Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino

know he’s not good for answering another thing until the mess that’s in his mouth goes down his throat.
    I walk over to where the crowd has gathered around Billy Rattle’s new radio.
    â€œHe’s late,” I announce to no one in particular. “We should go get him. He’s probably not coming unless we do.”
    It’s almost as if Muscle Man hears what I’m saying from across the street, because at that moment the door opens.
    Muscle Man steps outside, his face plastered with that stupid smirk. His brother, Greg, steps out next to him. The two of them cross Ramble Street.
    â€œSo, I hear you’re playing kickball,” Greg grunts.
    Except for that time at Mrs. Kutchner’s front door, I’ve never seen Greg up close. He looks like Muscle Man, except older and without the stupid grin. Since they moved into the neighborhood, Greg is never around much. He’s thirteen, old enough to ride his bike and go anywhere he wants. And I guess Ramble Street is never where he wants to be.
    Big Danny and John Marcos explain things to him.
    â€œHe said he can beat all of us,” I add, impatient to get to the end of the story and to see what Greg and Muscle Man are up to.
    Greg gives Muscle Man a now-you-did-it glare.
    â€œWell, if he says he can do it, then he should do it,” says Greg.
    Muscle Man’s expression never changes, even though, in my opinion, his brother has just thrown him to a pack of hungry wolves.
    â€œI’m gonna be on your team too,” Greg adds.
    I rub my hands together. Things are turning out better than I thought. His brother is on our team. Against Muscle Man. I begin to feel sorry for Greg at having to live with this kid.
    â€œLet’s call it. Does someone have a coin so we can flip to see who’s up first?” I look straight at Billy Rattle, the money guy.
    â€œYou know, since it’s all of us against one, I think that we should let this guy be up first.” Greg puts his brother in a playful choke hold. Muscle Man grins.
    â€œThat seems fair,” chimes in MaryBeth, and I don’t know who I want to smash first. Muscle Man for his grin or MaryBeth for her stupid comment.
    She’s wrong, anyway. It’s not fair. That’s not how we do it. We always flip a coin to see who’s up first. Having Muscle Man up first, without a coin flip, is not fair. He’s getting special treatment.
    I wait for someone to protest.
    Instead John Marcos tosses me the ball. “Okay,” he says to Greg, “he’s up first.”
    I sigh and take my place on the field.
    There are too many of us to play our positions, so most of the kids gather in the outfield. Three or four crowd up around second base.
    I stand on the pitcher’s mound and bounce the ball, waiting for everyone to get ready. I’ve never seen so many of us in the field at once. John Marcos gives me a nod.
    It’s time to begin. Good thing too, because if it takes another minute, I’m sure I’ll burst. I can’t wait any longer.
    I take one look at Muscle Man standing in front of home plate, and I throw my first pitch.

Chapter Thirteen
Nothing to Smile About
    I START WITH a line drive, fast and straight up the middle.
    It goes exactly where I want it to go, right over home plate.
    Muscle Man fails to give it the respect it deserves. He’s so busy smiling at me that he hardly pays attention.
    My pitches are nothing to smile about. They are fierce. I’ve pitched to the big kids and even to my brother, Tim, and Vinnie Pizza. I can tell by the way they wrinkle their foreheads and by the way they stop joking around that I’ve got a good arm.
    This kid is practically grinning. Here he is, playing the most important game of his life, one that’s sure to prove him to be a slithering liar, and he hardly seems to be trying. By the time he even attempts to kick, the ball has rolled past him.
    â€œStrike one,” shouts John