War And Pizza

By Robert Allen

Fifteen-year-old Marvin is a social outcast: a street rat, an orphan, a rebel. He lives in Mr. O's junkyard in the town of Upper Squares, where the rich get richer, the power-hungry get more powerful, and laws are written to try to get rid of the poor and needy for good. But Marvin has had enough.

When he, with the support of his mangy, orphaned friends, manages to join a socially elite baseball team, Marvin meets his adversary-coach Boyd Lakes. Boyd is one of the most power-hungry of them all, and he wants nothing to do with Marvin. He and the other players on the team consider Marvin to be a disease on the team that must be eliminated. Boyd pushes Marvin to his limits, trying to get him to quit, but Marvin refuses to give up. Mustering all his courage, he continues to show up and leave it all on the field. Though at times he is tempted to walk away, he knows that his place on the team is about much more than baseball.

Soon, his skills, sportsmanship, and indomitable spirit catch the attention of hundreds of people in the Upper Squares community, all of whom begin to root for the underdog. He suddenly finds himself front and center, standing in the spotlight of the authorities that abandoned him to the streets. By the time the final game of the season rolls around, Marvin is in the midst of a political firestorm—and he realizes this is his one chance to change everything, once and for all.

As an English teacher, Robert Allen takes great satisfaction in guiding teens through a variety of stories because, through story, people of all ages can experience new worlds and are then able to think deeply about their own lives, reflect, learn, and grow. In addition, he believes there is much to learn about life through sports, and the metaphors of a level playing field, hard work, and rooting for the underdog.

Back Cover Text (250 words or less)
Fifteen-year-old Marvin is a social outcast: a street rat, an orphan, a rebel. He lives in Mr. O's junkyard in the town of Upper Squares, where the rich get richer, the power-hungry get more powerful, and laws are written to try to get rid of the poor and needy for good. But Marvin has had enough.

When Marvin—supported by his mangy, orphaned friends—manages to join a socially elite baseball team, he meets his adversary-coach Boyd Lakes. One of the most power-hungry of all, Boyd wants nothing to do with Marvin. He and the other players on the team consider Marvin to be a disease that must be eliminated. Boyd pushes Marvin to his limits, trying to get him to quit, but Marvin refuses to give up. Mustering all his courage, he continues to show up and leave it all on the field. Though at times he is tempted to walk away, he knows that his place on the team is about much more than baseball.

Soon, his skills, sportsmanship, and indomitable spirit catch the attention of hundreds of people in the Upper Squares community, all of whom begin to root for the underdog. He suddenly finds himself front and center, standing in the spotlight of the authorities that abandoned him to the streets. By the time the final game of the season rolls around, Marvin is in the midst of a political firestorm—and he realizes this is his one chance to change everything, once and for all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Allen
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311906885

Robert Allen

Robert Allen is the author of several successful books and Director of Mensa Psychometrics.

Book preview

Chapter One

Marvin Moore peered out of the barred window and watched the sun slowly fall below the horizon. The frigid night air would soon enter his small, concrete, jail cell. The city of Upper Squares sure is a different place than it was just five years ago, he thought as he watched the fiery-orange ball descend. He remembered kids roaming freely about in the park, laughing and smiling, and playing football, baseball, basketball, or even a good game of hide-and-seek. Families from all over the city gathered together to eat lunch and enjoy the afternoon sunshine while police officers, teachers, firemen, and public officials, like the mayor, would stop by and say hello. Camaraderie was strong, and crime was practically nonexistent.

Of course, time changes people, towns, cities, countries, and the world, but not always for the better. Not long ago, a few of the community leaders gained quite a bit of power and decided to change certain laws. With some sly tweaking of the laws here and a few adjustments there, soon enough, people were getting into a lot of trouble with the law—the new law. One of those individuals was Marvin Moore.

The judge told him it would be twenty-four hours in jail because he was only fifteen, but he was enduring his seventh day in the dank city cell. As his eight-by-eight-foot, concrete cell grew dark, he rested on the creaky, lumpy cot under the window and watched a few shadows from the moonlight shift on the wall. Once the dark completely enveloped his room, rodents from inside the walls emerged and rabidly scurried along the floor, looking for food. After the first night, Marvin learned to tuck his legs and feet close to his body, away from the cold, wet floor and the rats. He found it amazing that they didn’t bother him as long as he stayed on the cot. Marvin was quiet, and he could hear the other prisoners pleading with the guards to get the rats away.

Just as he was falling asleep and entering a dream on that seventh night, he heard keys clanking against the bars and then a loud click. The cell door swung open, and a flashlight beamed into Marvin’s eyes.

Let’s go, Moore. Get up! the large prison guard said sharply. You’re free.

The rats scurried away from the light and out of sight. Marvin was a slender but muscular, wiry teenager standing at about six feet tall, with brown curly hair and grimy, olive-colored skin.

He shielded his eyes from the direct light and twisted into a sitting position, What? he muttered.

Get up, you little punk. You’re free. Let’s go! the guard yelled.

Now? You’re letting me go now? In the middle of the freezing night? Wasn’t I supposed to be out a week ago? Marvin asked.

Suddenly, the guard bounded across the tiny room and pounced on Marvin. First, he hit him in the forehead with the butt of his flashlight and then stepped back and delivered a hard, front kick to Marvin’s midsection. The boy curled up and attempted to protect himself from the guard’s heavy blows.

I’m sick and tired of seeing you in here. This is the tenth time you’ve been in this jail. The guard swung, aiming for Marvin’s nose, but he turned at the last moment, and the guard punched him in the shoulder and arms.

I don’t ever want to see you in here again, the guard huffed and puffed.

Marvin managed to utter a few words. All I did was take a loaf of bread from the deli to give to some friends.

I don’t care what you did. Nobody cares. You’re a menace to society, and that’s a fact! The guard bent his leg and lifted his boot heel over Marvin’s body. The judge put you in here, and that’s all that matters! he yelled as he kicked Marvin in the face.

But this isn’t fair! Marvin squirmed and gasped for breath.

"What does fair have to do with it?" the guard replied angrily and grabbed Marvin’s arm. Then he dragged the teenager out of the small cell, through the halls of the prison, out the back door, and threw him into the alley. The cruel, uniformed man shoved him to the wet, cold ground and then stomped back into the jail. Blood from the teenager’s nose and mouth dripped onto the concrete street, forming a small puddle.

Marvin lay in the alley for many minutes with his head in a fog, unable to see straight. The night air was cold, and a strong wind gusted down the alley, carrying with it the smell of rotten food and animal excrement. He managed to lift himself off the ground, rising to his hands and knees. Blood continued to drip from his face, and he felt a sharp, pulsating pain in his ribs.

This has to change, Marvin said to himself. This has to change. People shouldn’t be treated this way, like animals—or worse than animals. This has to change. He watched the blurry headlights zoom back and forth on the main street and prayed they wouldn’t turn down the alley where he might get run down like a stray cat. After a few minutes of collecting his wits and getting used to the pain, Marvin crawled to the side of the alley, grabbed a drainage pipe on the side of the building, pulled himself to his feet, and staggered along in the dark. He found two medium-sized, empty cardboard boxes that had once carried produce, covered himself with them, and slunk down between two garbage dumpsters.

I have become lower than an animal. I have become garbage, he thought. If I have any good news, it’s that I have nothing left to lose and everything to change.

With that thought reverberating in his mind, Marvin passed out among the garbage.

Chapter Two

A man dressed in a blue business suit with a red tie stood staunch and sober on a small stage behind a shiny chrome podium with the words Empire Little League attached to the front. The man spoke in a deep, scratchy voice. Gentlemen, since the effort to transform our great city of Upper Squares into an exemplary place of performance and excellence, and ever since we were all chosen to lead this mission and lead this charge to greatness, we have been good but not great. As you know, we cannot settle for mediocrity in any area of life, and we are doing everything in our power to transform our society. Lately, we have made a great effort to hastily exclude and suppress any elements standing in our way, and as a result, we are seeing progress.

The man adjusted his tie and continued, "Now, throughout the surrounding counties, it is known by all that we have fallen short in one major area, and that is the area of physical excellence and prowess. Call it athletic dominance, call it human physical superiority, call it whatever you will, but I say to you now, this mediocrity must change. And this change starts with our children—teaching our children what is important—and that, my friends, is winning, winning, winning.

"For two years, we have made it our goal to include Empire Little League with the best leagues in the country, producing the cream of the crop and showing the rest of the nation that what we do here should be the example for all to follow. What a great day it will be when we are sending the majority of major leaguers into those magnificent stadiums for millions of people to see. And today, at this point in time, I am able to see this as reality. The pieces of the puzzle have all come together.

I have taken action that, all of you will agree, is smart and logical and is clearly the correct path as we strive toward our goals. I feel our new addition is a perfect fit, and he will do an outstanding job in lifting our league to an elite level. The man paused, took a sip of water, smiled, and announced in a big voice, Let us all welcome our newest addition to the Empire Little League. He put his hands in the air. Gentlemen, may I introduce to you the next manager of the Yankees, Boyd Lakes!

A group of twenty-nine men wearing business suits, major-league baseball caps, and sitting around fancy eating tables rose to their feet and clapped. Mayor Hummery, who was sitting in the front row, gave Boyd two thumbs up. Boyd was tall and thin, perfectly groomed, good-looking, and accustomed to speaking from behind a podium. Over the past three months, he had given 166 speeches, lectures, and inspirational talks to different organizations, businesses, and schools. Boyd loved the attention, the competition, and the ambitious struggle for power—he lived for it. Waiting next to the president of the league for his turn to address the crowd, Boyd stood like a statue with a chiseled, hard face, displaying an unflappable demeanor. He meant business. Eventually, the meeting hall settled down, and everyone eagerly waited for Boyd to speak.

Boyd shook hands with the Empire Little League President, snatched his new team jersey from the nearby uniform table, and proudly held it up before the other team managers. In dark blue, cursive letters, the word Yankees was printed across the front of the button-down shirt. Some in the audience—the competition, the Red Sox, the Orioles, and the Rangers—jeered at the sight of the jersey, but all in all, they were excited to have Boyd among their ranks. Boyd put on the Yankee cap, adjusted it perfectly, and then confidently approached the podium to speak.

Fellow managers, Boyd said in a distinguished, clear voice, I’m thankful to be part of such a fine group. He smiled, showing his bleached, straight teeth. I plan on bringing leadership to our league, hard work to our league, and a fierce, win-at-all-costs attitude. Of course, I’ll stay within the rules. He smiled again, winked, and pointed at the league president. Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve played by the rules and won. When I was the chairman on the City Housing Committee, the Special Events Committee, the Parks and Recreation Committee, and the Entertainment Committee, they all succeeded. When I was president of the Educational Board, the Library Board, the Town’s Energy Board, and the Technological Advancement Board, they all thrived. Everything I lead or become a part of excels, period! But don’t worry, Charles, he smirked at the league president, I can’t take your job right now because I have other obligations…and that is to make the Yankees great and this league a beacon of greatness! To make this community a beacon of greatness! He lifted his hands in the air, clasping the jersey in one fist, and the audience clapped. Mark my words, by the end of my first season, and it will be a season to remember, this league will win the National Excellence Award for Athletic Achievement. I promise you!

Boyd Lakes strutted off the small stage, and the other managers rushed to shake hands and offer high fives and pats on the back. The manager of the Red Sox slugged him in the shoulder quite hard. Boyd frowned and feinted a punch. I’ll see you on opening day, he said, and the two men shook hands in mutual respect.

In the midst of the bantering, a short stocky fellow, Mr. AZ, opened his briefcase and took out a stack of papers. The managers took special note. They called him Mr. AZ because he knew everything from A to Z. He knew all the city, county, and little-league rules and guidelines by heart; he created the schedule, hired the umpires, took care of the fields, and picked the teams. Mr. AZ was an important man, and it was time for him to hand out the rosters.

He glided through the lively room and personally delivered the team rosters to each manager. Before any of the managers dared to look at the paper, they found a private place and then, and only then, would they peruse the information on the document. The kids on that roster would make or break the team, and no manager wanted to be at the bottom of the standings when the season ended. If that happened, God forbid, he would be considered a disgrace and would never manage again—perhaps never be a part of anything associated with Upper Squares again. Only the best survive, and everyone in the room knew it.

Richard Libs, the Rangers manager, isolated himself by placing his chair in the corner of the room and facing the wall. He sat there for an hour, looking over his players. The Padres manager, the most relaxed man in the room, briefly turned his back on his fellow managers, glanced down the list, whispered to himself, Cool, and returned to the conversation. Suddenly, a giant cheer came from the center of the room, Oh yeah! I got Pierce Easter! Pierce Easter! This is lookin’ good, boys! The Orioles manager frantically pumped his fist in the air several times.

Mr. AZ stopped and politely waited for Boyd to finish his long-winded story about his experience in the real Yankees locker room after a World Series victory. He waited and waited. Finally, Boyd was done and turned to Mr. AZ, Give it to me, big guy. I’m sure I’ll have the cream of the crop, the pick of the litter, the best of the best. Here we go.

Mr. AZ thumbed through his files, pulled out a blue piece of paper, and extended it to Boyd. The Yankees manager snatched it out of his hand with rattlesnake speed, yet he didn’t retreat into the corner or find a quiet place to examine his roster. Instead, he stood tall and bold in the center of the room for all to see. As he skimmed down the names on his roster, a big satisfying smile covered his face. Then, as his eyes made it to the bottom of the page the oh-so-good expression faded and transformed into a contorted countenance of confusion and uncertainty.

How can this be? he whispered to himself as the other men looked on. How can this be? he repeated. Boyd was shocked. But…but I didn’t think the league could allow…would allow…but…how? he stammered dumbfounded.

Mickey Ragnoos, the Dodgers’ proud manager, glanced at the Yankee roster, put his arm on Boyd’s shoulder, and said, It can’t be that bad. I mean, we’ve had some boys come through who haven’t been spectacular athletes, to say the least, but over the past few seasons, we’ve made it known to parents we don’t want any—how do I say it—unskilled, uncommitted beginners. You know…boys that stink at baseball. We refer them to the Fall Leagues in Backwater County. So it can’t be too ugly, right?

Boyd Lakes didn’t say a word, standing in stiff silence.

Mickey gently pulled his arm off Boyd. Boyd was silent, staring off into space. The room fell quiet. Curious glances shot from eye to eye.

Mickey craned his neck to peek at Boyd’s player list, but before he could get to the bottom, Boyd whispered, Marvin Moore…Marvin Moore? he said flabbergasted.

Mickey grimaced and solemnly replied, You might want to talk to Mr. AZ and see if something can be done about this.

Boyd crumpled up the roster in one hand, glared at Mickey, and a slow, deep, dark, raspy voice oozed out of Boyd’s mouth through gritted teeth, Oh, something will be done about this, I promise you that. There will be nothing left to chance. Nothing. You can bet on it.

Chapter Three

The large, red apple tasted delicious, juicy, crunchy, and completely satisfying. Marvin Moore took another small bite, appreciating each morsel turning in his mouth. A drop of apple juice attempted to escape down his chin, but he quickly caught it with his tongue. He handed it to the boy sitting next to him, and he took two small bites. Then, he handed the red apple to another boy, who closed his eyes as he took a nice-sized bite. Next, a girl Marvin’s age took the fruit and ate, making mmm mmm noises as she chewed and swallowed. Lastly, she passed it to Petey, a seven-year-old boy, and being the youngest, he was given the privilege of eating the remainder of the apple—seeds, stem, everything. The apple was gone in twenty seconds flat. Petey grinned and said, Thanks, Marvin.

Marvin grinned back.

Did anyone else locate provisions? Eddie asked. He spoke in a proper, sophisticated fashion, as if he were trying out for Jeopardy. It wasn’t unnatural. The words came from his reading; he loved books, and through his wire-rimmed, oversized, black, scratched glasses, he skimmed pages at lightning speed.

Michael—a tall boy with an old, red leather baseball cap with a big C on the front—replied, "I didn’t find nothin’. Tommy’s Pizzas was closed for the day. Looks like they’re remodelin’ or somethin’. I think they’ll be open tomorrow. We’ll get somethin’ tomorrow."

When he spoke, and he didn’t speak very often, his teeth clamped down around the edges of his tongue, so his lips had to work extra hard. He took as many shortcuts with his consonants as possible. However, if anyone needed something fixed or invented, Michael was the man for the job.

The kids nodded in agreement because they believed there would be food tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next day for sure. They never knew when the food would come around, but they knew it eventually would, and sometimes in bulk.

Next was Kathleen, or Kat, as they liked to call her. She pushed her frizzy, brown hair behind her ears, smiled, reached into her pocket, pulled out a handful of hard candy, and said, I guess we have dessert tonight. The others started to cheer. Each kid, starting with Petey, received several pieces of the hard, tasty sweets. I went to a bunch of restaurants today and picked their candy bowls, she said as they sucked and chewed the cherry, strawberry, watermelon, lemon, and peppermint candies.

As he often did, Marvin gave up his pieces so that the others could have more. As they were enjoying the treats, he called their attention, Hey everyone, I want to tell you something. He looked at each of them as their cheeks and lips moved back and forth. He continued, I’ve decided to play baseball this year.

Instantly, the candy smacking stopped, and all eyes fixed on Marvin. A long minute went by as everyone pondered the statement. Dumbfounded, Michael shook his head and said, You can’t do that.

Yeah, Petey agreed.

The league will not tolerate you, Eddie added. I believe that’s a violation to a certain city code or league rule.

Kat sat silently, but her silence spoke loudly. As everyone knew, the Empire Little League was for the upper class, the elite, the rich, and the famous. It was full of senator’s sons, lawyer’s and doctor’s kids, and especially-talented athletic kids drawn from a specific pool of families. Marvin would be diving into uncharted, dangerous waters if he played in the Empire Little League, and they all knew it.

Sure I can, Marvin’s voice was fiery. I’ve found a way in. He folded his arms across his chest proudly.

But you live here with us…here! Eddie waved his hands at their surroundings. Your current place of residence is a junkyard!

Kat lowered her head in shame, and Petey nestled up next to her like a kitten to its mother.

This small band of