Mr. Ott Is a Crackpot! Read online

  Mr. Ott adjusted something on Robbie RoboThrow. That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened. Robbie threw a pitch.

  Well, that’s not the weird part. Robbie is supposed to throw pitches. But then it threw another one. And another one. And another one.

  Softballs were flying at Emily one after the other! Some of them went over the plate. Some of them went over Emily’s head. Or behind her. Or right at her.

  “Watch out, Emily!” shouted Andrea.

  “Help!” Emily shouted as she dropped the bat and covered her head with her arms.

  “Robbie’s out of control!” shouted Michael.

  “Turn it off!” shouted Ryan.

  “Do something, Mr. Ott!” shouted Alexia.

  “I’m trying!” shouted Mr. Ott.

  Robbie RoboThrow was shooting softballs at Emily, rapid-fire.

  Everybody was yelling and screaming and hooting and hollering and freaking out.

  Finally, Robbie RoboThrow ran out of softballs. We all rushed over to Emily. She was crying and she had a bruise on her arm, but it looked like she was going to be okay.

  “Rub some dirt on it,” said Mr. Ott. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Why do they call it softball?” Emily whimpered as we helped her up. “The ball isn’t soft.”

  Grown-ups always say practice makes perfect. And you know what? For once, they were right!

  We practiced after school with Mr. Ott on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. And we were getting good. We hardly ever dropped our turtles. Mr. Ott taught us how to run the bases and how to bunt. Andrea was the best bunter, of course.

  “Can you teach us how to spit?” I asked Mr. Ott. “Baseball players spit all the time.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” said Mr. Ott. “Today, you need to learn how to slide.”

  Oooh, sliding is cool. When there’s a close play, you’re supposed to slide into the base to make it harder for the fielder to tag you.

  “I don’t want to get my pants dirty,” said Neil.

  “Yeah,” agreed Emily. “Dirt is dirty.”

  “That’s why they call it dirt!” shouted Mr. Ott.

  He told us that sliding was dangerous, so we had to be really careful. He set up a slip ’n slide on the grass. Do you know what a slip ’n slide is? If you don’t, what is your problem? Look it up! Everybody knows what a slip ’n slide is. It has the perfect name!

  Anyway, Mr. Ott showed us how to do a bent-leg slide. That’s when you fold one leg under the other knee so your legs make a shape like the number four. Then you slide on your butt and touch the base with your toe.

  Sliding is fun, especially when you’re sliding on a slip ’n slide. We all lined up and slid over and over again. Even Emily looked like she was enjoying herself.

  “Hit the dirt!” Mr. Ott shouted when it was time for us to slide.

  After a while, we were getting good at sliding. Andrea was the best slider, of course.

  “Okay, gather ’round,” said Mr. Ott. “Take a knee.”

  “How can we take a knee?” I asked. “Knees aren’t removable.”

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

  I knew that. I was just yanking Andrea’s chain. We all gathered around Mr. Ott, like a football team in a huddle. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “Okay, you kids have mastered the fundamentals,” he said. “Now it’s time for me to teach you some signs.”

  “Signs?” we all said. Nobody knew what he was talking about.

  “It’s like a secret language that only we understand,” said Mr. Ott. “We don’t want the Dirk team to know what we’re planning to do.”

  Secret languages are cool. Our bus driver, Mrs. Kormel, invented her own secret language. (You can read about it in a book called Mrs. Kormel Is Not Normal!)

  “When I touch my nose,” Mr. Ott said as he touched his nose, “it means swing at the next pitch. And if I touch the brim of my cap, it means bunt the next pitch. Got that?”

  We all got it.

  “If I tug on my left ear,” Mr. Ott said as he tugged on his left ear, “it means take.”

  “Take what?” I asked.

  “Take the next pitch,” he replied.

  “Where should we take it?” I asked.

  “Taking a pitch means you don’t swing at it, Arlo!” Andrea told me, rolling her eyes.

  Oh. Why didn’t he say so?

  “If I put my hands on my hips,” Mr. Ott said as he put his hands on his hips, “it means steal a base.”

  “Stealing is wrong,” said Alexia. “That’s what my parents tell me.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Ott, “the ball field is the one place it’s okay for you to steal.”

  Cool! It’s sort of like when your grandma gives you a horrible sweater for your birthday and you’re supposed to say you like it. That’s the one time it’s okay for you to lie.

  “If I fold my arms across my chest,” Mr. Ott said as he folded his arms across his chest, “it means go to the snack bar and get me a taco.”

  “Why do we need a sign for that?” asked Alexia.

  “Who’s the coach here, you or me?” said Mr. Ott. “Just learn the signs, okay?”

  Then Mr. Ott waved his hand back and forth behind his back.

  “What does that sign mean?” Neil asked.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Ott. “That means I just farted.”*

  Mr. Ott was going over some more signs when I happened to look over his shoulder. In the distance, in the trees next to the playground, I saw a person. Or the face of a person anyway.

  Somebody was watching us! I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. The person was looking through binoculars.

  “Hey, look!” I shouted, pointing to the trees.

  Nobody was there.

  Everybody turned around to see who was watching us from the trees.

  “Who was that, A.J.?” asked Ryan.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “All I saw was a face, with binoculars in front of it.”

  “I bet it was Morgan Brocklebank!” Andrea said. “She was spying on us!”

  “Why would she do that?” asked Emily.

  “She was trying to steal our signs,” said Mr. Ott. “It happens all the time.”

  “Those Dirk dorks will do anything to win,” said Michael. “Now I really want to beat them.”

  We were all angry.

  We were even more angry the next day when Mr. Klutz came into our classroom and told us that Dirk School had raised over two hundred dollars to find a cure for freckles.*

  “Wait, tell me again why we’re raising money to fight freckles?” asked Alexia.

  “There’s nothing wrong with having freckles,” said Ryan.

  “That’s a dumb charity,” said Neil. “I like my freckles.”

  “Me too, but we can’t let Dirk win,” said Andrea. “We have to raise more money than they do.”

  Mr. Klutz got permission for us to set up a table outside the Piggly Wiggly supermarket. He also got donations of food from Porky’s Pork Sausages and Jiggly Gelatin so we could sell their products and raise money.

  The whole team went to Piggly Wiggly after practice. Lots of customers were going in and out with their shopping carts.

  “Okay, let’s work on our puppy dog faces,” said Andrea.

  “Why?” asked Emily.

  “Because if anybody says they don’t want to buy food from us, we can put on our puppy dog faces.”

  Andrea was right about that. Grown-ups can’t resist a puppy dog face.

  A lady came out of the Piggly Wiggly pushing her shopping cart. We jumped in front of her.

  “We’re raising money to fight freckles,” Alexia said. “Would you like to buy some Jiggly Gelatin?”

  “I’m sorry,” the lady replied. “I don’t like Jiggly Gelatin.”

  “But it’s for charity!” Ryan told her.

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s only a dollar,” said Emily.


  We all put on our best puppy dog faces.

  “Please, please, please?”

  “Okay,” the lady said. “I’ll take a box.”

  “Yay!”

  “Thank you!” Alexia said when the lady took a dollar out of her purse.

  A man came out of the Piggly Wiggly carrying two shopping bags.

  “We’re raising money to fight freckles,” Neil said to him. “Will you buy some Porky’s Pork Sausages?”

  “I’m allergic to pork,” the man said as he walked by.

  “But it’s for charity!” Ryan told him.

  “No, thanks.”

  “It’s just two dollars,” said Emily.

  We all put on puppy dog faces.

  “Please, please, please?”

  “Oh, all right,” the man said as he took the bills out of his wallet. “Gimme one.”

  “Yay!”

  A husband and wife came out of the Piggly Wiggly. They were pushing a shopping cart with a baby sitting in the front.

  “We’re selling Porky’s Pork Sausages and Jiggly Gelatin,” Andrea said. “Will you buy some?”

  “We’re in a hurry,” the lady told us. “It’s nap time.”

  “May I show you a short video?” Andrea asked.

  Andrea took out her smartphone and held it up for the husband and wife to see. It was a video that Dirk School had made. The voice of Morgan Brocklebank played over sad music and a film of a little girl with tears running down her face.

  “Do you know anyone who has . . . freckles?” said Morgan Brocklebank. “Every night, little Suzie goes to bed with freckles. Millions of people suffer from freckles every day. They have no hope. But it doesn’t have to be that way. With your help, we can fund research and wipe out freckles in our lifetime. Just pennies will make a difference for little Suzie, and other kids like her all over the world.”

  “I’m not giving money for freckle research,” the husband said.

  We put on our best puppy dog faces and said, “Please, please, please?” The wife looked at her husband. She was making a puppy dog face too.

  “Honey, it’s for charity,” she told him.

  “Okay, okay!” he groaned. “How much?”

  “Just one dollar for a box of Jiggly Gelatin,” I told him.

  He pulled a dollar out of his wallet and gave it to us.

  “Yay!”

  We sold tons of Porky’s Pork Sausages and Jiggly Gelatin. Nobody could say no when they saw our puppy dog faces.

  After an hour, we counted up the money. We had raised two hundred and sixty-eight dollars.

  That’s almost a million!

  It was Saturday, the day of the big game.

  After breakfast (best meal of the day), my parents drove me to Dirk School. When we got there, each of us had to pay a dollar to get into the playground.

  “What?!” I said. “We have to pay?”

  “It’s for charity,” my mother told me as she took three dollars out of her purse. She put the bills in a big red box that said Freckle Fund on it.

  “Thank you!” said the smiley Dirk mom at the table. “We’ve raised over a thousand dollars!”

  The bleachers were filled with parents and friends.* A bunch of our teachers were there too. Some people were holding signs.

  DIRK SCHOOL RULES!

  I LOVE YOU, MORGAN!

  DOWN WITH FRECKLES!

  “Get your hot cross buns here!” shouted Ryan’s mom, Mrs. Dole. She was walking around the stands selling homemade baked goods. (You can read about her in a book called Mrs. Dole Is Out of Control!)

  My parents wished me good luck, and I ran off to join our team on the bench. Everybody was gathered around Mr. Ott.

  “Are you kids ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah!” we shouted back.

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” shouted Mr. Ott. “I SAID ARE YOU KIDS READY?”

  “YEAH!” we shouted, even louder.

  Grown-ups are always saying they can’t hear us. I guess when you get old, you start to lose your hearing.

  The Dirk School band was sitting in the bleachers, and they played that song “We Are the Champions.” A door at the back of the school opened, and the Dirk team marched out. They were wearing matching uniforms and chanting.

  Let’s get dirty!

  Let’s get mean!

  Come on, Dirk!

  Let’s beat this team!

  “Oh no,” groaned Emily. “Can’t we quit right now? The score is zero to zero. We can say it was a tie.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Mr. Ott. “Those kids put on their pants one leg at a time, just like you.”

  Huh? What does that have to do with anything?

  As the Dirk team marched past the front of the bleachers, Morgan Brocklebank handed out baseball cards with her own picture on them.

  We’re rough!

  We’re tough!

  Come on, Dirk!

  Let’s strut our stuff!

  “A.J. and Andrea,” said Mr. Ott, “let’s go out there and shake hands.”

  “I don’t want to shake hands,” I said.

  “Do we have to?” asked Andrea.

  “It’s called sportsmanship,” Mr. Ott told us. “Follow me!”

  The three of us walked out to the pitcher’s mound. The Dirk coach came over with Morgan and this kid named Tommy, who always has a finger in his nose.

  “Welcome to our cemetery,” sneered Morgan.

  “Why do you call it a cemetery?” asked Andrea.

  “Because we’re gonna bury you here,” replied Morgan.

  “No trash talking, kids,” said Mr. Ott. “Everybody shake hands.”

  I really didn’t want to shake hands with Tommy the Nosepicker. So I went to shake Morgan’s hand.

  “You losers are going down!” she said, looking me in the eye as she squeezed my hand really hard. I thought I was gonna die. I squeezed back as hard as I could.

  “That’s what you think,” I said, pretending my hand didn’t hurt.

  We were about to go back to our bench when Morgan stopped and turned around.

  “Hey, A.J.,” she said. “Would you care to make it . . . interesting?”

  “I already think it’s interesting,” I told her.

  “That means she wants to make a bet on the game,” Andrea told me.

  Oh. I knew that.

  “How about the losing team has to clean a toilet bowl at the other school,” suggested Morgan, “with a toothbrush.”

  I looked at Andrea. Andrea looked at me. Andrea and I looked at Mr. Ott. Mr. Ott looked at me and Andrea. We were all looking at each other.

  “So, what do you say?” asked Morgan. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal!” I said.

  Andrea and I walked back to our bench. I rubbed my hand, trying to get the circulation back in my fingers.

  Mr. Ott led us in some stretching exercises. He said it’s really important to stretch before you play any game. While we were stretching, Morgan came off the Dirk bench. She was holding one of those cannons that shoots T-shirts into the crowd.

  “Who wants a T-shirt?” she hollered.

  “Me! Me! Me!” everybody shouted.

  Morgan shot a T-shirt high into the bleachers. Then she loaded up another T-shirt, wheeled around, and pointed the cannon at us.

  “You asked for it!” she shouted.

  A T-shirt came shooting out of the cannon.

  “Watch out!” Ryan shouted.

  “Run for your lives!” hollered Neil.

  We all dove out of the way. The T-shirt bounced off Emily’s head.

  “I’m hit!” she shouted as she fell down.

  We all gathered around Emily.

  “Emily is hurt!” Andrea shouted. “We have to forfeit the game.”

  “No way!” said Mr. Ott. “Do you know what they call people who quit?”

  “Quitters?” I asked.

  “That’s right!” said Mr. Ott. He leaned over Emily and asked, “Emily, what day is it?”

/>   “Uh . . .” said Emily. “Saturday?”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Mr. Ott, helping her off the ground. “Rub some dirt on it. That’s taking one for the team, Emily.”

  Emily was shaken up. But at least she got a free T-shirt.

  Mr. Ott told us to warm up by throwing a ball back and forth. I went to play catch with Ryan. That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened.

  A long limousine pulled up next to the field. I didn’t know any celebrities were coming to the game. We all wondered who it was. And you’ll never believe in a million hundred years who got out of the limo.

  It was Mayor Hubble!

  He’s the mayor of our town. He’s always cutting ribbons, posing for pictures, getting arrested, and doing other mayor stuff. (You can read about him in a book called Mayor Hubble Is in Trouble!)

  “I thought Mayor Hubble was in jail,” I said to Ryan.

  “He got time off for good behavior,” Ryan told me.

  Mayor Hubble was dressed in black, and he was holding a catcher’s mask. He walked over to home plate and dusted it off with a brush.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Mr. Ott.

  “He’s the umpire.”

  Oh! Mayor Hubble shook hands with a bunch of Dirk parents and posed for pictures next to the Freckle Fund box.

  “How much money did these kids raise?” he asked.

  “Altogether,” said one of the Dirk parents, “they raised almost two thousand dollars!”

  “WOW!” everybody said, which is “MOM” upside down.

  “That’s impressive!” said Mayor Hubble.

  Our team lined up on the first-base line. The Dirk dorks lined up on the third-base line. We took off our caps while the Dirk band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  “. . . the la-hand of the free . . . and the home . . . of the . . . brave!”

  Mayor Hubble put on his mask and shouted, “Play ball!”

  Even though Dirk was the home team, they said we could bat first or take the field first. Mr. Ott said we should take the field first. He gathered us around him.

  “Okay, kids,” he said. “We came to play. Stay focused. Get it done. You know how to win. Stay in the moment. Play your game. Take care of business. Give it a hundred and ten percent. There’s no tomorrow.”