Mr. Ott Is a Crackpot! Read online

  Dedication

  To Jay Barton

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Dunch and Dinch

  2. Bok! Bok! Bok!

  3. Duck

  4. The F-U-Ndamentals

  5. A Secret Language

  6. Puppy Dog Faces

  7. Game Day

  8. The First Inning

  9. A Seesaw Battle

  10. Pinch Hitter

  11. The Big Surprise Ending

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  My name is A.J. and I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about eating. I know, because that’s what I’m thinking about.

  My friend Ryan thinks about eating all the time. He’ll eat anything, even stuff that isn’t food. One time, he ate a piece of the seat cushion on the school bus.*

  The other day, we were in the vomitorium talking about our favorite meal of the day. My favorite meal is breakfast. Ryan said his favorite meal is brunch.

  “Brunch isn’t a real meal,” I told him. “It’s just breakfast and lunch at the same time.”

  “In my family, we call that lunfast,” said Michael, who never ties his shoes. “It’s lunch and breakfast together.”

  “Your family is weird,” I told Michael.

  “Our family likes to combine lunch and dinner,” said Alexia, this girl who rides a skateboard all the time. “We call it linner.”

  “That’s not linner,” said Neil, who we call the nude kid even though he wears clothes. “In my family, lunch and dinner together is lupper.”

  “That’s lunner,” said Michael.

  “Do you know what my family calls lunch and dinner?” asked Ryan. “Dunch.”

  “We call lunch and dinner dinch,” said Michael.

  “What?!” I said. “Dunch and dinch aren’t words.”

  “They are too.”

  “Are not.”

  Dunch and dinch are definitely not words. You should look them up in a dictionary. I bet they’re not there.

  “Sometimes, my family has breakfast for dinner,” said Andrea, this annoying girl with curly brown hair. “We call it brinner.”

  “I agree with Andrea,” said her crybaby friend Emily, who always agrees with Andrea.

  Breakfast for dinner? What’s up with that? I could see eating breakfast for lunch, or lunch for breakfast. I could see eating lunch for dinner, or dinner for lunch. But eating breakfast for dinner? If you ask me, that should be illegal. Meals should stay in their own lane.

  Food is weird.

  You probably think this book will be about food. Well, you’re wrong! It has nothing to do with food. Why do books have to start out with stuff that relates to the rest of the book? Who made up that dumb rule?

  Anyway, after dunch—I mean lunch—we went back to class with Mr. Cooper.

  “Turn to page twenty-three in your math books,” he told us.

  Ugh. I hate math.

  That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened. An announcement came over the loudspeaker.

  Well, that’s not the weird part. Announcements come over the loudspeaker all the time. The weird part was what happened next.

  “Mr. Cooper, please turn on your smartboard,” announced Mrs. Patty, our school secretary.

  Mr. Cooper turned on the smartboard. And you’ll never believe in a million hundred years whose face appeared on the screen.

  It was Morgan Brocklebank!

  “BOOOOOOOOO!” Everybody started booing.

  Morgan Brocklebank is this mean girl who goes to Dirk School on the other side of town. We call it “Dork School.” Morgan does the Dirk morning announcements every day.

  “Well, hello, Ella Mentry School losers!” said Morgan.

  Morgan has hated us ever since her methane-powered car, “The Dirkmobile,” exploded and we won the Brain Games. The whole place smelled like cow farts. (You can read about it in a book called Miss Brown Is Upside Down!)

  “What can we do for you, Miss Brocklebank?” asked Mr. Cooper.

  “I have a challenge for you,” Morgan replied.

  “We accept!” I shouted.

  Mr. Cooper held up his hand and shushed me.

  “Hold on, A.J.,” he said. “You don’t even know what she’s challenging us to do yet.”

  “Our class challenges your class to a softball game,” said Morgan, “to raise money for charity.”

  “Softball?” whispered Alexia. “I’ve never played softball.”

  “Me neither,” whispered Neil.

  “I take pitching lessons after school,” bragged Andrea.

  Ugh. Andrea takes lessons in everything after school. If they gave lessons in cleaning out your earwax, she would take those lessons so she could get better at it. What is her problem?

  “Which charity are you raising money for?” asked Mr. Cooper.

  “We’re fighting a serious disease,” replied Morgan Brocklebank. “Freckles.”

  WHAT?

  “Since when are freckles a disease?” asked Ryan.

  “I have freckles,” said Andrea.

  “Me too,” said Emily, who has everything Andrea has.

  “Me three,” said Michael.

  “Oh no!” shouted Ryan. “We’re all gonna die . . . from freckles!”

  “Run for your lives!” shouted Neil.

  “We’ve got to do something!” said Emily, and then she went running out of the room.

  That’s ridorkulous. Lots of people have freckles. There’s nothing wrong with freckles.

  “That’s a dumb charity,” Neil shouted at the smartboard. “Go find another class to challenge.”

  Up on the screen, Morgan sneered.

  “Oh, I guess you’re afraid to play us,” she said. “I guess you’re a bunch of scaredycats and chickens. Bok! Bok! Bok!”*

  Morgan Brocklebank does a terrible chicken imitation.

  “Hey, nobody calls us chickens!” said Michael.

  “That’s right,” I said. “We’re not gonna take that! We have to play them.”

  “Let’s beat those Dirk dorks!” shouted Ryan.

  “Yeah!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Yeah!”

  In case you were wondering, everybody was shouting “Yeah!”

  “Well, it looks like my class accepts your challenge,” said Mr. Cooper.

  “Good,” said Morgan. “Next Saturday. In the field behind our school. Be there or be square. And I still say you’re chickens. Bok! Bok! Bok!”

  Mr. Cooper turned off the smartboard.

  “Okay, open your math books,” he said. “Any questions about page twenty-three?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Will you coach our class in the softball game against Dirk School?”

  “Uh, no,” Mr. Cooper replied. “I don’t know anything about coaching softball.”

  Bummer in the summer!

  “Maybe Miss Small will coach us,” said Ryan.

  Miss Small is our fizz ed teacher. She’s really good at sports.

  “Miss Small broke her leg falling out of a tree over the weekend,” said Andrea.

  Not again! Miss Small is always falling out of trees. (You can read about it in a book called Miss Small Is off the Wall!)

  What were we going to do? We needed a coach if we were going to beat Dirk School.*

  And you’ll never believe who walked into the door at that moment.

  Nobody! Who walks into doors? That would hurt. But you’ll never believe who walked into the doorway.

  It was our principal, Mr. Klutz! He has no hair at all. I mean none. He looks a little bit like Mr. Clean. br />
  “I just heard about your softball game against Dirk School,” Mr. Klutz said. “How exciting!”

  “We need a coach,” said Alexia. “Will you coach us, Mr. Klutz? The game is next Saturday.”

  “Uh, sorry,” said Mr. Klutz. “This is a busy week for me.”

  “Please, please, please?” we begged.

  We put on our best puppy dog faces. That’s when you make your face look like a cute little puppy dog’s. It usually works. Grown-ups will do anything if you put on a puppy dog face.

  “After school on Tuesday, I have to blah blah blah blah,” said Mr. Klutz. “On Wednesday after school, I have to blah blah blah blah . . .”

  He went on like that for a million hundred seconds.

  “Where are we gonna get a coach?” asked Neil.

  “Hmmmm,” Mr. Klutz said as he rubbed his chin.

  Grown-ups always say “Hmmmm” and rub their chin when they don’t have any ideas. Nobody knows why.

  “I’ve got it!” Mr. Klutz finally said, snapping his fingers.

  Grown-ups always snap their fingers when they get a good idea. Nobody knows why.

  “There’s a man named Willie Ott who lives in town,” Mr. Klutz told us. “He used to be a big league coach. I bet he would help you.”

  “Will you ask him?” Andrea said.

  “No, but you can ask him,” said Mr. Klutz. “Let’s go to his house!”

  Mr. Klutz walked out of the room and we all rushed to follow him. Yay! No math! We were going on a field trip to Willie Ott’s house.

  Field trips are cool. Well, except for field trips to a field. Those field trips are boring.

  We left Ella Mentry School and made a left at the corner. Then we made a right at the next corner. Then we made another left at the corner after that.

  But who cares? Don’t you hate it when they give directions in books? You’re not going to that place. So why would you care about how to get there?

  Finally, we reached the street where Willie Ott lives.

  “There’s Mr. Ott’s house,” Mr. Klutz said as he pointed. “They used to call him Duck.”

  “Why, does he look like a duck?” I asked.

  “I don’t know why,” said Mr. Klutz. “Whatever you do, don’t call him Duck. I heard it makes him mad.”

  We climbed the stairs to Willie Ott’s house. An old man on the front porch was sitting in a rocking chair.

  “Mr. Ott,” said Mr. Klutz. “I’m the principal at Ella Mentry School. And these are some of my third graders.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Willie Ott, waving to us.

  “We heard you used to be a ballplayer,” said Andrea.

  “Oh, that was a long time ago,” Willie Ott replied. “I was a young man then.”

  “Did you play in the big leagues?” asked Michael.

  Willie Ott sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Yup,” he said. “For a day. I had one major league game at bat.”

  “Just one?” Neil asked.

  “Yup, it was during the World Series,” said Willie Ott.

  “What happened?” asked Andrea.

  “It was the bottom of the ninth inning,” Willie explained.

  “Yeah?”

  “The score was tied.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Two outs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Full count.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There was a runner on second base.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I got a hit, we’d win the World Series.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It was all up to me. All my life had led up to that moment.”

  “So what happened?” asked Alexia.

  “I got hit in the head by the ball,” Willie told us.

  “What happened after that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “I was unconscious. I didn’t wear a batting helmet back then. All I know is, we lost the game and the World Series. I never played again.”

  There was a sad look on Willie Ott’s face. I guess he never got over what happened.

  “Why did they call you Duck?” I asked him.

  “Arlo!” whispered Andrea. “Mr. Klutz told us not to call him Duck!”

  “I didn’t call him Duck!” I explained. “I just asked why they called him Duck.”

  It looked like Mr. Ott might start crying. A tear slid down his cheek.

  “They called me Duck,” he said quietly, “because that’s what I should have done.”

  Wow! If Mr. Ott had ducked from that pitch that hit him in the head, his whole life might have turned out differently. It was sad.

  “Some kids at Dirk School challenged our class to a softball game,” said Michael. “Will you coach us?”

  Mr. Ott wiped his face with a handkerchief. He took a long time before answering.

  “I’m an old man now,” he said. “I’m tired. My days on the ball field are long gone. Besides, my wife, Wilma, would never let me.”

  I guess that was that. Mr. Ott wasn’t going to coach us. We started making our way back down the steps.

  “Pssssst!” Andrea whispered to me. “Do a puppy dog face.”

  Of course! I looked at Mr. Ott and put on my best puppy dog face. We all put on puppy dog faces.

  “Please, please, please?” we begged.

  “Well . . . okay,” said Mr. Ott. “I’ll coach you. Just don’t tell Wilma. And stop making those puppy dog faces.”

  “YAY!” we all shouted, which is also “YAY” backward.

  Mr. Ott said to meet him in our playground after school. When the dismissal bell rang, he was out there waiting for us. He had a bunch of bats, balls, gloves, and batting helmets. We sat around him on the grass.

  “How many of you youngsters have played ball before?” Mr. Ott asked.

  I’ve played Pee Wee football, but hardly any softball. Only Andrea raised her hand. She smiled the smile she smiles to let everybody know she did something nobody else did.

  “That’s okay,” said Mr. Ott. “I’ll whip you kids into shape.”

  “Is that legal?” I asked.

  “It’s just an expression, Arlo!” said Andrea.

  “Baseball is all about the number three,” Mr. Ott explained. “You got three strikes and three outs. You got nine players and nine innings. Three times three is nine.”

  Man, this was sounding like a math lesson.

  “There’s ninety feet between the bases,” continued Mr. Ott. “That’s thirty times three. Blah blah blah blah blah blah . . .”

  He went on like that for a million hundred minutes. I thought I was gonna die from old age. We had less than a week to get ready for our game. When were we gonna learn how to hit, throw, and catch?

  “Can we play ball already?” asked Michael.

  “First, you need to learn the fundamentals,” replied Mr. Ott. “Fundamentals starts with F-U-N. Let’s start by throwing and catching.”

  Finally!

  He picked up a laundry bag from the grass. And you’ll never believe what he pulled out of the bag.

  It was a turtle!

  “Ooooh, I love turtles!” said Andrea.

  “Good,” said Mr. Ott. “Think fast!”

  He threw the turtle up in the air. Andrea freaked out for a moment, and then she caught the turtle just before it hit the ground.*

  “Good job!” said Mr. Ott. “You caught the turtle with both hands.”

  “Uh, shouldn’t we play catch with a ball?” asked Michael.

  “No!” barked Mr. Ott. “If you drop a ball, it doesn’t matter. But nobody wants to drop a turtle.”

  I guess that made sense, in a weird way. Turtles are cool. One time, we did turtle yoga at school. We had turtles climbing on our backs. (You can read about it in a book called Ms. Jo-Jo Is a Yo-Yo!)

  Mr. Ott told us to pair up so we could toss turtles back and forth. My turtle tossing partner was Neil.

  “Don’t let your turtle hit the ground!”
Mr. Ott shouted as he watched us toss the turtles. “If you can catch a turtle, you can catch a ball.”

  Andrea was the best turtle tosser, of course. But we were all pretty good, because nobody wanted their turtle to hit the ground and get hurt.

  Mr. Ott said it was time for us to work on hitting.

  “Everybody grab a bat,” he said.

  We all picked up bats.

  “Okay, put the knob end of the bat on your toe,” said Mr. Ott, “and see if you can balance the bat on your foot.”

  What?

  I tried to balance the bat on my foot. It was hard! The bat kept falling off.

  “What does this have to do with hitting a ball?” asked Alexia.

  “You need to have good balance to be a good hitter,” said Mr. Ott.

  We balanced bats on our feet for a million hundred minutes. After a while, I got the hang of it. Andrea was the best bat balancer, of course. She could even balance a bat on her nose.

  “Now you’re getting it!” shouted Mr. Ott.

  He went to his car and took a weird-looking machine out of the trunk. He dragged it over to the field.

  “What’s that?” asked Neil.

  “This is Robbie RoboThrow,” said Mr. Ott. “He’s a mechanical pitcher.”

  He set up Robbie RoboThrow and loaded it with softballs. Then he turned it on. Robbie made some weird noises. Then a bunch of wheels spun around, and Robbie threw a softball right over the plate. It was cool.

  “Who wants to hit first?” asked Mr. Ott.

  “Me! Me! Me!” we all shouted.

  Well, everybody shouted “Me!” except Emily.

  “I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t want to get hit by the ball.”

  “The ball should be afraid of getting hit by you,” said Mr. Ott. “There’s nothing to be worried about. Robbie only throws strikes. Go ahead. Get into the batter’s box, young lady.”

  Emily picked up a bat and stepped into the batter’s box. Mr. Ott turned on Robbie RoboThrow.

  “Keep your eye on the ball,” he shouted.

  “Won’t that hurt?” I asked, but nobody laughed.

  Robbie threw a ball. Emily swung and missed.

  “You were a little late,” Mr. Ott said. “Try again. I’ll slow it down.”