As I cautiously taped the large box of baseballs closed, I wondered if I was going to win the contest. Yesterday, during the warm welcoming evening, I was sitting on the couch attentively watching CNN, when an advertisement stated that whoever sent the most baseballs to 19 Pennsylvania Avenue, Stamford, CT, would win a valuable rare trip to visit Derek Jeter personally. I had immediately and excitedly gathered all the baseballs I could find. Four hundred and thirty six was my final number. I quickly ran outside giving it to the patient mailman, aware of my package to send, for I had put up the flag-shaped red signaler with a note that notified I would come a few seconds after his arrival.
The wait seemed endless; one minute seemed like boring hours, and hours like painful days. Finally the announcement came: “… and your winner is …” (my body filled with anticipation) “… Jonathan Ju!”
I had won! Trying to calm down, a sudden loud horrible short screeching was heard. I rushed to the door and saw that a sleek black shiny limousine was parked outside. “Have a good time,” my mother called as I slowly got inside.
The fresh aroma of pizza welcomed me, and I joyfully watched Beyblade on the television. As a man dressed like a secret agent ushered me into a small private jet, I peacefully fell asleep. When I woke up, I was in a small room. Then I saw a horrifying thing: Derek Jeter was on a stretcher connected to a heart monitor.
“What happened?” I asked curiously.
“I ate too much peanuts, and I have acquired a disease that forces me to turn into a peanut every two hours,” Derek answered.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
Just then, Derek Jeter asked me if I knew how to save him. All of a sudden I was hit with a flash of genius.
“The balance disrupted it has … no jelly you eat … peanut butter has the upper hand,” I spluttered.
When I had finished, everyone’s face was in shock except Derek Jeter’s.
“Jonathan means I need to eat jelly because jelly is the opposite,” Derek explained. Derek scrumptiously gobbled down all different kinds of jelly, demanding that his servants bring more and more. “This is delicious,” he announced proudly. “The tasty grape and the yummy banana flavoring is irresistible.” A drop of uneaten jelly slowly rolled down his chin, making a smear on his shirt.
Finally the doctors announced that he was cured from further transformation to a small peanut. He thanked me with honor, and told me to visit next time. Now I know not to get addicted or to overdo anything, I thought. My body couldn’t even bear thinking about enduring what Derek had gone through. I guess I’ll be writing something else instead of Beyblades on my Christmas list this year, I thought.
A week later: It was a warm fresh morning as I slowly stretched up my arms, yawning. As I pressed the red power button, the black screen suddenly blared with sounds. A reporter announced that if fans sent Derek Jeter a bag of jellybeans and a jar of peanut butter, they would get a free autograph and baseball from Derek himself. I turned it off, getting comfortable on our old couch with a sly smile on my face.