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Show Why W e C r y Butch and Fenn Stories 122 "Nice catch." "Yeah," he says, working his mitt. He's not going to form a pocket in it this late. He's had it four years and it still opens and shuts like a wooden book. I don't think it's made of leather. "These goggles do the trick." Behind the fence, on the green, Grant and Max Starkey, the twins, have started up their big blue gas airplane, and it is buzzing in large circles. It sounds like a flying chain-saw. The twins come to the park every other week with another of their new toys; they're the richest kids in our neighborhood. The plane's roar always gathers a crowd of kids who stand and watch. Keith Gurber is over there with a dozen other kids who didn't make the All Stars and who are now free from little league. A few of them throw fragments of the green tar shingles torn from the old restroom roof at the plane. The little bits of shingle are all over the park. Max and Grant stand together pivoting in the center of the plane's circle, handing the controls back and forth every five laps. Max can really fly the thing. He sends it straight up, right over their heads and then-whish!-backwards, to loop it in a quick turn in the opposite direction. The buzz hones an edge when he does that. Grant, as always, waits until he can't take it anymore, and then he tries the same maneuver. He guides the plane straight up, overhead, and down, smack into the ground like a hatchet. The noise stops, replaced by a |