Ann Martin - Kristy And The Walking Disaster

The Bashers grew silent. They watched Haley walk back to Vanessa and Charlotte, where the three girls held a hurried conference. Then Charlotte returned to the stands, and Vanessa and Haley began jumping around, shouting, "Krushers crush, Bashers bash, but we'll get you Bashers in a flash!"

After Haley's outburst, the Bashers were quiet for two whole innings. They were still hanging around the catcher's cage (actually, four of them were hanging on it, several feet off the ground), but they were quiet. They were quiet until Jackie, running home, somehow couldn't stop in time and ran right into the catcher's cage.

Two of the Bashers were knocked to the ground, like flies flicked off a screen door.

"Way to go, Pig-Pen!" yelled one Basher, and I shot a killer look at Bart, but he was now bending over, trying to unknot his sneakers, which I could see had been tied together, undoubtedly by his stupid Bashers.

If Bart couldn't control his team, I thought, then he really shouldn't be coaching.

Jackie looked at me with tear-filled eyes, and I couldn't blame him. I called an end to the practice.

Dawn told me later that as she walked Myriah, Gabbie, and Jamie home that afternoon, Jamie sulked, Gabbie cried, and Myriah held her sister's hand protectively.

"Those boys were mean," Gabbie commented, and then hiccupped.

"They were," Myriah agreed, "but we won't be mean back, will we? . . . Will we?" she said again when no one answered her.

"No," agreed Gabbie and Jamie at last.

And I knew that was true. My Krushers would not be mean.

Chapter 11.

I couldn't believe it! How did it get to be Friday already?

It was the day before the Krushers' game against the Bashers. We were holding a special final practice. Us Baby-sitters Club members were even giving up our meeting so we could cheer the Krushers on.

The day was very important. It was my last chance to work with the Krushers. I knew the practice might be a tough one, though. The kids were pretty wound up. But they needed to practice if they wanted to win - and they all wanted to win.

I wanted them to win, too. Not just because I'm competitive, but because I wanted Kristy's Krushers to know what it felt like to be winners - instead of kids who were afraid to be part of Little League, who were afraid of Bart's Bashers, who had zero batting averages, who were called "Pig-Pen" and "dummy,"

and who broke windows and ran into catcher's cages.

And by the end of our practice, I truly thought the Krushers had a shot at winning, even though I had never seen the Bashers play. I hadn't done what Bart had done - check out the competition. I was scared to. I was also scared to admit that, even to myself. So I tried not to think about it.

At most of our practices, a few people would be sitting in the stands watching: club members who had brought kids over to play, maybe a couple of interested parents or a brother or sister, and the cheerleaders. But that Friday, twenty people were in the stands!

The Krushers were awed.

I was awed.

Jessi, Mal, Claud, Dawn, and Mary Anne were there, of course. So were Mrs. Newton and Lucy, Mrs. Perkins and Laura, Watson (taking the afternoon off from work), the triplets, and a few other people. There was no sign of the Bashers, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, just as I was about to start our game, the cheerleaders showed up. Right away I noticed two things. One, they'd put together outfits for themselves - Kristy's Krushers T-shirts, matching flared blue-jean skirts, white

knee socks, and sneakers. Two, Charlotte was wearing one of the outfits!

I ran over to the girls. "You look great!" I exclaimed. "The Krushers really appreciate your cheering. . . . And, Char, you're wearing an outfit, too. Does this mean you're going to cheer tomorrow? We'd really like that, but you don't have to, you know."

"I know," Charlotte replied, "and right now it just means I'm the head cheerleader because I made up all the cheers. But I might cheer tomorrow."

"She's thinking about it," Haley added.

Wow. I knew the Krushers meant a lot to their families and friends, but if they could inspire Charlotte to think about coming out of her shell, they must really be something. More and more, I was feeling that we just might, as Charlotte would say, bash those Bashers the next day!

I walked back to my team. I stood in front of them, ready to give them a pep talk, but for some reason I glanced into the stands first. My eyes met Watson's and he gave me the thumbs-up sign.

I grinned and gave him the sign back.

Then I faced my team. There they were - nineteen Krushers and Jackie. Oh, Jackie was a Krusher, too, all right. Don't get me wrong.

It's just that he, well, he did look a little like Pig-Pen. He was still the only kid with a hole in his T-shirt. He was the only kid whose shoes were untied. Even the littlest kids were neat and tidy. Jackie was our walking disaster. Although he had been playing better lately. His hitting had really improved. It was just that he had so many accidents.

"Okay, Krushers," I began, "you all know what tomorrow is."

"A game," replied Jackie.

"Well, our big game," I said. "Against the . . ."

"Bashers!" shouted the Krushers.

"And what are we going to do?" I cried.

"Beat them!"

"What?"

"Beat them!"

"Louder!"

"BEAT THEM!"

"And how are we going to do that?" I asked.

Silence.

"By playing our . . ."I prompted my team.

"Best!"

"Right. That's all I can ask of you," I told the Krushers. "That's all you can ask of yourselves."

This was something Watson had told me many times. In fact, it was something he had

told Karen and Andrew and my brothers and me many times, and not just about playing ball. About anything. Once, I was giving him the news that I'd gotten a C + on a math test. Now, a C + is not a bad grade, but I usually get mostly A's and a few B's. Watson looked thoughtful and asked, "Did you study for this test? Did you do your best?"

"Yes," I answered. "Honest. It's just that we're doing pre-algebra now and it's really hard."

"Your best is all you can expect," said Watson. "If you want, I'll give you some extra help, but since you did your best, I'm not disappointed. I'm proud of you."

"I would like some help," I'd told him.

Now, standing before the Krushers, I said to them again, "Just do your best." And without even looking into the stands, I knew that Watson was smiling at me.

I divided the Krushers into teams, and our last practice game got underway. Gabbie was up at bat first, so David Michael, who was pitching, had to move in pretty close to her. He tossed the wiffle ball. Gabbie missed. He tossed it again. Gabbie missed. He tossed it a third time, and Gabbie swung and hit it. She ran as fast as she could go (which wasn't nearly

as fast as the rest of the kids), and she reached first base.

"Stop! Stop!" I cried. (Sometimes Gabbie would just keep running.)

Jackie was up next and hit the ball (a regular one) right away. He ran to first while Gabbie made it to second. (Everyone tried to ignore the fact that Jackie had tripped over the bat as he tossed it away.)

Third up was - Oh, no, it was Claire.

She struck out. But she did not throw a tantrum.

Fourth up was Andrew. Well, this could be interesting, I thought. Andrew sort of bunted the ball. He ran to first, Jackie ran to second, and Gabbie safely reached third.

The bases were loaded. "Bases are loaded!" I called.

Buddy Barrett was at bat next and, to everyone's surprise, but especially his own, he struck out. Two outs.

Karen's turn.

"Two outs and the bases are loaded!" I announced.

Nothing like pressure.

"Go, Karen!" yelled Watson from the stands.

Karen concentrated. She stuck her tongue between her teeth, kept her eye on the ball -