Chapter One

The popcorn was popping.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The sausages were sizzling.
Sizzle. Sizzle. Sizzle.
The food sellers were shouting.
"Popcorn!" "Hotdogs!" "Peanuts!" "Crackerjacks!"
And the smell, oh the smell, was delightfully delicious.
Little Cody James took his dad's hand as they pushed their way through the crowd.
He couldn't see much, just a tangle of legs, and feet, and shoes, and bags.
But he could hear the rumble of excited chatter, smell the enticing food, sense something special in the air.
That morning his dad had said: "we're going to the baseball."
Cody didn't have a clue what that meant. Baseball?
He was only five years old, and came from a little town in England.
He thought he knew a lot of words, but this one was new.
His dad explained: "It's a game. A bit like cricket. You know what cricket is, don't you, Cody?"
Cody nodded enthusiastically. He liked cricket.
On their last holiday they had bought a little bat and a little red ball and three white sticks that they stuck into the sand on the beach. His dad had given him the bat and told him that he should try to hit the ball when it was thrown at him.
He tried it out. Swish, swish, swish.
His dad told him to stand in front of the stumps and then had thrown the ball towards him.
He had shut his eyes and, with an almighty swish, waved the heavy bat through the air.
Nothing happened. He had opened his eyes afterwards and looked around to see where the ball had gone.
It was nowhere to be seen.
He turned around. It was behind him, nestling against the white sticks which his dad referred to as "stumps".
One of them had been knocked over. His dad picked it up and stuck it back into the sand.
"Never mind," said his dad. "Next time."
His dad threw the ball again. Swish. No luck this time either.
Cody threw the bat down. "I can't do it!" he shouted, rather angrily.
"Oh, Cody. You can't just give up. It takes practice."
"What is practice?" asked Cody.
"Well," said his dad, "every time you try to do something you must keep going until you can do it."
Cody reluctantly bent down and picked the bat back up.
His dad walked back to his spot on the sand.
"Ready?" he asked Cody.
Cody nodded.
"Watch the ball carefully," said his Dad.
His dad threw the ball.
Swiiiish!
This time it felt different. Cody had done exactly what his dad had told him.
He didn't shut his eyes. He watched the ball carefully. He felt the bat twist in his hand. He looked up and saw the ball flying through the air, heading for the sea.
"I did it!" said Cody.
"Yes, you did. Well done!" said his dad, ruffling his hair. "Why did you hit it this time do you think?"
"Practice," answered Cody, beaming.
So baseball was like cricket. Cody thought he would enjoy baseball.

They climbed lots and lots and lots of steps and little Cody's legs were getting very tired. He didn't know how much further he could walk. Not only were the steps steep and he couldn't see where he was going, but he was also carrying his rucksack over his shoulder which felt very heavy. It contained some pens, a new colouring book and a big bag of fruit sweets given him by his Auntie Amanda as "a treat" before they had left her house. "Don't eat them all at once, you will be sick," she had warned him.
Last but not least was a little cuddly tiger, which was called simply "Stripey". Stripey was his friend. He had owned Stripey since he was a baby, and they went everywhere together. He thought Stripey might like the baseball.

Cody realised he could climb no further. "Pick me up," he cried, tugging at his dad's leg.
"Ok sport," said his dad, and bent down to hoist him up, up, up.
Up past his knees. Up past his slightly rounded belly. Up past his rather pointy chin. Up past his short, stumpy nose. Up past his blue, smiling round eyes. Way up into the sky.
When he came down again his little legs went either side of his dad's sticky out ears and rested on his shoulders, either side of his round, hairless head.
Cody looked around and suddenly the world was different. His mouth dropped open. "Wow!" he said, staring in wonder.
In front of him now was a big, vast, green diamond. It was like his back garden only bigger, MUCH bigger. It was huge. Everywhere there were people sitting, talking, eating, singing. They sat in seats all around the big diamond.
On the diamond were little people, like ants, dressed in white uniforms and wearing little hats. They were throwing balls at each other.
On one corner of the diamond a man was holding a long stick. He was swishing it around.
Swish, swish, swish.
A loud, rumbling voice came from nowhere. "Batting at number 3 for the Red Sox," it said. "Dustin Pedroiaaa." The crowd cheered, and whistled, and chanted the second word back.
"Pedroiaaa... Pedroiaaa... Pedroiaaa."
Looking down, Cody saw a man with a big, rotund belly dressed in the same clothes as the people on the diamond, except his shirt didn't seem to fit him as well as theirs did. He opened his mouth wide and lifted up a giant hotdog, bigger than any sausage sandwich that Cody had ever seen. The hot dog disappeared into the huge cave that was his mouth and his teeth came chomping down on it. Chomp!
Something red and sticky shot out of the sides of his mouth and deposited itself on the bulge in the middle of his shirt. The man didn't seem to notice, he was too busy looking out at the diamond, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Here we are, sport," said Cody's dad, lifting him off his shoulders and placing him on a seat.
Now Cody's world returned to normal. Rather than the big green diamond all he could see was the back of hot dog man's bulbous head. What a disappointment.
But Dad sensed he wasn't happy and produced two big green cushions from behind his back. "Stand up a minute, Code, these will help you see," he said.
Cody did as he was told. He lifted the rucksack off his shoulders and placed it on the ground. Then he watched as dad placed the two cushions, one on top of the other, onto his seat.
"Ok sport," he said, and held his hands out, tucking them under Cody's armpits and lifting him onto the top of the cushions.
Miraculously, he could see the diamond again. And the players. And the crowd. And only the top part of hot dog man's big, round head.
He would be able to see the game, after all.