Strikeout Of The Bleacher Weenies - Plot & Excerpts
The kid—I don’t even know his name—knocked my books from under my arm when I was on my way to my third-period math class. “Hey!” I shouted as I spun around to face him. I swallowed whatever else I was going to say, because the kid was big. The way a truck is big next to a car. Or next to a tricycle. “Be careful.” He pushed my shoulder real hard. “Watch where you’re going.” This was totally unfair. He’d knocked down my books on purpose, and now he was trying to pick a fight. I figured there was no way I was escaping without getting hurt. I just hoped I could limit the damage to my body so I didn’t have to walk around for the next week with a face that looked like uncooked steak. There’s nothing better for attracting unwanted attention from bullies than a black eye or a puffed lip. When he started throwing punches, I planned to curl up and cover my head with my arms. That turned out not to be necessary. As the bully grabbed my shirt, the principal, Mr. Verger, walked up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Come with me.”
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