Aurora County All-Stars

by Deborah Wiles Narrated by Kate Jackson

Overview

House Jackson, age twelve, star pitcher and team captain of the Aurora County All-Stars, has a secret. For the past year, while sidelined with a broken elbow, he has spent every afternoon at the bedside of a mysterious old man the other kids call Mean-Man Boyd-and he doesn't want anyone to know. Now House is finally ready to play ball again, but his team's biggest (and ONLY) game of the year might be canceled, thanks to the very girl who caused his broken elbow. It's almost too much to bear. But in the standoff that ensues, House finds a courage he didn't know he possessed-and discovers that just about everyone in Aurora County, Mississippi, has a secret.

Editorial Reviews

Elizabeth Ward

There's much to savor: bubbly prose…a dog named Eudora Welty and a kid named Parting Schotz…lots of baseball lore; and a cliffhanger of an all-star game that brings the whole town together. As one character sighs, "It's positively Thornton Wilder." But it's Thornton Wilder on a sugar high—and that's some high.
—The Washington Post

Publishers Weekly

Batter up! National Book Award finalist Wiles (Each Little Bird That Sings) delivers the third book set in her fictional Aurora County-a more boy-friendly read than its predecessors, with plenty of talk about baseball and what constitutes a stalwart team. Twelve-year-old House Jackson, the Aurora County All-Stars captain and star pitcher, has slogged through the preceding year with an out-of-commission elbow. Instead of playing baseball, he's spent most of his time indoors, reading the classics to an old recluse, Mr. Norwood Rhinehart Beauregard Boyd. But when Mr. Boyd dies, House is reminded of his itch to play. Unfortunately, the All-Stars' only game of the year is scheduled for the same day as Aurora County's 200th anniversary pageant, an event directed by pesky 14-year-old Frances Shotz, the girl who broke House's elbow. After a series of minor mishaps, betrayals and bouts of miscommunication, House and Frances work out a hilarious compromise that all readers can root for. In the spirit of Ernest Thayer's poem, "Casey at the Bat," the energy during the game mounts, and sports fans will be on the edge of their seats to see which team triumphs. Quotations from Walt Whitman's poetry, baseball players and Aurora County news dispatches pepper the story and add color; Love, Ruby Lavenderfans will enjoy Ruby's fortuitous cameo. A home run for Wiles. Ages 10-up. (Aug.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information

Kirkus Reviews

In Aurora County, Miss., only one baseball game matters: the annual contest between the All-Stars and the Raleigh Redbugs, scheduled this year at the same time as the once-in-a-lifetime pageant celebrating Aurora County's. Worse, Frances Schotz, the girl who broke pitcher House Jackson's elbow last year, is directing the pageant and their mamas have signed up all the other players. Already upset about witnessing the death of elderly recluse Norwood Boyd, a man somehow associated with his own dead mother, the quiet 12-year-old needs to find a way to save his team's game and placate the Mamas in spite of his weakened arm. Wiles connects all these elements with snippets of Walt Whitman, quotes from baseball greats and the historical fact of segregation to forge a poignant and humorous coming-of-age story. Parts of House's story first appeared as a serial in the Boston Globe. Although some characters appeared in previous novels, this one stands on its own, and with each iteration Aurora County becomes more real. (Fiction. 10-14)

From the Publisher

* "A poignant and humorous coming-of-age story."—Kirkus Reviews, starred review "A slow-simmering stew of friendship and betrayal, family love and loyalty, and finding oneself."—SLJ * "A home run for Wiles."—Publishers Weekly, starred review A Junior Library Guild Selection New York Public Library's One Hundred Titles for Reading and Sharing   —

The Washington Post Book World

"There's much to savor: bubbly prose (a little girl 'twinkles' down some steps, House 'bulldozes' to a stage); a dog named Eudora Welty and a kid named Parting Schotz; a wonderfully convoluted plot involving an old man's death 'at the simmering time just before daybreak,' a sheaf of Walt Whitman quotes; a Fourth of July pageant; lots of baseball lore; and a cliffhanger of an all-star game that brings the whole town together. As one character sighs, 'It's positively Thornton Wilder.' But it's Thornton Wilder on a sugar high—and that's some high."

DEC 07/JAN 08 - AudioFile

Kate Jackson takes on the role of an expert storyteller, pausing to let listeners savor Wiles's rich wordplay, then rushing enthusiastically at more dramatic points. Her performance transports listeners to slow-moving Aurora County, Mississippi, for Wiles's third saga about this caring community. This time the central character is 12-year-old House Jackson, popular pitcher for the Aurora County All-Stars. Out of commission for a year because of a badly broken elbow, he's been secretly reading classics to 88-year-old Norwood Boyd, the town recluse, who is dying. Jackson's slow pace lets listeners enter the contemplative mind of House, who must sort out his feelings when responsibility, loyalty, and truth become blurred. S.W. © AudioFile 2007, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171788681
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	08/14/2007
Edition description:	Unabridged
Age Range:	8 - 11 Years

Read an Excerpt

The Aurora County All-Stars

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By Wiles, Deborah

Harcourt Children's Books

Copyright © 2007 Wiles, Deborah
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780152060688

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Chapter 1
 
To me, every hour of the day and night
is an unspeakably perfect miracle.
—WALT WHITMAN
 
 
Mr. Norwood Rhinehart Beauregard Boyd, age eighty-eight, philanthropist, philosopher, and maker of mystery, died on a June morning in Mabel, Mississippi, at home in his bed.
 
He died at the simmering time just before daybreak. Crickets tucked themselves under rocks for the day. Blue jays chitter-chattered in the pines. High above the treetops, cirrus clouds wisped across a slate blue sky.
 
Mr. Norwood Rhinehart Beauregard Boyd lay unbreathing on a feather mattress surrounded by a carved rosewood bed frame with a high headboard that he had bought in Madagascar on his travels many years ago, before he closed himself up in his house with his treasures.
 
All night long the June bugs had tap-tap-tapped against the glass panes at the open bedroom window, trying to buzz into Mr. Norwood Boyd’s room and touch the lamplight. As the light came into the day, the hard-shelled little insects fell into an opening between the glass and the screen, where they hummed together at the bottom of the window in soft confusion. Outside the window, deep in the tall weeds, a garter snake slitheredin search of mice. It was June 17. A Thursday.
 
Mr. Norwood Boyd died a quiet death attended by sky, clouds, crickets, birds, bugs, snakes, and one human being: House Jackson.
 
House Jackson, age twelve, crackerjack baseball pitcher, obedient son, and keeper of his own counsel, had arrived just before the simmering time. He eased himself gingerly into a ladder-back chair next to the carved bed. He held his breath as he watched Mr. Norwood Boyd breathe and stare at the ceiling in a faraway silence. Instinctively—for it had been his habit—he reached for the book on the bedside table. Treasure Island. He opened it to the page that had been saved with a ribboned bookmark, and read out loud in a mechanical voice: Still, Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his head; but he had not yet surrendered.
 
At that moment, Mr. Norwood Boyd surrendered. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth. A rattling sound came from his throat. The smell of Mr. Norwood’s rattled breath made House blink and sit back in his folding chair. That breath—the sound of it and the smell of it—traveled the entire room, spangling the air like a salute, as if that breath was a last farewell to the big old bed, a last farewell to the lighted lamp, a last farewell to the rose-patterned carpet, to the bureau where the clothes were kept, to the bedside table where water shimmered in the glass, and to House, who had been faithful.
 
When there was no more rattle and no more breath, House did as he had been instructed to do. He called Doc MacRee’s office from the big black telephone beside Mr. Norwood Boyd’s bed. His fingers trembled as he dialed, and his voice cracked as he tried to speak.
 
“Mr. Norwood Boyd.” He was out of breath.
 
“Who is this?” asked a cranky-voiced Miss Betty Ramsey at the doctor’s answering service. 
“He’s . . . dead.” House felt the truth tingle across his shoulders, up his neck, through his scalp. He reached under his baseball cap and gave his head a small scratch.
 
“Is this a joke?” Miss Betty did not like jokes.
 
“No, ma’am,” House whispered. His pale cheeks were on fire—he could practically hear his freckles sizzle.
 
Miss Betty’s voice was high and nasal: “Is that you, Cleebo Wilson? You scoundrel! I’m calling your mama right now—she will whip you good! This is not funny!” House couldn’t think of one useful thing to say. Miss Betty waited. “Hello?”
 
House put the telephone receiver back in its cradle as quietly as he could, as if he were handling a sleeping baby. Miss Betty’s voice squeaked, Who’s there? Who’s—and then it was gone.
 
House licked his lips and stared at Mr. Norwood Boyd. He had half a mind to touch him, but he didn’t. His mother had died at home six years ago, and he had wanted to touch her, too, but he hadn’t. He thought about that moment now, of how he had somehow known that the body lying on the bed was no longer his mother. She was no longer there. And now Mr. Norwood Boyd was no longer here.
 
House glanced out the window where the sun was beginning to light up the day. It would be a hot one. Soon the whole town would know about Mr. Norwood Boyd’s death. Kids would talk and the stories about Norwood Boyd would surface. The old rumors would rise and kids would have a heyday.
 
And there was nothing House could do about that. What could he say that would change anything? No one would believe him, anyway, and he’d never hear the end of it. It was best to keep his secret and to tell none of them.  He rubbed his open palms across his face and stood up. It had been a hard morning—an unbelievable morning. And today there would be more hard things. As soon as the sun blazed high in the morning sky he was going to have to face an enemy. A girl.
 
Swallow your toads early in the day, his mother used to say, and get the hardest things over with first. When he was six, his toads were easy to understand: Make your bed! Clean your room! Vegetables! As he got older, toads got harder to swallow: Apologize! Be responsible! Tell the truth! Now that he was twelve, his toads were life-sized and impossible to face, much less swallow—but he would do it.
 
He stared at a cobweb in the corner of the room. He had already faced death; he could face his toad this morning.
 
House took a last look at Mr. Norwood Boyd. He would go home now. He would take his sister, Honey, to pageant tryouts because he said he would. Then he would go to baseball practice. He would pitch like Sandy Koufax, his favorite baseball player of all time on his favorite team of all time, the long-ago Los Angeles Dodgers dream team of 1965. Koufax had pitched a perfect game in 1965, even when his arm felt like it was about to come off. House knew about pain like that.
 
Yes, that’s what he would do. He would face his toad and he would get his life back to normal with the baseball team, the game, the summer. And no one would know that he had sat in Mr. Norwood Boyd’s ghostly home this morning, watching a dead man decompose.
 
 
Chapter 2
"A man has to have goals—for a day, for a lifetime—and
that was mine, to have people say, “There goes Ted
Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived.”
—TED WILLIAMS, LEFT FIELDER, BOSTON RED SOX
 
 
The sound of fat tires crunching over the pea gravel at the front gates to Mr. Norwood Boyd’s driveway shocked House out of his reverie. He almost bit his tongue as he leaped to his feet. Outside, car doors opened. Shut.
 
“How are we going to get in there?” Sheriff Taylor’s voice sifted through the windowpanes.
 
House scooted out of Norwood Boyd’s bedroom at the front of the house, sprinted down the wide hallway filled with photographs, dodged around the chairs in the dusty dining room, and jumped off the back-kitchen door stoop. He slid along the side of the house, his heart banging against his ribs. Kudzu vines slithered away from the driveway gates like snakes, as they were hacked and pulled down from the other side. Any minute now that gate would swing open. House parted the thick, leafy branches of a giant honeysuckle bush beside the front porch and crawled into what he knew was a good hiding place. It was cool and cavelike inside the honeysuckle bush. There was plenty of room. And House was not alone.
 
An old pug-dog with bulging eyes shivered herself sick inside the branchy cave. She stared at House with a pitiful look. “Hey, Eudora,” House whispered. “Hey, girl.” He scratched her between her ears. Eudora closed her eyes and gave a tiny sigh.
 
“What am I going to do with you?” said House. “I got baseball practice this afternoon.” He would pitch and his best friend, Cleebo Wilson, would catch. Together they would work on House’s fastball, now that his elbow seemed to be back in business. It had taken the better part of a year to get the elbow in good shape. The whole team was counting on that fastball to help them beat the Raleigh Redbugs in the big game on July 4. They had just over two weeks to be ready to pull off a victory.
 
House scratched Eudora under her collar—it made a crinkling sound. “You got something stuck in here, girl?”
 
The big gate in front of Mr. Norwood Boyd’s creaked open at the same time that House pulled a piece of paper from Eudora’s collar. It was rolled like a scroll, and his name was written on the outside of it—HOUSE—in an old, careful script. House stared at it. He felt the sweat stand out on his face. He had seen that handwriting before.
 
 
© 2007, 2005 by Deborah Wiles
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
 
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact or mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
 



Continues...

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Excerpted from The Aurora County All-Stars by Wiles, Deborah Copyright © 2007 by Wiles, Deborah. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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