Post by mgmayhem on May 5, 2018 1:05:15 GMT -5
The siren shattered the predictable summer morning calm that had been slathered like old cheese spread on our cracker-sized Midwest town.
“Let’s go!” I yelled to my best friend, Campy. The second wail loosened my ear wax, clocking in a couple notes higher than my little sister Izza’s whine and only slightly louder than her best effort.
Capt. Jay rarely used his siren. And to me and Campy, the sound meant one thing—a rare chance to become crime-solving deputy detectives for the Keffel, Ohio police force of one… if we could convince Capt. Jay to let us help.
“A couple of fast balls, for luck, before we go, Zake.” Campy adjusted his cap on his afro. “Besides, we gotta listen a minute for where he’s headin’, or we’ll take off in the wrong direction. Come on, you got this, Ace.” He crouched into position, imitating the catcher stance of his Hall of Fame idol, Roy “Campy” Campanella.
It was the first day of summer vacation after sixth grade captivity. We’d gotten up early and snuck onto the field, ’cause the only thing we liked better than crime-solving was playing baseball for the Keffel Stallions travel ball team. I’d already fed Campy a healthy breakfast of baseballs—plenty of sliders, curves, knuckle balls and a sprinkle of change-ups, so we were feelin’ pretty major league. And my fastball was my secret weapon.
“Okay, one lightning strike, comin’ up!” I gripped the ball. “Then—we investigate!”
“Bring it, Ace!” Like the welcoming smile that Campanella had been famous for, Campy’s grin was wide and inspiring. Campy understood me, with a NASA think-tank under his afro and a heart as big as his catcher’s mitt. He usually called me “Ace,” even off the field—to remind me that I was king on the mound. To everyone else in town, I was Zake Maverick—a pretty awesome name for a twelve-year-old to live up to. Unless, of course, it’s Principal Stern, who usually used, “that impulsive maniac” as his favorite nickname when interrogating teachers about me, as in, “What’s that impulsive maniac done now?”
I started my wind-up. Campy waved off my pitch and jerked his chin up. “Who’s that?”
I followed Campy’s gaze. A lone figure in sunglasses sprouted like a tall stalk of corn on top of Keffel Peak.
“Let’s go!” I yelled to my best friend, Campy. The second wail loosened my ear wax, clocking in a couple notes higher than my little sister Izza’s whine and only slightly louder than her best effort.
Capt. Jay rarely used his siren. And to me and Campy, the sound meant one thing—a rare chance to become crime-solving deputy detectives for the Keffel, Ohio police force of one… if we could convince Capt. Jay to let us help.
“A couple of fast balls, for luck, before we go, Zake.” Campy adjusted his cap on his afro. “Besides, we gotta listen a minute for where he’s headin’, or we’ll take off in the wrong direction. Come on, you got this, Ace.” He crouched into position, imitating the catcher stance of his Hall of Fame idol, Roy “Campy” Campanella.
It was the first day of summer vacation after sixth grade captivity. We’d gotten up early and snuck onto the field, ’cause the only thing we liked better than crime-solving was playing baseball for the Keffel Stallions travel ball team. I’d already fed Campy a healthy breakfast of baseballs—plenty of sliders, curves, knuckle balls and a sprinkle of change-ups, so we were feelin’ pretty major league. And my fastball was my secret weapon.
“Okay, one lightning strike, comin’ up!” I gripped the ball. “Then—we investigate!”
“Bring it, Ace!” Like the welcoming smile that Campanella had been famous for, Campy’s grin was wide and inspiring. Campy understood me, with a NASA think-tank under his afro and a heart as big as his catcher’s mitt. He usually called me “Ace,” even off the field—to remind me that I was king on the mound. To everyone else in town, I was Zake Maverick—a pretty awesome name for a twelve-year-old to live up to. Unless, of course, it’s Principal Stern, who usually used, “that impulsive maniac” as his favorite nickname when interrogating teachers about me, as in, “What’s that impulsive maniac done now?”
I started my wind-up. Campy waved off my pitch and jerked his chin up. “Who’s that?”
I followed Campy’s gaze. A lone figure in sunglasses sprouted like a tall stalk of corn on top of Keffel Peak.
