O.K. is Great

By David Tiefenthaler

O.K. is Great is Diary of a Wimpy Kid meets the Sandlot. In this illustrated novel, a 7th grade boy, Otis Kalshwonkee, is on a quest for greatness. Otis, more commonly known as O.K. on account of his initials, moves to a new house and starts at a new school. His goal is to be great, but at what, he's not so sure. O.K.'s father suggests working hard at running, but there's no fun in trying hard. O.K. figures he will find something that he is great at naturally. He sees the school records in gym class for the mile run, the shuttle run, pull-ups, and sit-ups. Standing in the way of his greatness are the mean girls who bully him constantly, his jock of a brother, his perfectly perfect sister, his naughty dog, a no-nonsense teacher, and probably his biggest hurdle, himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Tiefenthaler
• Release date: May 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311751737

David Tiefenthaler

David Tiefenthaler (1976 - still alive) is a middle school teacher by day, a busy dad during the afternoon and evening, and an author and illustrator by night. If you're wondering when he sleeps, he is wondering the same thing. He was born in Flint, Michigan, but after only one year there, he moved to Wisconsin. Actually, his parents moved, and they dragged David along with them. He's been living in Southeastern Wisconsin ever since. In the summer months, when he isn't writing or illustrating, his hobbies include fishing, playing baseball, working out, and running 12 mile obstacle courses for fun.

Book preview

1. I’M O.K.

The only people that matter in the world are people who are great at something. I’m Otis Kalshwonkee, O.K. for short, and I’ve been cursed to be average at everything for the rest of my life.

Even my initials are just O. K. I asked my parents why they didn’t name me something cool, like Maximus.

Because you’re named after Grandpa Otis, my father replied. At least they didn’t name me Stu like my older brother. That’s the name of our great uncle who was a farmer or something. Every chance I get I call my brother Stu - Pid. Get it? Here. I’ll draw a picture of that goon, so you can see for yourself.

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Here’s a little more about my family’s last name, if you’re wondering how to pronounce Kalshwonkee correctly. It rhymes with donkey and honkey. Sometimes I wonder if I’d prefer a nickname like the inappropriate word for donkey instead of O.K. Maybe?

Actually, O.K. is better than being called Jackbutt. I’m censoring myself here. I know the real word. Dad says it sometimes when I’m fooling around too much, like when I put a mousetrap in his underwear drawer. He used a lot of other words that shouldn’t be repeated when I did that. In my defense, I didn’t know the mousetrap would fall into his boxer/briefs and then he would put them on. It’s weird to see a grown man cry.

As for my brother, Stu, he’s a turd and all, but we do have some things in common. We both love to play football, basketball, and baseball. The only problem is, no matter what sport we play, I end up on my brother’s team. My dad only has enough time to be the coach for one of us, and he figures he can kill two birds with one stone by including me with all the older kids. For baseball, I bat ninth and have to bunt a lot. I get a lot of walks though because I’m short.

In a moment, my whole life could change. For once, I can be the hero! The reason these thoughts are polluting my brain is because I’m about to step into the batter’s box with a chance to win the game. We’re in extra innings of a tie game, and I’m stepping up to the plate with a runner on second and nobody out. Clear your mind, O.K. It’s my time now. Just a little single, and I could drive in the winning run. I’m going to break this O.K. curse when I crush this next pitch and drive in the winning run!

I look down the third baseline for the signs from Coach Dad. NO! He’s giving me the sign to bunt. I look away in disgust. He hollers at me. Got it, Otis?

Yeah, I got it. I readjust my helmet to send him the sign that I know what to do. Sacrifice myself yet again for the team. Normally I wouldn’t be upset with bunting, but if I get a hit I can walk off the field as the hero. I can finally be somebody! Plus, as Stu would say, the pitcher I’m up against totally has a spaghetti arm. Their best pitcher is out now, and they had to bring in this dude who throws total meatballs. Nice and slow, straight down the middle, hit-me-a-mile meatballs!

I focus in as the pitcher lofts the ball towards me. It’s a little high, the perfect pitch to get underneath and crush. Swing hard, O.K.! WHOOSH. Oh no. I missed. I swung too soon with my wicked bat speed. The ball didn’t get there quick enough!

O.K.! Coach Dad shouts at me. Look at the signs! Do what I said! He gives me the bunt sign again.

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Reluctantly, I nod to him, notifying Dad that I will follow his orders. Everyone and their grandmother probably know I’m going to bunt after my Dad yelled at me to look at the signs.

I’m not kidding about the grandmother part. Some old lady in the bleachers shouts, He’s going to bunt! First and third basemen, move in!

Get ready, O.K. Here comes the pitch. Another fat, juicy, meatball of a pitch right down the middle. I square my body and bunt it perfectly down the line, but the third baseman is charging fast. He picks it up and throws me out at first base by half a step.

Hooray for me. I did my stupid job, and now I’m out. The winning run is on third base, and up to the plate comes the leadoff hitter, my brother.

I trudge back to the dugout, and all the older kids on the team show their appreciation for my sacrifice by slugging me in the shoulder or slapping me on the butt way too hard. I take my batting helmet off and watch Stu at the plate.

He stands in the left batter’s box, digs his back foot in and turns his head toward the pitcher. The opposing pitcher comes set, and softly tosses the pitch toward the plate. Stu uncoils his body, hips turn, chest toward the ball, hands whip forward, and the bat meets the ball in a violent collision. CRACK! The sound leaves no doubt. My 14-year old brother hammers the baseball and sends it flying out of the park.

Home run. Game over.

If you watch the Major Leagues, a home run doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Every player hits home runs. But in Little League, if you hit a home run, especially over a fence that is 325 feet deep down the line, that’s a huge deal.

Stu parades around the bases as our team tumbles out of the dugout to meet him at home. I reluctantly follow them. With a huge smile on his face, Dad high-fives Stu as he runs past third. Stu comes home, and our team mobs him as he jumps on home plate.

After the celebration dies down, Stu walks back to the dugout with me and says, Looks like you didn’t need to bunt.

Thanks, Captain Obvious, I reply. Normally, that comment would get me a quick punch to the shoulder, but Stu must be in a good mood. He just shoves me instead.

I just blew my chance at greatness when I swung and missed. I shouldn’t have listened to Coach Dad! Why doesn’t he have confidence in me?

Well, I did disobey him and whiff when I took a chance.

Maybe I just don’t have what it takes to be a somebody like my brother. I’m just a nobody. Actually, I’m worse than nobody. I’m just O.K.

2. MEDIOCRELAND

I should give up on sports. I think I’ll try my hand at being an illustrator. I’ll create some awesome comic book that gets turned into the next movie blockbuster.

I know my pictures aren’t great. They’re only okay. My dad says if I just work really, really hard at something that I really, really like, I’ll get great at it. But I don’t know if I’ll ever like anything really, really that much. I used to like maraschino cherries a ton, but I ate a whole jar of them at a birthday party. Then I puked. Now I think cherries are gross.

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I told my parents that story, and they laughed at me. That’s not exactly what we meant, O.K. I knew what they meant, but I still think maraschino cherries are foul.

After the game, I started to wonder why I struggle to break out of Mediocreland. According to the doctor at my last checkup, I’m small for my age. I’m just over four and a half feet on my tiptoes, and I pack 65 pounds of twisted steel on my razor-thin frame.

I’m also at a disadvantage because I was born at 11:59 PM on August 31st. This is the worst day and time to be born because of how they separate the grade levels in school. If I had been born one minute later, I would be going into sixth grade with all of the other 12-year-olds instead of seventh grade with the 13-year-olds. Then I’d be the oldest, biggest, and baddest man in my grade.

I asked my mom why she didn’t hold me back. She said, I did for one day. All you did was cause trouble in preschool. You mixed all the paint colors, and then tied other kid’s shoelaces together and watched them fall down.

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Mom thinks I should focus on school and pay more attention in class. On my 6th grade report card, I got a couple of Bs to go with my Cs, but Mom wasn’t impressed. Getting a B these days is average. You should be getting an A in everything.

I got an A minus in Art, I said.

Maybe you should be an artist, Mom suggested.

My folders, notebooks, and binder are covered with pictures, but I only like to doodle when I’m forced to sit still in school. (Mom should have never bought me a Sharpie because I use it to draw all over my backpack.)

But, Mom. I can’t make the pictures in my head appear the way I want them to on the page. I can see it in my mind, but I can’t make it happen when I draw.

Well then, keep working hard, she said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

Working hard is stupid! What doesn’t she understand? You’ve either got it or you don’t.

Take, for instance, drawing a picture of something fierce like a dragon. I can never get a picture to look all wicked nasty.

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I wanted this dragon to look like it was ready to destroy everything in its path, so I drew the face first. But it looked like he was constipated or something, so then I made him sit on the toilet.

So I’m not gifted at sports, and I lack artistic talent. I’m handsome, though. My curly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes captivate the ladies wherever I go. It’s just that the only ladies that are captivated are my two grandmothers.

Otis, sweetie. You are just sooo cute! Grandma Lulu likes to say. Then she pinches my cheeks and ruffles my hair. I wish she didn’t mess with my hair. She ruins the Japanese Anime curly-yet-spiky hairstyle that I design every morning with the help of two tons of hair gel.

However desperate my plight was in the past, there might just be a chance to break the curse soon. In a week, we’re moving from the mean streets of the city out into the country.

Maybe I can totally rule the new school since I’m so rough and tough. If I wear my Thug Life shirt the first day and draw some tats on my arms, I’ll put those country bumpkins in check. The guys will live in fear, and the girls will swoon.

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But when I think about it, I bet my parents won’t let me wear my Thug Life T-shirt the first day. That’s okay, since I can’t find it anyway. But I’ll need to do something impressive right off the bat, since at my city school the bigger kids picked on me constantly.

My brother doesn’t stick up for me, either. He lets the older kids beat on me and then says, I outsource my beatings at school.

Unfortunately, fighting back with Stu doesn’t get me anywhere.