Oh, and one other thing . . . I was being mobbed by a thousand fans.

  I raised my eyebrows. “That doesn’t look so bad,”

  I said.

  But before anyone could answer, a blaring alarm sounded.

  “What’s that?” I cried.

  The first version of me shouted to another me across the room. “Security, report!”

  “We have a breach at the main entrance,” the other me shouted back.

  “Is it him?”

  “Yes, sir. WUM has come back from the year 2109. He is in the adjoining hall and should be breaking through that wall behind us right about—”

  Suddenly the wall behind us exploded.

  “—NOW!”

  The nightmarish creature plowed into the room. He was uglier than I remembered and looked like he’d put on a couple extra tons.

  The others in the room leaped to their feet in panic. But there was no need for them to worry. The WUM wasn’t after them. He quickly scanned the room and spotted his real target.

  Me.

  “Hi there,” I kinda squeaked.

  He returned the greeting with an agonizing wail, aimed his giant motorized chair directly at me, and started forward.

  I grabbed ol’ Betsy, dove over the table, and made a beeline for the nearest exit. Unfortunately, that beeline took me directly through the TV picture floating in the air.

  “No, Wally, not that way!” the twelve Wallys shouted.

  But they were too late. I had to get out of there, and if it meant running through a floating TV picture, so what. After all, it was only air, right?

  Well, not quite.

  As I leaped through the picture, expecting to come out the other side, I discovered a curious fact. I hadn’t leaped through the picture. I had leaped into the picture.

  I had entered the future exactly ten years from when I had first caught the baseball.

  Chapter 7

  All Dressed Up and Everywhere to Go

  There was more screaming and shouting than when someone accidently changes channels during the Super Bowl. More shoving and pushing than an after-Christmas sale at the mall. Everyone was gathered around me yelling and pulling and crying and screaming, “We love you Wally. . . . Please, let me have your autograph. . . . Oh, Mr. McDoogle, you are soooo cool. . . .”

  I searched the crowd trying to find where the futuristic version of myself had gone. But it was impossible to make out anything through the endless sea of faces and arms. An endless sea of faces and arms all looking and reaching out to . . .

  Hey, wait a minute. Why are they all looking at me?

  “Just sign here, Mr. McDoogle. . . . Just kiss my baby, Mr. McDoogle.”

  Once again my keen intellect went into overtime and once again I came to a genius conclusion:

  Something wasn’t right.

  Where had the other Wally McDoogle gone— the one with the Gooey Chewy bar and all the cool gold clothes that I saw up on the screen? It was then I glanced down and noticed that I just happened to be the one holding a Gooey Chewy bar and wearing all the cool clothes.

  Uh-oh . . .

  Somehow, I had become that other Wally . . .

  Another group of crowd members reached out to me. But instead of offering me their books to autograph or their babies to kiss, this group was more interested in taking. Not a lot, just a little something to remember the moment by. . . .

  “Mr. McDoogle, can I have this lock of your hair?”

  “OW!”

  “Mr. McDoogle, you won’t be missing this coat.”

  “Hey that’s my—”

  “Just a little piece of your shirt.”

  RRIIIP

  “Let me have a piece, too.”

  Rriiip . . . Rriiip . . .

  “Hey, are these pants real gold?”

  Rip, rip, tear, tear . . .

  Shiver . . . shiver . . .

  The sound of ripping and tearing came from what was left of my clothes.

  The shivering came from what was left of me.

  Suddenly things were getting awfully chilly. Fortunately, I still had on my underwear, so at least I was—

  “Hey, look everybody, gold Fruit of the Looms!”

  And then, just when things couldn’t possibly get any colder (or more embarrassing) I heard an old, familiar voice:

  “All right everybody, stand back! Step aside!”

  Through the crowd I saw my old buddy, Wall Street! She was older, but there was no mistaking her face or the look of greed in her eyes. She pushed her way through the mob with the help of a couple of bodyguards the size of the Dallas Cowboys offensive line.

  “Wall Street!” I shouted.

  “Hang on, Wally, we’ll be right there!” She continued pushing and shoving. “Get out of the way, step aside!”

  For the most part, they obeyed her. The ones who didn’t suddenly found themselves turning into forward passes or punted field goals, courtesy of the two bodyguards.

  When she arrived she threw a blanket around me. Then the big guys lifted me up and carried me to a limousine just slightly smaller than the state of Rhode Island. I don’t want to say it was too big or fancy, but I thought the outdoor swimming pool and tennis court in the back were just a bit much.

  The big boys opened the door, and as the crowd surged forward, they threw me inside.

  “Wow,” I cried, “that was unbelievable!”

  Wall Street tumbled in after me. “It happens every time,” she grumbled.

  “What’s that?” I asked as the limo began pulling away.

  “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times,” she said as she produced her calculator and began punching keys, “when you go out in public, you’ve got to wear a disguise.”

  “I do?”

  “Somebody as rich and famous as you should never be out in public alone. Otherwise this sort of thing is bound to happen.”

  “It is?”

  She continued her figuring without looking up. “Fortunately, our losses are not as severe as the last time. The gold coat, shirt, pants, and underwear only cost $2,752.24. Subtract that from your total net worth of $34 million, and you’re still worth $33,997,247.76.”

  “That’s how much money I’ve got?”

  “Minus, of course, seventy-five thousand dollars to me for rescuing you.”

  “Seventy-five thousand dollars!”

  “Of course,” she said. “That’s always been my fee.”

  “Of course,” I said, pretending to know what I was talking about.

  “Unless you want to throw in an extra ten-thousand-dollar bonus.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It looks like I might have chipped a nail.”

  I smiled and shook my head in quiet amazement. What a comfort to know that some things never change. Apparently Wall Street was finally getting around to making all that money she wanted. And by the looks of things, she was making it all off of me.

  I looked out the window. I didn’t know how I’d gotten so rich and famous, but, I tell you, if this is what the future held, it was okay by me.

  “Here,” she said, shoving a contract under my nose, “sign this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your agreement to endorse Gooey Chewy bars on your next TV special. In return they’ll supply you with three cases of Gooey Chewys a week.”

  “Cool,” I said as I grabbed her pen and scrawled my signature on the paper.

  Meanwhile, Wall Street had pressed the intercom button to signal the driver. The man answered through the speaker. “Yes, Ms. crunch-crunch-crunch Street?”

  I recognized him instantly. (The fact that his mouth was crammed with a thousand potato chips made it a little easier.) “Opera,” I cried, “is that you?”

  “Yes, Mr. munch-munch-munch McDoogle. I am quite relieved that you crunch-munch-smack did not sustain any major injury during that recent altercation. Perhaps—”

  “Opera,” I interrupted, “why are you being so polite? It’s me, Wally.”

  “Yes, it certainly is, Mr. McDoogle.”

  “A fellow dork-oid, remember?”

  “Anything you burp say, Mr. McDoogle.”

  “What’s wrong with—”

  Before I could finish, Wall Street clicked off the button and scowled at me. “I’ve told you before, you must stop being so friendly with the servants.”

  “Servants?”

  “As your business manager, I must remind you of your position when dealing with commoners.”

  “Commoners?”

  She nodded and pressed the intercom again. “How soon before we arrive at the stadium?”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes,” Opera answered.

  “Which is it?” she demanded. “Ten or fifteen? We have a tight schedule to follow.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Street. Our estimated time of arrival is twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”

  “That’s better.”

  She released the button and without looking at me said, “Once you get there you will have four and a half minutes to change into your tuxedo. Of course the President will want to meet with you before you go on stage, but you’ll only be able to give him a few seconds.”

  “The President?” I croaked. “Of what?”

  “Very funny,” she said. “Oh, and this time try not to spill your hot chocolate all over the First Lady. And if you do, let the Secret Service dab it up. Last time it took six weeks for her broken ribs to heal.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Wall Street cocked her head sideways, as if listening, and then rolled down her window. We could hear people shouting. Thousands of them. They were all chanting one word over and over again. One word I was very familiar with:

  “Wall-ly, Wall-ly, Wall-ly, Wall-ly”

  “Is that . . . me?” I asked.

  “Of course it’s you,” Wall Street laughed. “All 90,000 fans in that stadium are calling out your name. They’ve all put down big bucks to see the great Wally McDoogle perform.”

  “Perform?” I felt a wave of panic. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Why, just be you. Of course you’ll want to fall down a few dozen times so they get their money’s worth.”

  “Falling down?” I asked. “That’s good?”

  “Of course it’s good. That’s why they buy all your instructional videotapes, so they can learn to be just as clumsy and klutzy as you are. Look over there.”

  I looked out the window and saw dozens of people along the road all throwing themselves down on the ground or walking into things.

  “You’re the hit of the decade, Wally. Everybody wants to be like you.”

  “But . . . why . . . how?”

  “You know how,” she scoffed. “It started way back when you caught that ball at the All-City Championship. From there your team went to the Nationals where, of course, you were your usual clumsy and dork-oid self.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “That’s when the TV producer saw you and hired you to star in your own TV series where you just did what you normally do.”

  “Stumble around and make a total fool of myself?”

  “Exactly. And suddenly you became an overnight success. Now everybody wants to be like you.”

  I sat back in the seat absolutely amazed. I couldn’t believe it. . . . I was loved by thousands of fans, had millions of dollars, starred in my own TV series, and had an unlimited supply of Gooey Chewys. What could be better?

  I turned back to Wall Street, but she was hunched over her calculator and obviously didn’t want to be bothered. Since we still had a few more minutes before we arrived at the stadium, I reached down to get ol’ Betsy. Now seemed like a good time to work on my superhero story. Not that what was happening to Flame Boy could be any weirder than what was happening to me. But some habits are hard to break. . . .

  Chapter 8

  A Not-So-Bright Future

  When we last left Flame Boy, he was having a hard time getting a grip. Not only on trying to be a superhero, but also on the refrigerator door that he was clinging to. The more Arctic Guy blasts him with his Arctic breath, the more Flame Boy realizes that he’ll have to brush up on his skydiving.

  No problem...except that he’s never skydived in his life.

  Even that’s no biggie...except for the part of not having a parachute. And, since he hates making bad impressions (especially when it’s his soft little body in that big hard ground), well, you can see why he might be a little nervous.

  But Arctic Guy continues to blow and blow as our hero continues to slip and slip until he finally loses his grip and falls.

  “AUGHHhhhh...”

  But, as luck would have it (along with some very clever writing on this author’s part), Flame Boy suddenly remembers his training at the University of Superherohood.

  Quicker than you can say, “I figured something like this would happen,” Flame Boy grabs his legs and curls into a tight little fireball.

  A neat trick, but his version of the cannonball dive only makes him fall faster. So he tries his jack-knife, then his one-and-a-half gainer. All very impressive and good enough to make the Olympic diving team. But unless they hold the competition in the next 23.4 seconds, it is doubtful he’ll be picking up any medals. And if he doesn’t hurry with a solution, he’ll be the one they’re picking up.

  Then, in a flash of inspiration (what other type of inspiration can someone made of fire have?) our hero remembers. He may not have all the cool superhero gizmos and gadgets of the other superheroes, but he does have one unique ability...he can do the entire “Battle Hymn of the Republic” with burps.

  “So what good will that do him?” you ask.

  None. But he thought you should know.

  Wait a minute! He suddenly remembers he has two unique abilities. Granted, the burping is great for getting sent away from the table (especially when cooked broccoli is on the menu). But his second ability is even better....He’s made out of fire! (Good thing he doesn’t think it’s his quick thinking.)

  Quickly he spreads out his arms. The wind catches his flames and begins to fan them. Brighter and brighter he glows, bigger and bigger he grows.

  Soon he is covering the entire sky.

  What luck! Not only is he saving his life, but also by spreading his flames across the sky, he immediately begins heating up the earth. Suddenly there is more warmth than a Little House on the Prairie rerun. More hot air than a political debate. Arctic Guy’s plot has been foiled. Who needs the sun now? Who needs to worry about the giant glob of Sunscreen #85 blocking its rays?

  The day is saved.

  Well, almost.

  It seems there are a couple of kinks still to be ironed out. First, there are all those Californians complaining about their fading tans. Things may have warmed up, but you can’t get a tan from regular fire. (See how educational these stories can be?)

  Second, there is the President. Not only is he still a little cranky about not getting his pizza, but he also remembers it’s an election year and he must impress everyone to get their votes.

  So, even though Flame Boy has saved the day, the President suddenly launches 734 nuclear missiles to out save Flame Boy’s save. All 734 nuclear missiles are heading straight toward the giant blob of Sunscreen #85.

  Everybody is impressed. And, except for the fact that the explosion will poison the atmosphere and kill everyone on Earth, the President can rest assured that he now has everyone’s vote.

  Things couldn’t be better...except that while he is destroying all life as we know it, he’ll also be destroying all those Brady Bunch reruns that he wanted to save. (If you think he’s cranky now, just wait until he can no longer hear those old favorite strains about, “...a lovely lady who is bringing up three very lovely girls....”) Oh no, what will happen now that he’s fired those missiles?

  How will Earth survive?

  More importantly, will our beloved President ever get those deluxe anchovy pizzas with extra cheese?

  All these questions and more are running through our hero’s head, when suddenly——

  SNAP . . .

  ZIP . . .

  FLASH . . .

  POP . . .

  I looked up from ol’ Betsy. Once again everything had dropped into super-slow motion— Wall Street calculating my money, the fans in the stadium chanting my name, even the speed of our limo (which was now moving slower than a kid on his way to summer school).

  Oh, and I saw one other thing. Actually twelve of them.

  Yes sir, there were my old buddies, all hovering around the car, all wearing their standard issue vacuum cleaner backpacks and toaster helmets.

  I rolled down the window. “Hi, guys.”

  “Hi,” they said as we all pushed up our glasses.

  “Listen,” I said, “if this is the future you were talking about, it’s pretty cool.”

  “You think so?” they asked.

  “Oh yeah. All this fame, all this money. It’s incredible. Like a dream come true.”

  “Maybe,” they said. “But the dream will turn into a nightmare.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Doing things your way instead of God’s is always fun,” they said, “but only for a while.”

  “And then?”

  “Then it turns sour. It always gets bad.”

  “Bad?” I laughed. “If it gets any worse, I think I’ll die from it being too good.”

  They looked at me and quietly answered, “You’ll wish you could die.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s time to transport you fifty years into the future,” they said.

  “What?”

  Without an answer they all raised their hose attachments and shouted, “Ready!”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I called.

  “Aim!”

  “What makes you think I want to leave. I’m happy. Things couldn’t go any bett—”

  “Fire!”

  WOOOOOOSSSSSSSHHHHHHHhhhhhh . . .

 

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