He nodded again, barely registering. His turn. One out, Helmet Hippo on second base. Right hit, and Jesse could drive in the tying run. Better hit, and Jesse and Helmet Hippo would both score, taking the lead.
To hit, Jesse had to watch the ball coming at him and time the click of the mouse. Except sometimes the ball would speed up, sometimes slow down, and sometimes drift wide—a walk. Just like in real baseball, judgment and timing were everything.
First pitch, Jesse clicked too soon. Strike.
Second pitch. Ball drifted wide, but Jesse had already clicked. A swing and a miss, strike two.
A dialogue box opened above Helmet Hippo’s head. Players couldn’t type in anything they wanted—the website didn’t allow that. Security controls, his mother had said approvingly. Instead, you could select from stock expressions—a lot of sporting stuff, basic conversational stuff. The website was also patrolled for bullying. Jesse knew, because his mother had told him that. He didn’t see how the players could bully one another, given that the stock phrases were all Go Team Go kind of stuff, but maybe there were ways around the phrases. Things the other, more experienced kids knew how to do. Jesse didn’t care; he was still learning how to write, so he liked being able to select a whole phrase for his bear to say with a click of the computer mouse.
“Eye on the ball,” Helmet Hippo said now. “You can do it. I know you can.”
Jesse took a deep breath. He would do this. For his team. For Helmet Hippo.
Ball came, a tiny black dot traveling down the computer screen, first slow, then fast, fast, fast…
Jesse clicked his mouse. On the screen, his bear swung a bat, the sound of thwacking came through the speakers, and suddenly, the tiny black dot was moving again, flying away from Jesse’s bear, over Helmet Hippo into the green of the outfield, but still going, going…
The word “GONE” lit up across Jesse’s screen. Virtual confetti rained down, triumphant music blared. Home run. Jesse had done it. Home run!
The graphic explosion cleared, and now Jesse could watch his bear and Helmet Hippo run the bases. Scoring once, scoring twice, as Jesse’s team took the lead, eight to seven.
“Jesse, five more minutes,” his mother called from the kitchen.
“Okay!”
Jesse remained glued to the screen. His left hand now clutched Zombie Bear. All his teammates were talking, conversation bubbles appearing everywhere as they congratulated him on his game-winning hit.
But Jesse had eyes for only one teammate: Helmet Hippo.
“Way to go! You are a champion!”
Jesse was still smiling, beaming really, when a new icon lit up on the bottom panel of his screen. The mailbox. His bear had just received mail.
Jesse obediently clicked. Generally mail came from the site itself. Notification of bonus points, presents for Zombie Bear on his birthday, or announcements of weekly specials on the site—play this game, earn this many bonus points!
But the message wasn’t from the website administrator. It was from Helmet Hippo. They could send mail to each other. Jesse hadn’t known that, but now he did.
“Homerun Bear,” the message began (only Jesse called his bear Zombie Bear, after the scissors incident). “Congratulations on your winning hit. I knew you could do it! Want to play again? Tomorrow, 3:30, I’ll be here. I always wear my Red Sox hat for good luck. You?”
There was a button for reply.
Jesse hit reply, watched a fresh window open up. Helmet Hippo’s name automatically appeared, but the rest of the message was blank. No phrases to pick from. He’d have to do it. Type it in all by himself. But he could use the first message to cheat a little, look at those words for spelling.
Jesse’s mother was banging around in the kitchen.
Jesse stuck his tongue between his teeth and began to laboriously type. “Yes. I’ll be here. I like the Red Sox, too.”
*
LATER, AFTER DINNER, after homework, after bath and bedtime stories, Jesse curled up beneath his Star Wars sheets and clutched Zombie Bear. He thought again of his homerun hit. He thought again of Helmet Hippo.
And he felt warm all over. Like someone special.
Tomorrow, 3:30. Jesse couldn’t wait.