All I own is Carla. Well, her and the laptop I wrote this on.
"They're gonna do what to you?" I exclaimed, standing up off the stoop, "Yeah-Yeah, are you crazy?"
"It'll be safe," he assured me, "Ham'll be manning the bike pedals; they're just gonna lower me down, nice and slow."
"That's a terrible idea!" I stressed.
Yeah-Yeah was my best friend, and, outside of the sandlot guys, I was his best friend too, although he'd probably never admit it. If anyone was going to talk him out of this horrible plan, it would have to be me.
"Well do you have a better idea?" he asked, "It's a Babe Ruth ball, do you know what that means? We have to get it back!"
"Of course I know who he is, who do you think I am, Smalls?" I asked, "And anyway, why can't Smalls go get it? It was his stupid idea to use that ball in the first place!"
"Benny doesn't want to send Smalls over. He can't handle that sort of pressure, he'd drop dead on the spot," Yeah-Yeah explained.
"And you won't?" I asked, "What if The Beast comes out? He'll eat you!"
"I won't get eaten," he said, but I couldn't tell who he was trying to convince more, me or himself.
"Yeah-Yeah, you don't have to do this," I said, "No one'll think any less of you."
"Yeah they will," he said, frowning, "Listen, I gotta go home now, but I'll see you tomorrow. I'll come over afterwards."
"Fine," I said, "Good luck."
"Thanks," he answered.
But I wasn't just gonna leave it at that.