like dust mops.
    “I’ll say there’s plenty,” I said. You could have fed a crew of lumberjacks on that tire of an omelet. When it came to giant-sized breakfasts, Paul Bunyan had nothing on my dad.
    Mom and I ate. Mr. Bones peered longingly up at us from beneath the table. Outside the window, snow kept coming.
    I wanted to be swinging a bat, hitting fastballs and deep drives. Making double plays