Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino Page A

Marcos.
    John’s official position is catcher, but he’s also the unofficial umpire. John Marcos is fair, too fair, in my opinion. He has no problem selling his own team down the river when he thinks the other team is in the right. There are no arguments about who is safe and who is out when John Marcos is involved. His words are like gold. And he called it a strike.
    â€œGreat pitch, Tammy,” shouts Muscle Man. The stupid kid doesn’t even know when he’s about to get trounced.
    â€œYeah, well if you like that one, try this one,” I pitch him another. Same pitch. Straight up the middle.
    Muscle Man hardly looks at the ball. He’s making funny faces at little Janie Lee Grabowsky, who’s over near first base.
    He misses again.
    â€œStrike two,” shouts John Marcos.
    â€œGood pitch again,” says Muscle Man, and the blood inside me sizzles.
    I throw another, but this one slides out of my hand and wobbles as it heads toward home plate. Not my best pitch. A little slow. Probably, the blood bubbling up inside me caused my arm to stiffen.
    Muscle Man kicks it. The ball heads straight back to me. It bounces, or I’d have caught it and he’d have been out instantly.
    I don’t know why the kid even bothers running, because it’s pretty obvious that he’s toast. Before he steps off home plate, I already have the ball in my hands.
    â€œThrow it here,” shouts Billy Rattle, the first baseman. “Come on, Tammy. What’s taking you so long?”
    Normally, Billy Rattle and I work well together. He can catch anything I throw to him, and he never has to shout at me to do it. But this is more than a game of kickball. This is about teaching someone a very important lesson.
    So, instead of sending it to Billy Rattle, I toss the ball to Janie Lee Grabowsky. She’s standing not three feet away from first base. For a second, she stares at me like I made some horrible error. But as soon as she realizes what’s at stake, she springs into action.
    The little kid knows exactly what to do. She runs to first base and waits for him.
    The humiliation is complete. Muscle Man is tagged out by a five-year-old.
    I bet then and there the grin I have on my face is as stupid as Muscle Man’s.
    â€œYou’re out,” John Marcos shouts.
    I head back to the pitcher’s mound, feeling like I’m the top dog at the pound. Nothing can stop me.
    It’s time for my tricky pitch, the one that Vinnie Pizza taught me. I throw the ball underhand, fast and strong. It heads straight toward home plate and then hits a certain patch of lawn at the last minute, causing it to zig slightly to the left. That pitch can take even the really good players by surprise. It’s one of my best moves.
    Muscle Man misses.
    â€œStrike one,” shouts John Marcos.
    When you’ve spent as much time pitching as I have, you get a sense of how the game is going to go in the first few innings. The kids in Janie Lee Grabowsky’s kindergarten class would have given me more problems than Muscle Man. This game is going to be a cinch.
    I don’t need the other twelve players to beat this kid. I can strike him out in no time. For the first time in months, my headache goes away.
    Instead of pain, my head swells with joy.
    I make up a little song and sing it under my breath. “Strike one. Strike one. The fun has just begun.”
    My next pitch is an exact replay of my last one. It always gets them, that zig. For some players, I can do it a hundred times before they learn how to kick it back. For Muscle Man, I bet I could pitch it a thousand times.
    â€œStrike two,” shouts John Marcos.
    â€œBoy, your pitches are good today,” Muscle Man gives me an enormously stupid smile. “Good job, Tammy.”
    â€œYou ain’t seen nothing yet!” I shout back at him.
    My next pitch is perfect. Fast. Smooth. And impossible to hit.
    It sails past him. He doesn’t