Chapter Two:
The Magic in Baseball
Susan and Bruce Wigden
Smashwords Edition
Tex Ware
Everett, WA
© 2009 by Susan and Bruce Wigden All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise—without the prior permission of the copyright holder, except as provided by USA copyright law.
Cover photographs and graphic by Bruce Wigden.
ISBN-13: 978-1-935500-23-0
Print Book ISBN-13: 978-1-935500-04-9
Print Book Library of Congress Control Number: 2009932770
We would like to acknowledge:
Irma Wigden, Bruce’s mom, for a lifetime of love and support.
Lee, our son, for being the way he is and Diane for being the most loving sister there could ever be.
Marcy Isaia, who is not only our dear friend, but also has a keen eye for editing. Thank you, Marcy, for all your help, and encouragement.
Ray Ruppert of Tex Ware has guided us every step of the way. His involvement has been greatly appreciated. It has been our privilege to work with him.
Jake Milo, the cover boy, who happens to have the same first name as our main character, and who we believe is a perfect Jake.
Chapter One
“Where are you two off to so early this morning?”
“Today’s the first day of tryouts, Mr. Flynn.”
“Tryouts?” He asks as he turns the key in his mailbox.
I look at Dad as he says, “Yes, Mr. Flynn. Today is Jake’s tryout at the Great Kills Little League on Greaves Avenue.”
“Oh, yes. I did read something about that on a flyer at the supermarket. Well, good luck Jake! Before you go, let me take that quarter out of your ear.”
Mr. Flynn reaches his right hand over to my left ear, and then he removes a shiny quarter. I notice the quarter always has the same shine on it, so I say, “Mr. Flynn, that’s the same quarter you take out of my ear every time I see you.”
“That’s what you think,” he says as he throws some junk mail into the recycle trash bin.
“Glad they keep this next to the mail boxes. All I ever get is junk mail mixed in with bills.”
Dad wishes Mr. Flynn a good day, and tells me we had better take off. “Great day,” says Dad as he pushes the door open.
I take my first step out from our apartment building and as soon as I am outside, the sun is right in my face. “Hey, it’s not a great day. The sun is in my eyes. This can’t be good for tryouts, Dad.”
“It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”
Dad always says that to me, “It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”
We walk around the building where our car is parked. Dad clicks the door open, and just as I’m ready to get into the car, I notice bird poop on the passenger window.
“Hey Dad, didn’t Mom just take the car for a wash?”
“Yeah. Yesterday. Why?”
“Duh, there’s more bird poop on this window than there is up the bird’s –”
“Alright Jake, I get the point. Don’t make an issue, and don’t finish that sentence!”
As I enter the car and put my seat belt on, Dad has already turned on his MP3 player.
“Oh, not that again,” I say as his music from the 1980’s begins.
“What are you talking about? This is the best music ever!”
“Yeah right, Dad. Whatever!”
Just as Dad turns the engine of the car on, I turn my head to the right. “Hey Dad, the poop looks different from the inside.”
I can tell he’s not paying much attention to me, but he asks, “How so?”
“Uh, I think it looks like a bat.” Now that gets his attention.
“Bat. Where?”
He turns his head towards me. “Yeah, it kinda does look like a bat. That must be an omen of some sort.”
“Omen. What’s that mean?”
Dad lowers the music. That makes me happy.
“An omen is a prophetic sign.”
“A what?”
He repeats, “A prophetic sign.”
“Yeah,” and for the second time, I say, “what’s that mean?”
“It’s a message of some sort.”
“Yeah Dad, that makes a lotta sense, a message written in poop. Here, I’ll read it.” I make believe I am reading the window, “This window has bird poop.”
“Hey wise guy,” says Dad, “aren’t you the one who just said the –”
I can tell Dad is searching for a word.
“Poop, Dad, poop.”
“So ya think it looks like a bat, huh? Well, there’s more than one way to read into things. Messages don’t always have to be written in words, Jake.”
I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, and he knows it!
“Jake, this is a message to you. It means you’ll be up at bat.”
“Dad, you’re really out there. The only thing that poop means is Mom wasted her money on that car wash yesterday.” This time, both of us understand and we laugh.
“Dad.”
“Yeah, Jake. What
is it?”
“I stink.”
I see Dad’s nostrils squeezing together, and then he says, “I don’t smell anything.”
“Come on,” I say, “you know what I mean.”
Dad gets serious. “Listen up Jake; baseball is a sport to be enjoyed. All you have to do is give it your best shot. Be a team player. Keep your eye on the ball, and go for it!”
I repeat, “I stink!”
“I don’t want to hear you say that again Jake. Do you understand?”
This time I know Dad is serious, because he turns his music off and he just stares at the road ahead. After a few minutes, he speaks. “What concerns you the most?”
“Well, the other guys trying out have been playing ball for a long time now, and they weigh a whole lot more than me. They don’t want me to try out because they think it won’t be good if I end up on their team.”
“What makes you say that, Jake?”
I don’t answer right away because I’m feeling like I’m about to cry.
Dad says, “Talk to me Jake.”
“Well, I heard Josh in my class talking to Alex last week. Josh said his sister, Elyssa, is better up at bat than me. They were laughing.”
“Jake, did you say anything?”
“No. I made believe I didn’t hear it.”
“I understand. But, Jake, if you ever hear anyone say anything like that again, you need to speak up for yourself. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah.”
We’re almost at the field, when I notice some loose change in a paper coffee cup squeezed in between the passenger and driver’s seat. I pick the cup up. It has some left over lipstick marks from Mom’s lips on one side. I dump the change from the cup into my lap and start to count the money, “Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, forty-five, fifty, seventy-five –”
Dad interrupts. “Remember when you couldn’t count money, Jake?”
I think about it, and then answer. “Not really.”
“Good,” says Dad.
“Why good?” I ask.
“Someday you won’t remember when you weren’t good at baseball either.”
Dad thinks he’s helping me, but he’s making me feel worse. I decide to change the subject. “Dad, how does Mr. Flynn’s quarter always stay so shiny? Is there some special stuff he puts on it to keep it that way? Or, do you think it’s a new quarter all the time? Maybe he buys the quarters at some magic store.”
Dad doesn’t answer me, because he’s too busy pulling up to a parking space next to the field. “The sun’s gone in Jake, if that makes you feel any better.”
I don’t answer Dad. Instead, I drop the loose change back into the paper coffee cup, and undo my seat belt. For a minute, I stare at the lipstick mark on the paper cup and think about how proud Mom will be if I make the team. I don’t think Mom will care if I am good or not, but I know Dad will. Dad opens the locks of the car and it’s time for both of us to get out. I’m wishing it would start to rain and the tryouts would be cancelled.
“I hate the way this cup feels, Dad,” I say as I move my hand over my pants in an attempt to adjust it.
“You’ll be fine, Jake.”
I think to myself, I don’t feel fine. I don’t look fine. I stare down at my skinny legs and big feet. Dad interrupts my thoughts. “Good luck, Jake.”
We start to walk towards the field. In the distance, I can see Josh and Alex.
“They look like baseball players,” I say.
Dad ignores me, but I can tell he’s worried by the way he rubs the back of my head, and then he says, “Looks like they’ve already started cutting the grass on the infield.”
I nod, yes, like I care, but really my eyes are on Josh and Alex. I wonder how the heck the calves on their legs look so muscular. We’re all the same age, ten, so how could that be? Dad and I are getting closer and closer to the ball field.
“Jake, that man with the clip board must be the manager. I’ll introduce you to him.”
“No. Don’t Dad. I don’t want to be introduced.”
“It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”
“But, Dad.”
Dad isn’t giving me a chance to talk. Now he’s walking real fast like he’s in a hurry or something. I don’t have a choice, so I keep up with his fast pace. Before I know it, I’m standing with Dad on the side of the playing field. He’s waiting for his turn to talk to the manager. I’m starting to feel like the eggs Mom made for me this morning are in my mouth. I remember once I felt that way at the dentist, and I ended up puking in the bathroom. Some of the puke landed on a purple vase that was on top of the toilet bowl tank. I had to wipe it off with the toilet paper, because the hygienist saw me go into the bathroom. By wiping it, that only forced some more puke out of me, but luckily for me, that time it was a small amount and it went straight into the bowl.
“Dad, is there a bathroom here?”
The man, with whom Dad is waiting to speak, hears me ask for a bathroom.
He looks at me and then speaks. “There’s a bathroom, but unless you’re wearing some protective gear, I wouldn’t go in there unless I really had to.”
Dad turns to me and says, “You’ll be fine. Wait until we get home.” Then Dad extends his hand and introduces us.
“I’m Lee Daniels. This is my son, Jake. He’ll be trying out today.”
The manager introduces himself. He says his name is Evan Greene.
I’m too busy thinking about the eggs in my mouth to notice who Mr. Greene looks like. The eggs in my mouth are mixed with spit, and that makes it impossible for me to answer when he asks me if I’m ready to try out. I’m about to spit on the ground, when I remember that Mom stuck a tissue in my right pocket of my jacket. I put my hand inside my pocket and there it is. I take the tissue out and turn away from Dad and Mr. Greene. When I do spit into it, there really are some eggs, but they’re also mixed with some other stuff that looks like the sausage pizza from last night’s dinner. It feels good to get rid of it. When I lift my head up and turn around, I’m able to see who Mr. Greene looks like.
Oh no! He has to be Josh’s dad. And, just as I am thinking that, I see Josh walk up to him and ask him how much longer the tryouts are going to last.
“About another hour,” says Mr. Greene to Josh.
“Jake,” says Mr. Greene, “this is my son, Josh.”
My voice feels weird inside my throat. “We’re in the same class, Mr. Greene.”
“You can call me Evan,” he says. “So you guys are in the same class?”
I look at Dad. His face looks a kind of red color, the kind that happens when he is upset. Dad starts to open his mouth. Now I am afraid he’s going to say something to Josh about that comment he made about his sister being better at bat than me.
I wait for what seems like forever until Dad finally speaks. When he does, he says, “Nice to meet you, Josh.”
Whew – that’s a relief.
“Ready Jake?” asks Mr. Greene.
I nod, yes. Dad and I follow Mr. Greene. Dad mentions that the snack bar looks like it’s ready for action, but he doesn’t answer Dad.
I think Dad is somewhat nervous himself and is just looking for something to say. I stare at Dad for a minute, hoping he could read my mind. Don’t talk. Don’t say another word to Mr. Greene. Just let me do whatever it is I have to, and let’s get out of here.
Dad sits down on the bleachers. At least, he’s quieted down. Mr. Greene is chewing gum and his moustache is moving from side to side. Now I’m thinking that his moustache is going to distract me.
Mr. Greene asks, “What position are you trying out for?”
I swallow a little of the leftover puke that’s in the back of my throat and answer, “Right field.”
“OK,” says Mr. Greene. “Run out to right field and be ready to catch some fly balls.”
Mr. Greene is now hitting fly balls to the outfielders. Next thing he’s telling me is to catch the ball and throw it to the second baseman. Mr. Greene hits a fly ball in my direction. I take two steps to the left and then I quickly run in toward the infield in an attempt to judge the ball. Woe, bad choice! The ball flies directly over my head. I reverse my steps and pick up the ball. I set myself and toss it in the direction of second base. In the background, I hear laughing. When I look up, I see Josh and Alex in the dugout. They are passing a can of soda back and forth to each other. I’m thinking that they look exactly alike, with their short dark hair and matching sweatshirts.
Mr. Greene yells out, “Knock it off guys. Give him a chance.”
His comment reminds me of the question Dad asked me in the car, “Do you remember when you couldn’t count money?” When I answered, “Not really,” Dad figured he’d help by telling me that one day I wouldn’t remember when I couldn’t play ball. I’m thinking that grownups have a way of trying to make things better, but sometimes they make it worse. I keep hearing the words, “Give him a chance,” and now I feel like I am getting sick to my stomach.
“Let’s try it again Jakey boy,” yells Mr. Greene.
Jakey boy? Oh great! That’s just what I need to be called. Meanwhile, Dad is sitting there in the bleachers. I could see him doing this thing he does. He makes a fist and sort of taps it into his right thigh. Mom says it’s a nervous thing, I think it’s a not-going-to-work kind of thing.
Mr. Greene must know that I am nervous. He yells out, “Jakey, how about some gum?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Take some,” he says. “Helps calm ya down.”
Great! Now the whole world has to hear that I need to be calmed down.
“OK,” I say, and then I jog towards him and he hands over a piece of gum. I reach my hand out and the gum drops to the ground.
I hear Josh say, “He can’t even catch the gum.”
Mr. Greene walks over to the dugout. “Knock it off, Josh. I told you to give him a chance.”
I watch Josh as he buries his face in his sweatshirt, and I know he’s still laughing at me.
“Let’s try it again, Son.”
Now he’s calling me Son. I’m not his son, but I know Mr. Greene’s trying to be friendly, because he feels bad for me. “Go back to your position and we’ll try it again.”
“Yeah.” I run out to right field again and position myself in a crouched stance, ready to catch a batted ball.
Mr. Greene says, “I’m going to hit you a line drive. Play it on a bounce and hit the cutoff man who will throw to third base.”
I call out, “I’m ready,” hoping that this time I will make a good play. I see the ball hit on a line. It bounces in front of me. I get myself in position. Oh no, the ball goes through my legs. I chase the ball down and pick it up off the grass. I turn my body toward the second baseman who is in perfect position to take the relay throw. I bring my arm back and throw the ball as hard as I can – right over his head. How could this be happening? I look towards Dad who has his head buried in his lap.
Manager Greene calls out, “Don’t worry about it. It happens to the best of us. Come on in, Jakey, and sit on the bench.”
I keep telling myself I’m not going to cry. I know if I do then everyone will think I’m a weirdo. The guys on the field are sort of nice. Some of them were never on a team. They just play ball in the street, as I do. I’m worried about Josh and Alex. They’ve been in my class for the past two years, and they’re both good at all sports. I walk back to the bleachers and I’m biting my lip. I can taste some blood in my mouth, so I look for the one tissue I have in my pocket. Then, I remember it’s filled with egg and sausage pizza puke, so instead, I decide to wipe my mouth with my hand. As I get closer to the bench, Josh stands up as though he’s about to talk to me. He’s smiling and I don’t know if his dad told him to be nice or what. I’m close to him now, and he says, “Hey Jake, my sister, Elyssa, is trying out for the girls’ softball team. I’ll ask her if there’s room for you, too.”
Dad is sitting far enough away not to be able to hear what Josh said, but close enough to see us talking. I can see him smiling at me, as if to say, “See, he’s being nice in spite of the fact that you stink.” I can see this mean smile on Alex’s face too, and then to make things worse, Josh turns around and high fives him. Instead of sitting down like Mr. Greene said, I run over to Dad.
“Hey Jake, what’s up?” asks Dad.
“What’s up?” I get close to Dad. “Why are you asking me what’s up? You already saw what’s up. I stink. I told you. I want to get outta here, Dad. Take me home.”
“Wait, Jake. Don’t you want to hear what Evan has to say about opening day?”
“Opening day? There’s no opening day for me. I, I –”
“You what, Jake?”
I get even closer to Dad. He bends down so that his face is almost right up against mine. I try to get the words out, but they feel stuck inside me.
Dad tells me to take a deep breath.
I listen to him, and the words loosen up. “Dad, I have to go home now. Please take me home. And Dad, let’s not say anything to Mr. Greene, please.”
Dad rubs my left shoulder, and says, “Sure, Jake.”
“Wait. One more thing. I don’t want Josh or Alex to see me crying.”
“Take your time, Jake. We’ll stand here until you’re ready.”
After a few minutes, I tell Dad I’m ready and we both start to walk away.
I hear Mr. Greene call out “So long” to us, but I don’t turn around.
Dad turns around half way and waves his hand as if to say, “So long,” back to him. The two of us head towards our car.
Dad clicks open the car door and we get inside. This time he doesn’t turn on his 1980’s music.
“Wanna talk, Jake?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I shake my head no.
“If you decide you want to talk later –”
I interrupt him. “I don’t want to talk about today, ever! And don’t tell Mom what happened. Girls don’t understand, and Mom’s a girl.”
“Jake, even though Mom’s a girl, she’s your mom, and she understands anything you need her to understand.”
We both put on our seat belts and Dad starts up the car. As he begins to drive, I turn my head and see the bird poop on the window. Some omen, I say to myself. More like a message saying I really do stink! I think about what I’m going to say to Mom when we get home. The real truth is, I’m a loser and Mom has no reason to be proud of me.
“Dad.”
“Yeah, Jake.”
“If Mom asks how tryouts went, let’s just tell her good and nothing else, OK?”
“OK, Jake. That’s fine with me, this time. But, you need to understand that you can always come to both your mom and me with anything, alright?”
I nod yes, and then reach into my pocket to take the puke tissue out and put it in a small plastic bag on the floor.
“What’s that?” asks Dad.
“It’s a tissue with puke.”
Dad says, “Don’t ya just hate that?”
“As much as bird poop on a window,” I say, and then the two of us let out a kind of laugh.
Chapter Two
By the time we’re home, it’s raining. I can’t help thinking I wished it had rained earlier, but I don’t say that to Dad. Mom had left us a note saying she went with her friend to the mall. I’m hoping that by the time she gets back home, she will have forgotten all about the tryouts today. I turn on the television and fill a bowl with chips.
Dad starts to ask me what I’m watching, but then the doorbell rings. It’s Mr. Flynn.
“Hello there, Mr. Flynn,” says Dad. “Come in.”
“No, no. Not here to bother you folks. I was hoping that maybe you had a stamp I could buy from you.”
Dad walks to the desk in the hallway. He opens the drawer and pulls out a sheet of postage stamps. Holding up the sheet, he says, “How many will it be?”
“Just one.”
“Are you sure you don’t need more than one, Mr. Flynn?”
“Yes I’m sure,” he says, while reaching into his pants pocket.
Dad tells him, “If you’re thinking about paying me for this stamp, just forget it.”
“No, no, please let me pay you.”
“Absolutely not,” says Dad as he hands over the stamp. “Some day I may need to borrow something from you.”
Mr. Flynn says thanks to Dad and takes the stamp.
I put the bowl of chips down on the ottoman and then I get up from the couch. I walk over to Mr. Flynn and say, “Mr. Flynn, where do you really get those quarters?”
“Why, your ears, of course. Where else would I get them?”
“So Mr. Flynn, if those quarters come out of my ears, then maybe you could just give them to me all the time.”
“Jake,” says Dad, “you’re being too outspoken.”
“What I mean is, I’ll give you two dimes and a nickel if you let me keep the quarter.”
Mr. Flynn smiles. “What is it about the quarters that you like, Jake?”
“They’re all so new and shiny. None of my coins ever look that way.”
“Of course not, Jake. Your coins couldn’t possibly be that new or shiny, because your coins don’t come from your ears.”
“If they come from my ears, then how come I can’t get them out myself?”
“Simple answer, Jake; you’re not a magician.”
“But I’d like to be.”
“You would?”
“Yep. I would. Could you teach me?”
“Why, that all depends,” says Mr. Flynn.
“On what?”
“On whether or not your parents will allow me to teach you.”
I look at Dad. He looks surprised that I want Mr. Flynn to teach me how to be a magician.
“I can’t see why not,” says Dad. “First, let’s talk about it with your mom.”
“Dad, call Mom on her cell and ask, OK?”
“I’m almost always around you know,” says Mr. Flynn. “You can come by later when your mom is home.”
“Dad, please, call Mom.”
“Alright.”
Dad walks into the kitchen and calls Mom’s cell. Meanwhile, I ask Mr. Flynn if the quarters are real.
“Absolutely! The quarters are as real as your ears, Jake.”
“Come on, I know they don’t really come from my ears. Show me how you do it.”
“Ah! Showing you would give the secret away. If you want to learn magic, you must read, and practice, and be determined. By the way, how did you do with your baseball tryout this morning?”
I’m about to answer Mr. Flynn, when Dad walks back into the hallway where we are standing.
“Mom said learning magic sounds like a fine idea.”
“Cool.”
Mr. Flynn repeats, “Cool.”
“When could we start?”
“You really are anxious to get those quarters, aren’t you, Jake?”
“Yep. Also, I want to make rabbits come out of hats and swallow fire.”
“Ah! But you must have patience with yourself. Learning to be a magician is a lot of work, you know.”
“Can we start today, right now?”
Mr. Flynn looks at Dad. “It’s quite alright with me,” he says.
“Jake, don’t tire Mr. Flynn out. Mr. Flynn, once you’ve had enough, feel free to ask Jake to leave and come back another time.”
“I can assure you, I’ll never tire of magic, or your son for that matter.”
“See ya later, Dad.”
“Alright Jake. Have a good time.”
I follow Mr. Flynn out of my apartment and we walk a few steps until we reach his door.
Mr. Flynn turns the knob on his door and the door opens. I ask him why he doesn’t lock his door.
“I’m an old man, Jake. If something were to happen to me, I wouldn’t want to cause a big disturbance in the hall. You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” I say as I follow him into his apartment. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want the fire department or the police to have to make all sorts of noise trying to blast open the door to get the body.”
“The body? What body?”
“My body, if I were to pass on. Now, now, you’re here to talk magic, let’s get on with it. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Hope you’re not allergic to Benny.”
“Benny?” I ask, as I sit down on his old corduroy brown couch.
“My cat of sixteen years,” says Mr. Flynn. “Yep, Benny’s been with me, let me see now, well, I’d say, about one week after my wife passed on. I was coming home from somewhere, don’t recall exactly from where. But there he was, just a little kitten sitting right in front of the building, waiting for me. Like some kind of omen or something.”
“Omen. I hate that word.”
“Why’s that?” asks Mr. Flynn.
“Promise you won’t tell this story to anyone, OK?”
“I promise,” says Mr. Flynn.
“Dad just told me what that word means today. First, I found bird poop on the passenger side of our car window. Once I was actually inside the car, I noticed that it looked more like a bat than poop. So, Dad said that the poop, well, he didn’t use that word but that’s what he meant to say. Anyhow, he said it was an omen that I would be up at bat. But once I tried out for right field, I stunk, so that’s why I hate the word omen.”
“Omen, bat, poop, ah, ha, ha! Ah, ha, ha! Sorry to laugh here Jake, but if you were me, listening to you, you’d laugh too!”
I thought about it, as Mr. Flynn continued laughing, and then suddenly I started laughing and the two of us couldn’t stop.
“There’s something else too.”
Mr. Flynn was trying to stop laughing, but he couldn’t. “Wait! Let me breathe before you continue. Go ahead Jake, tell me what else.”
“I puked in a tissue Mom put in my jacket.”
This time Mr. Flynn wasn’t laughing. Instead he looked serious. “Are you feeling alright now Jake?”
“Yeah. But I wasn’t at the tryouts this morning. That’s why I puked in the tissue. And do you want to know what I puked?”
“Only if you want to tell me,” says Mr. Flynn.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Go ahead. Tell me.”
“I puked the eggs that Mom made for me this morning.”
“Were they scrambled?” asks Mr. Flynn.
“Well, they didn’t start out that way at first, but by the time they landed in that tissue they were!”
“Yes, I’d imagine it to be that way,” says Mr. Flynn as he rubs his chin.
“And guess what else I puked?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“What does the foggiest idea mean?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been using that expression for some time now. I guess it means I haven’t even an unclear idea. Anyhow, you were about to tell me what else you puked.”
“I puked some kind of sausages from a pizza I ate for dinner last night.”
“Are you sure it was sausages, not pepperoni?”
“It was thick pieces.”
“Before or after?” asks Mr. Flynn.
“What do you mean by before or after?”
“What do you think I mean, Jake?”
“I don’t know what you mean Mr. Flynn. If I did, I wouldn’t ask you what you mean in the first place.”
“I mean were the pieces thick before you puked? Because, if they were it was sausages, but if they were thin that would mean it was pepperoni. However, once the two products come out as puke, they both would be thick.”
I sat there very still, thinking. I was trying hard to understand what Mr. Flynn had just said, and then, Mr. Flynn started laughing again.
“Jake, you should see the expression on your face. It’s so, ah, ha, ha! Ah, ha, ha!”
Now I’m starting to laugh again. “What – what’s my expression like?”
“Serious, Jake. You look like we’re discussing something so serious, and we’re talking about sausage puke. Oh my! How am I ever going to talk to you about magic when we can’t stop laughing?”
An odd sound interrupts our laughter. “What’s that?” I ask.
Mr. Flynn tells me it’s Benny.
“Benny? Sounds like someone speaking another language. Like French.”
“Yep, my Benny boy is known for making odd purrs. He’s been doing that sound since he was a kitten.”
Just then, Benny makes his way out from underneath the couch. He leaps up onto Mr. Flynn and Mr. Flynn wipes dust off his ears.
“I’m not too good with house cleaning,” he tells me. “In fact, my house cleaning skills stink.”
“You mean like my ball playing, huh?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that at all. I just like that word – stink. It suits a lot of things in life.”
“Mr. Flynn, I really do stink at baseball. Thing is, I like to watch it on television, and I like to play ball outside. But, once I have to play in front of certain people like –”
“Like who, Jake?”
I become serious and sad again. I look at Mr. Flynn, then I think to myself, He’s told me about why he doesn’t lock his door, and that his wife died, and even that he stinks at house cleaning. So, I guess I can tell him about Josh and Alex.
I say their names low, “Josh and Alex.”
“Who?”
I repeat their names, this time a little louder, “Josh and Alex.”
Now, Mr. Flynn looks serious. “What is it about Josh and Alex that makes you nervous?”
“I – well, they –”
“Oh for heaven’s sake Jake, you already told me about poop and bats, and omens and puke, just spit it out already.”
“They can do all sports. All the time, they’re good. And they laugh at me. Josh said that his sister, Elyssa, is better at bat than me.”
I stare at Mr. Flynn, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me, so it makes me feel like I should keep talking. So I do.
“Also, Dad used to be on little league when he was a kid. He even has trophies in the living room. They’re in a glass case because Mom says they would get dusty if they were just sitting out on a shelf. He’s got one for 1982, most valuable player. Umm, one for 1983, first place. But the one he’s most proud of is his 1984 borough championship trophy.”
Mr. Flynn is still quiet. I can’t tell if he thinks Dad’s trophies are cool or not, because he isn’t talking.
“So Mr. Flynn, when are we starting?”
“Starting what, Jake?” he asks, as he scratches Benny’s head.
“Magic!”
“Oh yes, of course.”
He gets up slowly from the couch, and tells me he’ll be right back. Benny follows him into his bedroom. I can hear Benny making those French sounds. After a few minutes, Mr. Flynn and Benny walk back into the living room. This time Mr. Flynn is carrying a big book. He sits down again on the couch. Benny is on the floor looking up at him as though he is waiting for Mr. Flynn to say something. Actually, I’m waiting too.
“Jake,” says Mr. Flynn, “are you absolutely sure you want to learn magic?”
“Yep!”
“Excellent! Magicians can make the impossible happen, and at your age there is a world of magic ahead of you. First, you need to remember that magic is all about what you don’t see.”
I’m about to ask Mr. Flynn to show me the quarter trick, but something is telling me not to, so I continue listening.
“There are two rules to remember. One is never, ever, tell anyone how you did the trick. The second rule is if you perform in front of more than one person, never, ever, repeat the same trick.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t want the audience to see what they did not see at first.”
“But what if a magician knows only one trick?”
“Then Jake, that magician needs to learn more.”
“When am I going to learn my first trick?”
“When do you want to?”
“Now. Right now.”
Mr. Flynn hands me the big book. I read the title, “Magic and More.”
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“What do you think it’s for?”
First, I tell Mr. Flynn it’s for him to turn it into a chicken or something. When he doesn’t answer me, I say, “Are these pages filled with magic tricks?”
“They are, and they are for you to read after you do your homework, of course. Can’t have you falling behind in school, or this book will go right back where it came from.”
“Where did it come from?”
“From my dresser drawer,” says Mr. Flynn.
“No, I mean where did it come from originally?”
“Originally, it came from a small book store located on Victory Boulevard. I purchased it many years ago. It was written by Arnie Katz, the master of all magicians. He goes by the name, ‘The Amazing Arnie’ and I’ve learned mind-blowing illusions from him, and so will you, Jake.”
“But, I don’t have magic stuff. You know, to practice with.”
Mr. Flynn tells me to read and study the first chapter. “Some things you need are regular household items. If there’s anything you don’t have, I will give it to you. I have accumulated a magic box with all sorts of stuff in my eighty-three years.”
“You’re eighty-three years old?”
“As of two weeks ago,” says Mr. Flynn.
This time I’m the one who’s quiet.
“You look surprised, Jake.”
“To be honest, Mr. Flynn, I think my dad is old. He’s thirty-five. You’re forty-eight years older.”
“And you’re good at math, Jake.”
The doorbell rings and Mr. Flynn calls out, “Come in.” I can tell that it’s Mom by the sound of her heels on Mr. Flynn’s wood floor. She walks into the living room where we’re sitting. Benny hides under the couch as if Mom were dangerous or something.
“Mom, you got a haircut.”
“Just the bangs, and a blow out,” she says.
Mom says hello to Mr. Flynn and thanks him for volunteering to teach me magic.
“My pleasure, Marcy,” says Mr. Flynn to Mom.
“What have you there?” asks Mom as she eyes the magic book on the couch next to me.
“It’s Mr. Flynn’s magic book. He’s lending it to me to read so I can learn magic.”
Mr. Flynn explains to Mom that the book is not to get in the way of my studies.
“That’s very nice of you,” says Mom. “I doubt whether Jake will fall behind in his studies. He does quite well in school.”
“That’s great to hear,” says Mr. Flynn. “Why didn’t you tell me that you do well in school?”
I shrug my shoulders, thinking, what’s the big deal.
Mom sneezes.
“Uh oh! I forgot. Mom’s allergic to cats, Mr. Flynn.” Just as I say that, Benny comes out from underneath the couch as if he knows we are talking about him.
“He’s a handsome cat,” says Mom.
I know Mom is saying that to be polite, because she once told me she’s not a cat person.
“Well, Jake, it’s time to say thanks to Mr. Flynn.”
“Why?”
“Because, I need your help with the food shopping. Besides, I am sure Mr. Flynn needs a break already.”
“Mom, do I have to go?”
“Not unless you really don’t want your favorite snacks.”
“Alright, I’ll go.”