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over.”
    â€œExcuse me,” the Hoove said, “but your sentences are taking a left when my ears are going right.”
    â€œWhen I was a player, and then a manager, I always used to say that baseball is ninety percent mental, and the other half is physical.”
    â€œThat’s one hundred and forty percent,” the Hoove pointed out.
    â€œThe numbers ain’t important, kiddo. You’re missing the point. The point is that success is in your head. And if you’re going to be successful with these so-called Higher-Up guys, whoever they are, you got to get out of your own stubborn self and help the kid…. What’s his name, anyways?”
    â€œBilly Broccoli.”
    â€œTough break for him. I can see why he needs you to be there for him a hundred percent. And the only thing one hundred percent about you is that you’re not.”
    â€œThis math is numbing my brain.”
    â€œWell, get your brain around this, kiddo. Those Higher-Ups are telling you to help Billy Broccoli. That’s your team assignment, your job. You have to deliver for the team, which means sticking with the kid to the end, even when it’s frustrating or boring or annoying. In other words, it ain’t over ’til it’s over. Now if you’ll excuse me, my steak’s getting cold.”
    And with that, Yogi turned and walked back into the fog, disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared.
    â€œWait a minute,” the Hoove called after him. “Don’t go yet. I didn’t even get to ask you what it was like to play in Yankee Stadium.”
    There was no answer.
    â€œHey, someday can I play for your team, Yogi?” the Hoove shouted into the fog.
    â€œNot ’til you get it right, kiddo,” came a faraway voice.
    Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the Hoove sensed that Yogi was right. He was expected to stick it out, hang in there with Billy. And what had he done? Left the minute things got too annoying. And it wasn’t the first time, either.
    The Hoove knew what he had to do. Without another thought, he turned and headed back toward his house and the room he shared with Billy.

Billy was sound asleep in his pink desk chair, still clutching the stopwatch. The hours and hours he’d spent practicing the backward alphabet had worn him out so much that he couldn’t even change into his pajamas or make it to the bed. He had just passed out in his chair, visions of letters spinning backward in his head.
    The house was dark when the Hoove arrived, except for a small reading light next to Bennett Fielding’s side of the bed. While his wife slept, he liked to stay up late reading articles about mild to moderate tooth decay. Just for fun, the Hoove tapped on Bennett’s window. When Bennett looked up, he saw nothing and assumed it was the wind blowing one of the orange tree branches against the window.
    The Hoove was feeling frisky so instead of floating in through one of the house walls as he usually did, he flew up to the roof and stood at the edge of the brick chimney. Holding his body straight as a pencil, he jumped feet-first down the chimney and shot to the bottom, landing in the fireplace. He stepped out and checked his look in the mirror over the mantel.
    â€œPerfect as always,” he said to himself, snapping his suspenders with a confident air. “Hoover Porterhouse, you may be dead, but you are still the cat’s pajamas.”
    The Hoove drifted down the hall to Billy’s room and, floating through the closed door, found Billy asleep in his chair. He checked the stopwatch in Billy’s hand. It was stopped at exactly fourteen and three-quarters of a second.
    â€œThe kid actually did it,” he said to himself. “He’s persistent. Boring, but persistent.”
    He gave Billy a little poke in the ribs, but since he was not made up of matter, Billy couldn’t feel it. So he promptly blew in his ear, startling Billy