Switcharound by Lois Lowry

Poochie!"
    Caroline cringed. Poochie was her third baseman. The sun was directly in his eyes, but it didn't matter, because Poochie was blind as a bat anyway. The only thing he had going for him was Adam Donnelly's brother's outgrown lefty glove.
    Matthew tossed the ball to Pooch as the runner closed in on third base.
    "COME ON, DAVID TATE!" Caroline bellowed.
    Poochie squinted toward the sun, squeezed his eyes completely closed, and held his arms up awkwardly. For the very first time, the ball landed in his glove.
    And the runner, who should have been out at first, but wasn't, and who should have been out at second, but wasn't, ran right into Poochie's outstretched arm. Out at third, compliments of David Herbert Tate. He stamped his foot angrily and stalked off the field.
    Two outs now. One to go, and the Tater Chips would win.
    But the Half-pints brought up their power hitter: Charlie Ping, a Chinese-American kid with a punk haircut and muscles that looked obscene on a six-year-old. Charlie Ping had already hit, in this game alone, five grand slams.
    Matthew Birnbaum took aim and pitched.
Whoosh.
Charlie Ping had his first strike of the day. Every other time at bat, he'd hit the first pitch.
    Whoosh.
Caroline couldn't believe it. The parents and brothers and sisters in the bleachers were going wild. She could hear Herbie Tate's booming voice: "That's two, Birnbaum! Strike him out!"
    Matthew Birnbaum took a deep breath and pitched. But his pitching arm was tired, and his luck had run out. Charlie Ping swung a third time and connected with a splat that probably could be heard in downtown Cincinnati, three states and a large river away. The ball sailed up and away and over the fence.
    Ping jogged, smirking, around the bases while the scorekeeper recorded the run. At least no one was on base. But now the score was tied: 32 to 32.
    A little black kid with too big sneakers came up to bat, struck out, burst into tears, and was led away to be consoled by the Half-pints' coach.
    Now it was the Tater Chips' turn at bat, and one run would do it for them.
One run.
Caroline called a brief time-out and sent them, all but Kristin, to the men's room. All she needed was Eric the Beaver, who was up next, to start his ballet dance in the batter's box.
    He didn't. He swung with enough energy to send a slam to the next county, but the bat only caught the edge of the ball and hit an odd little bouncing drive toward first base. The pitcher ran for it, collided with the first baseman, and they both fell down. Eric the Beaver could have made it to first base in the confusion. But he tripped over an untied shoelace; while he sprawled on the baseline, the ball rolled past; Eric picked it up politely and handed it to the first baseman.
    Eric the Beaver was out.
    Hastily Caroline ordered her remaining players: "Check your shoelaces I" J.P. jumped from his seat and went down the line on the bench, retying everyone's sneakers.
    If only she could put Matthew Birnbaum in to bat. He could get the run that would win the game. But Matthew's turn wouldn't come for six more players.
    Jason, the first baseman, was next. Caroline sighed. Jason had struck out every time at bat. Jason swung at everything: high balls, low balls, wild pitches, butterflies, and blowing leaves. Once someone had tossed a candy wrapper on the field when Jason was at bat, and he had swung at that.
    Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Jason struck out so quickly it might have qualified for a world record. He was used to it; but he came back to the bench with his lower lip quivering, anyway.
    And now Poochie—David Tate—was up.
    "If only he had his glasses," Caroline muttered to J.P. "He can't even see to the pitcher's mound."
    "He's gutsy, though," J.P. whispered back. "It takes a lot of guts to be a blind ballplayer."
    Poochie marched toward the batter's box and aired a few theatrical practice swings. Then he took his place and assumed his batting stance, with his behind stuck out and his