Mr. Ott Is a Crackpot! Page 3
Boy, he sure knows a lot of sports clichés.
“Who’s on first?” I asked Ryan.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
Andrea was our best turtle tosser, so Mr. Ott said she would be our pitcher. He told Emily to be the catcher. He told me to play first base, Ryan to play second, and Michael to play third. Alexia was our shortstop.* Neil went out to center field. There was nobody to play left field or right field, so Mayor Hubble said two grown-ups could play for each team. Mr. Cooper and Mr. Klutz ran out to the outfield. Andrea threw a couple of warm-up pitches.
Morgan Brocklebank was the lead-off batter for Dirk. She looked mean, and she looked like she knew how to hit.
“Strike her out, Andrea!” Neil shouted.
“No batter. No batter!” hollered Alexia.
“We want a pitcher,” somebody yelled from the Dirk bench, “not a glass of water!”
Andrea threw hard, but Morgan Brocklebank smashed the first pitch into the outfield. Neil chased it down, but by the time he got to the ball, Morgan was standing on third base. A triple!
Tommy the Nosepicker was up next. He took his finger out of his nose long enough to hit a single. Morgan Brocklebank scored easily from third. Dirk was leading 1–0.
Andrea struck out the next three Dirk kids, and it was our turn to bat. We all put on batting helmets. The Dirk pitcher was Morgan, of course. The Dirk dorks started chanting again.
We know karate!
We know kung fu!
But we’re playing softball,
And we’re gonna mess with you!
“Hey, our team needs a chant,” said Alexia.
“Yeah,” everybody agreed.
“You’re good at writing poems, Arlo,” said Andrea. “Why don’t you make up a chant?”
Well, she was right about that. I make up cool raps all the time. That’s how I got into the gifted and talented program. I stood up and started rapping.
Cotton candy!
Cracker jacks!
Hey there, pitcher!
Yack, yack, yack!
Oh, boy, Morgan sure looks mean!
Her arm is like a washing machine!
I thought everybody was going to stand up and chant with me. But nobody stood up. Nobody chanted. Everybody was looking at me. I hate when that happens. I sat back down.
“That chant was lame, dude,” Ryan told me.
There was no time to come up with a better chant. Alexia, our lead-off batter, stepped up to the plate.
“You’re in the driver’s seat, Alexia!” hollered Mr. Ott.
Huh? That made no sense at all. We’re too young to drive.
Morgan went into her windup, and Alexia swung at the first pitch. She hit a grounder to second. It looked like an easy play, but the second baseman bobbled the ball and Alexia was safe. We all cheered.
Ryan was up next. When he stepped into the batter’s box, I noticed that Mr. Ott had his hands on his hips—the steal sign!
On the first pitch to Ryan, Alexia took off from first base. The Dirk catcher tried to throw her out, but Alexia slid in safely. I looked over at Mr. Ott. He was touching the brim of his hat—the bunt sign!
Ryan tried to bunt three times, but he struck out. Bunting is hard. Michael was up next. He watched a couple of pitches go by without swinging. It was one ball and one strike.
I looked over at Mr. Ott. He folded his arms across his chest. The taco sign! Neil ran over to the snack bar and got a taco for Mr. Ott.
Morgan wound up for her next pitch. Michael took a swing at it and hit the ball right over first base.
“Go! Go! Go!” we all screamed.
Alexia rounded third base and slid into home. The throw was late.
“Safe!” shouted Mayor Hubble.
The game was tied at 1–1.
I won’t bore you with all the details, but it was an exciting game! Dirk scored two runs in the second inning to take the lead. And then we came back and tied it up again. Then they scored another run.
Then we were leading again.
Then they tied it up.
Then we were leading again.
Then they tied it up.
Then we were leading again.
Then they tied it up.
Then we were leading again.
Then they tied it up.
Aren’t you tired of reading this?
Then we were leading again.
Then they were leading again.
Then we were leading again.
Then they were leading again.
I know I am.
Then we were leading again.
Then they were leading again.
Then we were leading again.
Then they were leading again.
It’s got to end at some point.
Then we were leading again.
Then they were leading again.
Then we were leading again.
Then they tied it up.
“This is quite a seesaw battle,” said Mr. Ott.
What? We weren’t fighting on seesaws. That would be weird.
Mr. Ott is a crackpot.*
It was the last inning. The score was tied.
“Okay, we get last licks,” Neil shouted as we ran off the field.
“Gross!” I said. “I don’t want to lick anything.”
“That means we get the last turn at bat, dumbhead,” Andrea told me.
I was going to say something mean to Andrea, but Mr. Ott gathered the team around him so he could say more sports clichés.
“Okay, kids,” Mr. Ott said. “Wait for your pitch. Put the bat on the ball. Make contact. Take it one run at a time. This is for all the marbles.”
Huh? Marbles? I had no idea what he was talking about. Ryan stepped up to the plate.
“Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!” we chanted.
“You can do it, Ryan!” Neil shouted.
But Ryan couldn’t do it. He grounded out to shortstop. One out. The Dirk dorks started chanting again.
You might be good at soccer!
You might be good at track!
But when it comes to softball,
You better watch your back!
Michael stepped up to the plate.
“Michael! Michael! Michael!”
Michael struck out. Now there were two outs. It was Andrea’s turn at bat.
“Andrea! Andrea! Andrea!”
“Get a hit, Andrea!” shouted Emily.
“It ain’t over till it’s over!” shouted Mr. Ott.
That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened. A lady climbed over the fence and ran onto the field.
“Oh no,” groaned Mr. Ott.
“Who’s that?” I asked him. “Some obsessed fan?”
“No,” he replied. “It’s my wife, Wilma.”
WHAT?!
Mrs. Ott ran all the way across the field until she reached our bench.
“Willie Ott!” she screamed.
“How did you know I was here, Wilma?” he asked.
“I was watching you with binoculars all week,” said Mrs. Ott. “I thought you were running around carousing.”
I didn’t know what carousing meant, but it sounded pretty bad.
“No,” he told Wilma. “I’ve been running around with these kids.”
“Willie Ott, you go sit down on that bench!” she ordered.
Mr. Ott sat on the bench.
“From now on, I’m coaching this team,” said Mrs. Ott. “Get up there, girl, and get a hit!”
Andrea stepped up to the plate. Morgan Brocklebank went into her windup and let the pitch fly. Andrea swung.
And she connected!
The ball took off like a bullet down the third-base line! The third baseman dove, but the ball skipped past him. Andrea raced for first. By the time the Dirk players got to the ball, she was standing on second base. We were yelling and screaming our heads off.
“Okay, who’s up?” asked Mrs. Ott.
“I am,” said Mr. Cooper, getting off the bench.
“Not anymore,” said Mrs. Ott. “Sit down.”
Mr. Cooper sat down.
Mayor Hubble walked over to our bench.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“There’s no problem,” said Mrs. Ott. “I’m bringing in a pinch hitter.”
“Who?” asked Mayor Hubble.
“My husband,” she replied. “Willie Ott.”
WHAT?!
Mrs. Ott picked up a bat and handed it to Mr. Ott.
“Get up there and hit,” she ordered.
“B-b-but—but, Wilma . . .”
We all giggled because Mr. Ott said “but,” which sounds just like “butt” even though there’s only one T.
“I can’t hit,” Mr. Ott said. “I’m an old man.”
Wilma put her hand on Mr. Ott’s shoulder.
“Willie,” she said. “You never forgave yourself for what happened in that World Series game so many years ago. This is your chance to make up for it. You’re never too old. Your whole life has been leading to this moment.”
Mr. Ott sighed.
“If you say so, dear,” he said, taking the bat.
So there we were. It was the bottom of the ninth.
Score tied.
Two outs.
It was all up to Mr. Ott.
“Ott! Ott! Ott!” we chanted.
“Drive me in, Mr. Ott!” Andrea shouted from second base.
On the pitcher’s mound, Morgan Brocklebank looked mad. I thought she might try to hit Mr. Ott in the head.
“He’s a choker!” a Dirk parent shouted. “He choked in the World Series, and he’ll choke now. Duck! Duck! Duck!”
The Dirk parents started chanting “Duck!” That was mean. Mr. Ott looked angry as he stepped int
o the batter’s box.
“Just ignore them, sweetie,” shouted Mrs. Ott. “You can do it!”
“Sweetie! Sweetie! Sweetie!” the Dirk kids chanted.
Morgan Brocklebank went into her windup and threw her first pitch. Mr. Ott didn’t duck. He just watched the ball go by. Mayor Hubble called strike one.
Morgan went into her windup and threw her second pitch. Mr. Ott watched it go by. Mayor Hubble called ball one.
Morgan threw her third pitch. Mr. Ott watched it go by. Mayor Hubble called ball two.
It didn’t look like Mr. Ott wanted to swing.
Morgan threw another pitch. Mr. Ott watched it go by.
“Strike two!” shouted Mayor Hubble. “The count is two balls and two strikes.”
Morgan threw again and Mr. Ott watched it go by. Ball three.
“You can’t hit the ball with the bat on your shoulder, Willie!” shouted Mrs. Ott.
Full count. This was it. There was electricity in the air.
Well, not really. If there was electricity in the air, we would have been electrocuted. But everybody was glued to their seats.
Well, not exactly. Why would people glue themselves to seats? How would you get the glue off your pants? But it was intense.*
Morgan went into her windup.
Mr. Ott tightened his grip on the bat.
Morgan threw.
Mr. Ott swung.
AND HE HIT THE BALL!
It was a hard grounder down the first-base line. The Dirk first baseman went over to grab it. But he didn’t get his glove down fast enough. The ball got past him!
“Go! Go! Go!” we screamed.
Andrea took off from second base.
The Dirk right fielder picked up the ball.
Andrea was rounding third base.
The right fielder threw the ball home.
“Go, Andrea! Go!” we all screamed.
Andrea was about ten feet from home plate. So was the ball. It was going to be close.
“Slide, Andrea! Slide!”
Andrea slid home, kicking up a cloud of dust. The Dirk catcher caught the ball on one hop and tagged Andrea on her leg at the same time her foot touched home plate.
It was the most exciting moment in the history of the world!
“Safe!” we screamed.
“Out!” the Dirk kids screamed.
Of course, it was up to Mayor Hubble to decide if Andrea was safe or out.
“Hey!” somebody shouted. “Where’s the umpire?”
Mayor Hubble was gone!
We looked around for Mayor Hubble. Nobody knew if Andrea was safe or out, because there was no umpire behind home plate.
“Where’s Mayor Hubble?” everybody was asking. “Where did he go?”
We were all yelling and screaming and hooting and hollering and freaking out.
“Maybe he went to the bathroom,” I suggested.
But Mayor Hubble wasn’t in the bathroom. He wasn’t in the bleachers either. And he wasn’t at the snack bar.
“Look!” Morgan Brocklebank shouted.
She was pointing toward the parking lot. We all looked. Mayor Hubble was getting into his limousine. And he had the Freckle Fund box under his arm!
“Mayor Hubble is stealing our money!” shouted Morgan.
“Get him!” everyone shouted.
A bunch of kids and parents from both schools ran to the parking lot and chased Mayor Hubble’s limo. The wheels kicked up dirt and gravel as the limo peeled away. I saw it with my own eyes!
Well, it would be pretty hard to see it with somebody else’s eyes.
I didn’t bother chasing after Mayor Hubble. Neither did Andrea. What’s the use? Mayor Hubble always steals stuff, and he always seems to get away with it.
Andrea and I sat down on the bench.
“Well, it was a good game anyway,” I said.
“Hey, look!” Andrea said, pointing to first base.
I looked. And you’ll never believe who was standing out there. It was Mr. Ott and Mrs. Ott! And you’ll never believe what they were doing.
They were kissing!*
“Isn’t that romantic, Arlo?” asked Andrea.
Well, that’s pretty much what happened. We didn’t win the game, but we didn’t lose it either. At least we won’t have to clean a toilet bowl at Dirk School with a toothbrush. The best part was that Mr. Ott got a big hit with the pressure on. He looked really happy.
Maybe Mayor Hubble will get caught and wind up in jail again. Maybe we’ll get through page twenty-three in our math books. Maybe Mr. Ott will teach us how to spit. Maybe Mr. Klutz will stop walking into doors. Maybe grown-ups will get their ears checked and stop saying they can’t hear us all the time. Maybe we can eat brunch, linner, lupper, lunner, brinner, lunfast, dunch, or dinch. Maybe they’ll find a cure for freckles.
But it won’t be easy!
About the Author and Illustrator
Courtesy of Dan Gutman and Jim Paillot
DAN GUTMAN has written many weird books for kids. He lives with his weird wife in New York (a very weird place). You can visit him on his weird website at www.dangutman.com.
JIM PAILLOT lives in Arizona (another weird place) with his weird wife and two weird children. Isn’t that weird? You can visit him on his weird website at www.jimpaillot.com.
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Copyright
MY WEIRDER-EST SCHOOL #10: MR. OTT IS A CRACKPOT! Text copyright © 2022 by Dan Gutman. Illustrations copyright © 2022 by Jim Paillot. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 2022 by Jim Paillot
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021948096
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2022 ISBN: 978-0-06-291084-4
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-291082-0 (pbk bdg) — ISBN 978-0-06-291083-7 (trade bdg)
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FIRST EDITION
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*He put ketchup on it first.
*It could also be spelled “buck,” “balk,” or “bock.” But we decided to go with “bok.”
*Hey, when is Mr. Ott going to show up?
*Don’t try this at home! Leave your turtles alone!
*Every book is required to have one fart joke. That’s the law.
*That’s almost a million.
*Why are they called bleachers? They must clean them with bleach. That makes no sense at all.