THE GREEN BEANS
VOLUME ONE
THE MYSTERY OF HOLLOW OAK
GABRIEL GADGET
Copyright 2011 Gabriel Gadget
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
STRANGE THINGS ARE AFOOT
In the rural town of Hollow Oak, life is good for a team of young baseball players known as the Green Beans. Their days are filled with friendship, fun, and the game that they love.
In recent days, Neil (the Beans' fearless centerfielder) has heard strange things in the forest that lies just beyond the outfield fence. Although he hasn't been able to pinpoint the source of the weird noises, he can't shake the feeling of being watched. Neil has begun to suspect that there's something prowling within the woods, hidden among the trees and shadows. He's not sure what it is? but whatever it is, it's BIG.
His curiosity engaged, Neil convinces his closest friends (and a Labradoodle named Nibbler) to join him on a quest to discover what's roaming the forest of Hollow Oak. Excited by the prospect of adventure, they eagerly agree to join him in the search. But the Green Beans will soon realize that they are not prepared for what awaits them, and that there is more to this mystery than they can imagine?
Chapter One
Alone in the Outfield
Rustle-rustle-rush-crush.
From his position in centerfield, Neil heard a strange noise, coming from some place well behind him. Turning his head, he peered into the deep forest that began just beyond the outfield fence.
The noise seemed to have come from somewhere in that green maze of trees and brush. But it had been very faint, and Neil could see nothing out of the ordinary. Nor did he hear the strange sound anymore. He soon dismissed it, and looked back toward the infield, patiently awaiting his turn to chase down fly balls.
School had ended not long ago, and he was at practice for his baseball team, patrolling his customary position of centerfield. A lot of players didn't like the outfield. Neil, however, loved it.
He considered the vast, grassy expanses of the outfield to be his realm, his kingdom. It was fearlessly defended by his sharp eyes, his fast feet, and the ever-so-reliable webbing of his baseball glove. Any balls that made it past the diamond of the infield would be gobbled up by Neil's glove, of that he was sure. Ensnared in his trusty leather, like a fly in a spider's web!
Neil's dad said that this attitude made him confident, but not cocky. Neil liked the sound of that just fine, but he thought a more accurate explanation was this: he just loved to catch baseballs.
At times, he thought this might even be a compulsion that was beyond his control. Sometimes, he thought that he had no choice but to catch baseballs. When one was sent to the outfield, he went after it like his friend's Labradoodle, Nibbler, went after a thrown stick.
There was no time to think about it, really. He just went after the ball, knowing that he must catch it, and knowing that he would.
It was his duty, perhaps even his calling in life. His dad said that when Neil was patrolling the outfield, the team was in good hands. And his friends and teammates seemed to agree.
There was nothing better, Neil thought, than tracking down a baseball as it charted its path across the sky. Especially on those occasions when somebody belted a ball so high that it seemed it might break through the atmosphere, catching fire as it went. Those were what he referred to as whoppers.
The baseball would become so tiny, it resembled a distantly passing airplane. Neil would track it from the left and right, deeper and deeper into the outfield, until it finally began to descend, gaining velocity as it came.
Eventually, the baseball would come down, and it was in Neil's glove that it would safely land. As if by magic, it sometimes seemed. It was crazy to think that something so small could travel so far, and that Neil could successfully track it down and catch it.
Some players thought that it was sort of insulting to be put out there, away from all the action of the infield. But this wasn't true? Neil knew better. A good deal of the fun of the sport occurred in the outfield.
Even on routine fly balls, Neil managed to work a somersault or cartwheel into the catch. After the ball was safely secured in his glove, of course. And he loved it when line drives to the outfield would test the limits of his speed, letting him stretch out for the catch at the final moment, throwing his body about with what his dad called reckless abandon.
His dad referred to these as circus catches and crowd pleasers, and he said that Neil performed these because he had an incredible passion for the game. Neil agreed with this.
His dad also said that Neil was able to throw his body around like that because he was ten years old, which made him extra durable, and able to bounce off of the ground like a rubber ball. Neil wasn't so sure about all that, but he guessed that it made sense. He didn't exactly consider himself a rubber ball, but he sure enjoyed getting dirty, much like all of his friends.
Out here, on the baseball field, everyone else called Neil's dad Coach. Right now, Coach was standing at home plate, batting balls to the infielders. He was giving them practice at fielding grounders.
Of course, this meant that there wasn't much going on in centerfield at the moment, but Neil was okay with that. Another thing he liked about the outfield was that it gave him time to just hang out and think about things.
When Neil explained this, his dad told him that it was called personal reflection. Neil liked the sound of that. He just liked to lose himself in his thoughts, and let his mind wander. Centerfield was not only his position, but also his sanctuary? the place where he felt at peace with himself and the world.
Sure, there were two other outfielders, but they were far to the left and right, lost in their own thoughts, idly kicking at the turf with their cleats. Neil felt like he was alone in the outfield, his kingdom, his realm.
Deep in center, Neil took a knee, to rest his feet. Even though his baseball cleats were well worn and broken in, they still weren't the most comfortable shoes in the world.
As he rested, he could hear the ting of his dad's aluminum bat, and the chatter of the infielders as they fielded the ground balls. He saw them hooting, and hollering, and kicking up great clouds of dust.
Neil wore his glove on his left hand, but his throwing hand was bare, and he ran it through the blades of the freshly cut grass. The feel of it beneath his fingers, and the familiar smell of it in his nose, brought him a happiness that he could not quite describe. He felt the sun above, warming him, and he adjusted his ball cap over his short, sandy hair, in order to shield his eyes.
As Neil rested, there came again the strange noise from behind his shoulder. This time, it was louder. Closer. As before, it sounded something like this: Rustle-rustle-rush-crush.
Torn from his daydreams, Neil looked behind himself, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary. About twenty feet away, the fence encircled the outfield. Beyond it, there lay the forest. It was thick with all manner of trees and vegetation. A sea of green and shadow, it was hard to see very deep within.
There came, once again, the sound. Rustle-rustle-rush-crush.
His curiosity engaged, Neil rose to his feet and approached the fence. As he walked closer to t
he woods, he could hear the sound continue. When he reached the fence, he draped his arms over it and leaned against it, studying the forest beyond.
Neil adjusted his ball cap, and peered into the woods. He couldn't see what was causing the sound. It was hidden behind the layers of trees and plant life. It sounded like some kind of animal, moving around and crushing the brush beneath its feet. But whatever it was? it sounded big.
Rustle-rustle-rush-crush.
Neil had a strong imagination, and it was immediately put to work. Was it a deer? A moose, maybe? Even a bear? He nodded to himself in excitement at these possibilities. Maybe it could even be a tiger!
Sure, there weren't supposed to be any tigers in New Hampshire, but one could have escaped from a zoo or a traveling circus, he reasoned. It was possible, wasn't it? One could only hope.
After all, Neil had no idea how far back these woods went. When he thought about it, there was really no telling what secrets they might hold.
It was strange, though? his skin felt tingly, and he noticed that the hairs on his arms were standing up. He almost felt as if he were not peering into the woods, looking for an animal, but that the animal was peering out of the woods, watching him.
"Heads up, Neil!" called his dad.
Coach had belted a fly ball deep to centerfield. Neil quickly turned away from the fence, and tilted his head back to the sky. His eyes were drawn to the ball, as it climbed, higher and higher. His dad had smacked a real whopper, and Neil's attention became completely focused on it.
There was nothing but Neil, the ball, and the pursuit of it.
He was alone in the outfield.
Wasn't he?
Chapter Two
A Bad Hop
As Neil was chasing the fly ball, Jack abandoned his position at shortstop. He ran some distance into the outfield, in order to serve as the cutoff man, for relaying the ball back to second base.
"Whew!" Jack muttered to himself, as he watched the baseball hanging in the air, for what seemed forever. "That's a heck of a whopper Coach hit there." He nodded in consideration. "Yep."
He adjusted the brim of his cap, so as to better track the progress of the ball. It had been hit so high and so far, Jack thought that it could give even Neil trouble. And Neil was the best outfielder Jack had ever seen, in all of the Hollow Oak Baseball League.
But his concern proved unnecessary. Locked onto the descending baseball, Neil positioned himself beneath it, and it was into his waiting glove that it landed. As per the usual, Neil managed to roll into a somersault as he caught the ball. He let loose with a strange noise of triumph as he did so. Sort of like? boo-yah! Something like that.
Jack chuckled, and held his glove in the air, signaling for the ball. "You got lucky, Neil!"
Neil rolled smoothly to his feet, and threw the ball to Jack. "Hah! You could put that on YouTube!"
"Showboat!" Coach called, as the rest of the infielders giggled. "Get the ball to second, Jack. Quick!"
Jack tossed the ball to the second baseman, who was covering the bag, awaiting the relay.
"Good work, Beans! Keep it up. Always assume the base runners will be on the move," Coach said. "Keep that glove handy, Jack. Coming at ya!"
Coach reached into a big metal bucket that rested on the ground near home plate. It was full of a near-infinite supply of baseballs, and he plucked one from within.
Coach tossed the ball a couple of feet into the air before himself, and then brought his aluminum baseball bat forward, with an expert stroke. As if by magic, Coach had the ability to drill baseballs wherever he so desired. This was an incredibly useful skill, when you were giving your team fielding practice. Or working them over, as Coach liked to call it.
Ting! There was impact, and then the ball was screaming across the grass of the infield. Propelled from the bat of Coach, it came at Jack, who had returned to mid-depth at the shortstop position.
When the baseball reached the place where the grass met the dirt, it took what Coach liked to call a bad hop. Every so often, a grounder would hit an uneven piece of the earth in just such a way that it would bounce in an unpredictable manner.
This particular ball had been rolling fast, but tight to the ground. When it took the bad hop, it leaped into the air, wildly altering its trajectory. Jack had been bracing himself, ready to scoop up the grounder in his glove. His knees were bent, glove low to the ground, eyes tracking the ball.
As it lurched into the bad hop, the ball's direction changed dramatically. It bounced off of the ground, and went high and wide of Jack. Without having the time to think, his arm moved by reflex alone.
Jack's reaction was a good one, and the ball landed neatly in the center of his glove. As he snagged the ball in the middle of its bad hop, it yielded an incredibly satisfying sound.
Thwack! Sort of like the sound you got when you threw an undesirable sandwich with slightly crusty bread against the wall of the school cafeteria? Not that Jack knew anything about that.
The infielders gasped in a collective ooh of admiration. Far behind him, Jack could hear Neil chortling in the outfield, before yelling, "You got lucky!"
Jack turned and looked at his glove, somewhat stunned to see that the baseball was inside of it. "Hoo-hah!" he cried in wonder.
"To first!" Coach yelled, pointing toward the bag, and jumping wildly about home plate.
"Oh, yeah," Jack muttered to himself. "Can't forget about that."
In his excitement at snatching such a terrifically bad hop from midair, he had almost forgotten. Jack transferred the ball from his glove to his bare hand, and pivoted his body toward first base. Ignoring his racing heart and accelerated breathing, he forced himself to take his time, and remember what Coach had taught him.
Don't rush the throw. Visualize it. See it before you do it. Full extension of the arm. And let the ball roll off of your fingertips.
Jack listened to this voice, and followed the advice, just as he had countless times in the past. He released the ball, and it flew true, right at the waiting glove of the first baseman.
"There you go, Beans," called Coach. "Way to finish the play."
He reached back into the metal bucket near his feet, and continued to smack baseballs at every position. Ting! Ting! Ting! Coach gave every player ample practice. He was really working them over.
Finally, his bucket o' baseballs depleted, Coach took a break. Wheezing with breath, he leaned over, propping the end of his bat against the ground to help support his weight.
The best way to describe Neil's dad, or Coach, was as follows: Big, bearded, and bespectacled. Also helping in this theme of "B"s was the fact that his name was Bob Bandernath, though all the players generally called him Coach.
He removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His shirt was soaked. It seemed to defy reason, how much sweat he produced. The children had all pointed this out to him many times in the past. Between gasps for air, Coach usually muttered something along the lines of, "Someday, you'll be old!"
This seemed sort of unlikely to Neil, Jack, and all the other players, however. Coach was forty years old, an age that seemed an impossible distance away to this gang of ten and eleven-year-olds. His beard was even sprinkled with salt and pepper hair, which proved to be a great source of amusement.
"You sure do sweat a lot, Coach," Jack pointed out. "Did you know that?"
"Yes," Coach wheezed between breaths. "You may have mentioned that a time or two."
Sara and Maria (the only girls on the team) watched from where they were resting on the bench. Though Sara was slightly taller than her younger sister, the two were quite similar in appearance. Each of them had a wiry build, a coffee-colored ponytail, and a spring to their step. They giggled at their bearded, bespectacled coach, as he sucked in air through his gaping mouth.
"You okay, Coach?" Sara asked. She was sharing a huge pack of shredded, grape-flavored bubblegum with Maria. A big, purple bubble expanded from her lips, finally bursting upon her face.
"You want us to get in there for a while?"
"Whew," Coach gasped. Between breaths, he admitted, "I might have overdone it a bit there. But I've really got to work you guys over, you know? Your defensive improvements are remarkable. Remarkable, I say!"
"Need a break, yet, Coach?" Maria asked. She laughed, peeling her own burst bubble from off of her face.
Coach nodded his head in consent. Beads of sweat ran down his face, sending his glasses skidding down the bridge of his nose. "You're up, girls. Give these lunatics some batting practice."
Chapter Three
Battery Power
As previously mentioned, Sara and Maria were sisters. And they were what Coach liked to refer to as the battery of the team.
Sara was the team's pitcher, and Maria (one year younger than her sister) was the catcher. Together, they made for a fearsome combo. Throughout the league of Hollow Oak, they were dreaded. Sara, for her accurate arm, and Maria for her ability to dial in her sister's pitching power.
There was no greater action on a baseball team than that which occurred between pitcher and catcher. They were the fuel, the spark? they were the battery power. Sara and Maria were that battery, and they were also the only girls on the team, a point that they took pride in.
Standing atop the pitcher's mound, Sara gripped the ball in her bare hand, twisting it within her glove. Her eyes were locked upon her younger sister, Maria, who was crouched behind home plate.
Maria's freckled face was shielded behind her catcher's mask, the bars of the grill casting shadows upon her features. Her glove, an oversized catcher's mitt, clenched in anticipation of the coming pitch.
"Better brace yourself, Neil," Maria advised. "Here comes the heat!"
"Consider me braced," Neil declared.
He dug into the batter's box, kicking the spikes of his old cleats into the dirt for purchase. An aluminum bat was gripped tightly in his hands, and he reared it back, gently swiveling it as he waited for the pitch, mimicking the motions he had seen his favorite big league players perform on television. The bat was Neil's favorite, and it was called Green Lightning.
Sara flashed him her teeth (which were rather purple in color at the moment) with a quick smile, and then began her pitching windup. Keeping the ball palmed in her glove, she rotated it in her right hand, until the stitches were lined up in the place where she liked to keep them beneath her fingers.