Everyone in the country is asking â who are these dogs who play baseball? Well, hold on tight, because youâre about to find out.
This is the heartwarming story of how some kids in the Bronx teach (actually, teach!) their dogs to play baseball. The kids take their dogs on an amazing adventure, showing the world that dogs can play against the best of them â and they do!
Youâre going to love how this co-ed group of kids learn and play with their dogs through obstacles and hardships to take their team to the top.
And what a cast of characters! A Bulldog at third base. A Collie in the right field. And famous Chester the white Labrador at first base. Youâre going to come to love these dogs like your own.
Follow our team of kids and dogs alike as they take on the world of baseball. It will enthrall you to see Chester hit a home run. It will warm your heart to see these kids support each other through everything. Here you have a story that will stay with you a lifetime, and you can even read it to your dog after you enjoy it yourself.
Everyone in the country is asking â who are these dogs who play baseball? Well, hold on tight, because youâre about to find out.
This is the heartwarming story of how some kids in the Bronx teach (actually, teach!) their dogs to play baseball. The kids take their dogs on an amazing adventure, showing the world that dogs can play against the best of them â and they do!
Youâre going to love how this co-ed group of kids learn and play with their dogs through obstacles and hardships to take their team to the top.
And what a cast of characters! A Bulldog at third base. A Collie in the right field. And famous Chester the white Labrador at first base. Youâre going to come to love these dogs like your own.
Follow our team of kids and dogs alike as they take on the world of baseball. It will enthrall you to see Chester hit a home run. It will warm your heart to see these kids support each other through everything. Here you have a story that will stay with you a lifetime, and you can even read it to your dog after you enjoy it yourself.
Louie Cohen swung. With a crack of the bat, the ball flew upwards, rising higher and higher into the sky over the ballfield in the Bronx, pausing for a moment at the top of its arc, and then plummeting downwards in a blur. Just a moment before it hit the outfield grass, a set of jaws reached out, lunged for it, nabbed it, and hauled it in.
âNice catch, boy,â Louie called to his white Labrador, Chester. The dog had a friendly face, a hard, athletic body, powerful legs, large paws that grabbed the turf as he ran, and quick eyes. âOkay, bring it in.â
Chester turned around and ran the ball in, stopping a few feet away and rolling it back to Louie. Since the day he was born eight years ago, Chester had been Louieâs dog. He went everywhere with Louie, especially to the ballfield every summer afternoon, where he shagged flies with the best of them.
âHe could play first base for us,â said a girlâs voice behind Louie.
âWhat about third?â Louie said.
Sally smiled. âYeah, right, we need a good third baseman.â She was kidding, of course, because Louie was their third baseman, and many said he had the strongest throw to first of any fifth grader in all of New York City. Sally lounged on the infield grass with her dog Marmalade, a lean grey Whippet who sniffed the grass with her long, spotted nose while making quick back and forth movements of her head.
âGrounder,â Louie said. Once he heard that, Chester ran out to shortstop and turned around. Louie hit a hard ground ball in the hole. Like a shot, Chester raced to the ball, got in front of it, knocked it down with his chest, and grabbed it in his mouth.
âJust like Dexter Archer,â said Sally.
âOh, Chester could have taken Archerâs place when he retired,â said Louie. âThey just donât let dogs play baseball.â
âTrue that,â she said, as Marmalade rested her head on Sallyâs legs. She and Louie had been friends for, well, since before either of them could rememberâgrowing up in the same neighborhood, going to the same school, and playing on the Bronx Badgers together.
âRight here, boy,â Louie said. Chester ran the ball in, halting a few feet away. With the ball firmly held in his mouth, the dog dropped his head and flung the ball up in a perfect toss right into Louieâs outstretched hand.
âNice flip,â said Sally. âMaybe he could pitch.â
âYeah, we could sure use some pitching,â said Louie, chuckling because Sally was the star pitcher of their team.
âOkay, boy, Archerâs up,â Louie said. Chester instantly got into his dog crouchâlegs ready to run, and he was off before Louie hit the ball.
Louie called it in his announcer voice. âItâs a fly ball down the left field line off the bat of Dexter Archer. Archer rounds first and heads for second. Chester has a play on it. Heâs back and back and back, to the wall. He leaps . . . Heâs got it! Dexter Archer robbed of a home run after a great catch by Chester.â
âArcherâs retired,â said Sally, matter-of-factly.
âYeah, but heâs still Archer, heâll always be Archer,â said Louie. Chester came barreling back, breathing hard, the ball in his mouth.
âYou took a homer away from Dexter Archer,â said Sally. âWay to go.â Chester dropped the ball and barked, a single loud bark.
âYou can say that again,â said Louie and Sally together.
Louie yanked the brim of his Yankees cap. Since this was the Bronx, a borough of New York City, that meant it was Yankees country. The New York Yankeesâ the boys in pinstripesâwith that world-renowned âNYâ logo on the shirt. With the dark blue hats. And dark socks starting just below the knee, extending down to the blue-and-white cleats. These were not normal baseball playersâthey were the descendants of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Mariano Rivera, and the greatest Yankees shortstop everâDexter Archer. They were not just players. They were heroes.
And the stadium, not just any stadium, but the world-famous Yankee Stadium, was just a short bike ride away from where they were right now just down Grand Concourse Avenue. It was the cathedral of baseball, the place where the gods resided, the field every boy and girl in New York wanted to play on. It was, in short, a field of glory. When you approached the outside of the stadium, the first thing you saw were the towering white walls with the curved arches. The magnificent white marble walls climbed to the heavens, and if you stood underneath, you could feel the power of the stadium. It spoke to youâsaying, you are standing in a place of honor, a place of baseball history, a place of magical moments, so donât you forget it, kid. Donât ever forget it.
If you looked up at Gate Four, you could barely make out in yellow lettering YANKEE STADIUM at the top of the arches, below the flags flying at the top of the wall. Looking to the left and the right, the stadium curved away from you, as if it went on forever. You could not even stand in the shadow of the stadium without realizing that there was something going on here. For here they played the greatest game on earth, and if you could just get in past these massive walls, you could see the game in action. Because inside the stadium, it got even better.
Never in the history of the world has there been anything as green as That Field. The grass almost hurt your eyes, it was so green. The groundskeepers mowed it into perfect rows of grass, crossing diagonally. The infield had small rows, the outfield wider rows, every blade perfectly cut, and evenly topped off. It was as if someone had measured each blade of grass and cut it lovingly. The pitcherâs mound rose like a dirt wave rushing towards the shore. The infield between the bases cut a brown diamond into the grass. The infield between the bases had the finest brown dirt, raked smooth to stop bad hops. It was on this infield that the mighty Yankees fielded the ground balls and ran the bases.
Behind the batterâs box was the high wire screen to catch foul balls, rising almost to the second level of seats. And in the outfield, past the warning track, rose the wall. And behind that, the bleachers, where the bums hung outâthe guys with big stomachs who drank too much beer and hurled swear words down onto the field. It got rowdy up there, especially a few dozen rows back. Guys threw beer and bags of peanuts. Drunks hollered. To get the hot dogs to the customers, the vendors threw the hot dogs wrapped in silver foil over forty rows of spectators. It was a rough place to watch a game, and Louie and Sally loved every minute of it.
Louie and Sally had sat in the bleachers at games with Louieâs dad maybe three hundred, four hundred times. Theyâd seen Archer dive for a ball in the hole, come up with it, and nail the runner at first by a step. Theyâd seen the greatest relief pitcher of all time, Mariano Rivera, strike out the side again and again. Theyâd seen the Yankees come from behind in the ninth and win with a walk-off home run. And on the way out of the park, their shirts stained with mustard from their hot dogs, theyâd pass statues of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and other Yankee greats. This was Yankee Stadium, right down the street from where they were right now.
You couldnât live hereânot in this neighborhood, not around hereâand be a Mets fan, or a Phillies fan, or worst of all, a Red Sox fan. Youâd be taking your life into your hands. Theyâd run you out of town. Theyâd revoke your Bronx citizenship. Theyâd string you up. You had to be a Yankees fanâyou had to be! And, so, they were.
But today the Yankees were on the road in Cleveland. So it was time for their game, the Bronx Badgersâ Louieâs and Sallyâs team. Sally started warming up, throwing the ball back and forth as Chester and Marmalade scampered around. Sally wore her Yankees cap turned backwards, so the back strip crossed her freckled forehead. She had the oldest, most raggedy mitt you ever saw; it looked like it would come apart at any minute. But Sally had used it for years to snag come-backers to the mound, and she wouldnât give it up.
Something about Louie and Sally said baseball. Even without their hats and beat-up gloves, their Louisville Sluggers with marks on the bat for every home run, and the raggedy baseballs, people knew they were baseball kids.
âWhat position do you play?â people would ask. âThird,â said Louie.
âPitcher,â said Sally.
Louie always wore his hat with the bill facing front.
He was tall for his age, lean, with dark hair parted on the side, a strong right arm to throw runners out, strong legs to beat out a slow roller up the line, and good eyes to see a fastball on the inside corner. And though no one could see it, the strong beating heart of a baseball player.
Sally was tall, very tall. A tomboy, people said, with her hair in two braids all the time, sweet-faced, with loads of freckles, usually wearing jeans and tee-shirts. She had that athletic confidence scouts looked for. She moved gracefully, and her pitching arm was strong. Just what you needed to pitch for the Badgers in the Bronx Little League division.
âYou still sleep with your glove under your pillow?â asked Louie, whipping back the ball.
âYeah, I guess,â she replied, hauling it in.
âMe too, but donât tell anyone. Weâre in fifth grade, after all.â
Sally threw back high, Louie jumped, it sailed over his head, and Chester raced across the infield after it. Marmalade jumped up and beat Chester to it; they ran into right field together.
âChester may be able to catch the ball, but heâll never catch Marmalade,â said Sally.
The other players started to arrive. âTheyâre here, come on,â said Louie.
Sally and Louie made their way over to the dugout, where the rest of the team was pulling gear out of duffel bags, arranging the bats against the fence, wiping off the batting helmets caked with yesterdayâs mud, and tossing out the hardballs for the warmup. The ballfield at Van Cortland Park had a rough grass infield and a spotty grass outfield with gopher holes every twenty yards or so that they had to watch out for. Behind home plate, the backstop teetered and swayed. There were two dirt-floor dugouts, beat-up bases, and the remnants of white lines running up both baselines, gradually disappearing in the outfield.
For todayâs game, they had nine players, and everyone brought their dogs. There was hot-headed Chip with his Great Dane named Pal, nervous-Nellie Juan with his German Shepherd Oscar, sass-monster Cara with her mutt Donut, and stocky Ron with his Bernese Mountain Dog Bernie.
âWhoâs ready to play some baseball?â yelled Sally.
There was chunky Chuck with his Bulldog named Bull, baby-faced Levar with his Collie named Champ, feisty Veronica with her Bassett Hound Gabby, and daffy Donna with her Scotty named Pearl. Together, along with Louie and Sally, and Chester and Marmalade, they made up the Bronx Badgers and their dogs who showed up at every game.
Todayâs game was against the One Hundred Ninety-fifth Street Cougars, who were slowly taking up residence in the opposing dugout, in their white uniforms with Cougars on the frontâalthough the printer had placed the name too far to one side of their shirts so only the âCougâ was showing. But no one cared. It was baseball that mattered.
âLook, itâs Mr. Park,â yelled the kids as a man approached. He had a round face, a great big smile, chubby arms, and an apron that bore the logo of MR. PARKâS MARKET. Across from the baseball field was a row of shops, and Mr. Park owned one, a Korean grocery market. He was carrying a brown bag, like he did most game days.
âBig game today,â he called out. âBig game needs big snack.â He reached into his bag and brought out oranges, cashews, almonds, raisins, and crackersâand handed them out to the kids, who dug in.
âThank you, Mr. Park,â yelled the kids. âOh, very good, very good,â he replied.
Louie reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. âMy mother wanted you to have this,â he said. Mr. Park waved it away. âYou no pay, you play, you play. Get it? No pay, you play,â he said with a laugh.
âYes, we get it,â said Sally, rolling her eyes.
âOkay, now for dogs,â said Mr. Park. âDogs line up.â
The kids knew just what to do. They formed a line on one side and lined the dogs up about five feet away across from them. The dogs, sensing a treat coming, kept perfectly still. Holding the brown grocery bag, Mr. Park walked slowly between the two lines, handing out one dog biscuit to each kid. When he got to the end, he turned and yelled âNow.â The kids whipped their dog biscuits at the dogs, and the dogs, standing on their hind legs, expertly caught them in their mouths and chewed them up.
âOh, dogs are good, dogs very good,â said Mr. Park, smiling broadly, very pleased with himself, as the dogs munched happily.
Mr. Park headed back to his store. âGood luck today.â
âBye, Mr. Park. Thank you,â yelled the kids. âThank you.â
âOkay, bring it in,â said Louie. The kids gathered around Sally and Louie, holding their dogs by their collars.
âCara, howâs Donutâs paw?â
âCutâs all better.â She held up Donutâs paw and they all crowded around. She was a funny-looking thing, a muttâs mutt, with brown ears that pointed straight up and turned left and right when she thought she heard a cat; a thin, bony body, and a head that flitted back and forth.
âHow about Oscar?â
âHis legâs still hurt,â said Juan. âI wrapped it again last night.â
âOkay, take it easy with him today,â ordered Louie. âAnd what about Pearl?â
Donna lifted Pearl up and put her down on the picnic table. âThey pulled her tooth,â she said and the kids pushed forward to get a look. âI donât think it hurts anymore, but it sure looks funny. See?â She pulled back her dogâs lip and the kids marveled at the missing tooth. âWhoaaaaaa,â they said, wide-eyed.
âLook what Bull can do.â Chuck carried Bull the Bulldog to third, put him down and whistled. Bull immediately raced for home. Chuck whistled again and Bull threw all four legs out and slid across home plate on his belly.
âIâd say safe,â said Sally. âRight? Safe.â
âOkay, put âem in the dugout,â said Louie.
The kids hustled their dogs into the dugout and put them in a sit-stay before heading out onto the field for the first inning. Pearl the Scotty whined, because she wanted to go out there with them, so Donna ran back and gave her a kiss.
âSorry, dogs donât play baseball,â she said, hugging her. âYou know that.â
âJuan, arenât youâre forgetting something?â said Louie.
âOh, yeah.â Juan ran to his bag, pulled out a roll of tape, and climbed up the backstop fence to the sign ten feet up that read: NO DOGS ALLOWED. Pulling tape off the roll, he placed it in strips over the letter N and O until the NO disappeared. Then, it read: DOGS ALLOWED.
âGood, now we can play,â said Louie.
Sally headed to the mound, Louie to third base, and the rest of the players to their positions. The Cougars came up to bat. âEasy out,â said Louie from third as the lead-off hitter stepped into the batterâs box. Sally looked in for the sign from the catcher, straightened, wound up, and threw a fastball.
âBall,â yelled the umpire.
âCaught the corner,â Sally yelled back.
âBall,â grumbled the ump.
âChester?â yelled Sally.
Chester barked.
âSee?â said Sally.
Her next pitch hung over the plate. Waiting on it, the Cougar batter hit a screaming line drive over the first basemanâs head into right field, and it rolled all the way to the fence. Juan, in right field, went for it, but the dogs, watching the ball go by, couldnât stop themselves and took off into right field after it.
âOh, brother,â wailed Louie. âGet them off the field.â
Juan managed to wrestle the ball from Gabby and threw to second. The Cougar slid into second just ahead of the tag. Then the game had to stop while Louie and his teammates rounded up the dogs and yanked them back to the dugout.
âSorry,â said Louie to the Cougars.
âLouie, look.â
Louie turned to see. Walking towards them was a whole team of kids, older kids. Carrying bats and catcherâs gear, they were tossing balls up and slapping their gloves. At the head of the gang was a red-haired kid. His big mouth, over floppy lips, barely covered his jagged teeth.
âItâs Froggy,â said Sally.
âWhat does he want?â
Froggyâs real name wasnât Froggy. It was Frank or Fran or something like that. Everyone just called him Froggy, though, even his friends. Even his mother. Froggy had a face that his mother could love, but nobody else. When he scrunched it up, he looked like one of those mirrors at the amusement park, which might be why people called him Froggy. Nobody knew.
âWhat do you want, Froggy?â
âOff,â ordered Froggy, waving his arm.
âThis is our field,â said Louie. âWeâve got it.â âYeah, well, we want it.â
âDidnât you hear? We got it,â said Sally.
âYou had it. And now we got it,â said Froggy. âLook, Froggy,â said Sally, âI know you have limited intelligence, and I donât mind, really I donât, because somebody has to be at the low end of the IQ scale, but as even you can see, we got the field.â
âSo get off.â
âWeâre getting off, like youâre getting pretty,â she snapped back.
âOkay, if you donât get off, weâre gonna take it, so Iâm going to count to ten andââ
âYou can count?â exclaimed Sally. âI had no idea.â âOne, two, threeââ
âFour is next,â said Sally, âin case you forgot.â âFour, five, sixââ
âYouâve done a lot of good work, Froggy. You should be very proud,â she said.
âSeven, eightââ
âAll the way to eight. My, my.â
âNine, ten. Okay, take it,â said Froggy, and with that his team rushed the Badgers. Froggy reached for Louieâs neck. And in no time Froggy and his team had all of them on the ground or up against the backstop. And thenâChester growled. And all the other dogs growled, low and mean. Froggy stopped, frozen in his tracks.
âGood move, Einstein,â sneered Sally.
âThey wonât do anything,â said Froggy to his friends, and he wrapped his hands around Louieâs throat and raised his fist. Chester lunged forward until he was inches from Froggyâs leg, barking ferociously and baring his teeth.
âI wouldnât do that if I were you,â warned Sally. âIf I give the command...â
âYou wouldnât.â
âTry me,â said Sally.
The dogs, showing teeth, waited for the command to attack. Froggy looked at Chester, then at the other dogsâall growling, ready to pounce.
âTake a walk,â yelled Sally.
Froggy looked around at the growling dogs, then snuck a look at his nervous teammates, shook his head, let go of Louie, stepped back, and said, âOh, forget it.â His teammates let go of the Badgers. He led them off the field.
âAnd donât come back,â yelled Sally after them. Froggy whipped around and shook his fist. âWhoaaaaa,â yelled back the Badgers.
âThis isnât over, you know. Weâll be back,â said Froggy.
âCome back, and weâll work on your numbers,â said Sally. âEleven is next.â
Froggy fumed, his face red as a St. Louis Cardinals hat.
âGet off our field,â yelled Cara.
âYeah, and stay off,â everyone yelled at once. Froggy turned his back on them and walked away.
Sally watched them leave the field. âHeâll be back, you know,â she said. Louie just shrugged. âOkay, whoâs up?â
They played a good seven-inning game before they had to give up the field at four oâclock to the local high school team, the Red Cats of Bronx P.S. 171. Having gathered up their dogsâDonut and Pearl and Bull and all the othersâthey slapped gloves with the arriving high schoolers, threw all their equipment, the bats and ragged hardballs, catcherâs gear, and the bases, into duffel bags and headed out, a caravan of kids and dogs and bags and bats and gloves. They walked past Mr. Parkâs market.
âYou win today?â asked Mr. Park, outside sweeping. âFive to three,â said Louie.
âThat good, that very good. See you tomorrow,â
Mr. Park said, holding his broom to his chest. âBye, Louie. Bye, Sally. Bye, Chester.â Chester barked. Mr. Park laughed. âChester say goodbye, too. Bye, Chester.â
On the way home, as they always did, they rode their bikes past Yankee Stadium and stopped in front of the main entrance, on Babe Ruth Plaza. They didnât actually have to pass right by, but they made a detour to ride in the shadow of the stadium. Louie said a prayer, as he always did. âMay we play here one day,â he said, and Sally nodded.
âMarianoâs retired, so they need a reliever,â said Sally.
âMaybe you,â said Louie.
They rode their bikes in the summer sun along the six-lane Grand Concourse, with their dogs on leashes trailing behind, to One Hundred Sixty-fifth Street and then onto Louieâs street, Sheridan Avenue. They skidded their bikes to a stop on the sidewalk outside his house, a small two-story residence with a pointy roof and shutters on the windows.
âYou staying for dinner?â Louie asked.
âWhat are you having?â
âOh, brother,â he said, shaking his head and going inside.
Chasing after him, Sally called out, âSorry, sorry, it doesnât matter what youâre having. Really, it doesnât.â What they were having that night, at the Cohen residence, was roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, asparagus with butter, green salad with big summer tomatoes, and warm, just-baked bread straight from the oven, all served in the dining room around an oval table.
âYouâre there, Sally, your usual seat,â said Louieâs father, Albert. Everyone called him Al. He was fifty, with thinning hair, a strong frame, and rough hands that had seen a construction site more than once. He tended to nod when you spoke, as if to make you feel better about what you were saying. He had deep-set brown eyes and a high forehead.
âThanks, Mr. Cohen,â Sally said. It was true she came to dinner maybe two or three times a week, maybe because her homelife wasnât so good. Louie never asked. She just came to dinner.
âMimi, can we help?â yelled Al to his wife in the kitchen.
âNo, Iâm coming,â yelled back Louieâs mom.
A moment later, carrying the breadbasket in her lap, she wheeled herself into the dining room in her wheelchair right up to her seat at the table. Sally jumped up to help.
âItâs all right, dear. I have it,â said Mimi. She was a young mom, way too young to be in a wheelchair, but there she wasâpretty, with straight brown hair, hazel eyes, soft features, strong arms from pushing the wheelchair, and a lean strong body, at least from the waist up. Her legs dangled off the wheelchair. Mimi pulled herself up to the end of the table, opposite Al. Sally sat back down and surveyed the heaping platters of chicken, potatoes, salad, and asparagus. It all smelled soooo good.
âWow,â said Sally, âmy mother canât cook like this ever, and sheâs not in aââ She drew in a fast breath. âSorry,â she blurted out.
âItâs all right, dear,â said Mimi calmly. âI donât mind.â
âIâm so sorry,â Sally blathered on. âReally I am.â
âSally, itâs okay. She knows sheâs in a wheelchair,â said Louie. âDonât you, Mom?â
âKnow it?â said Mimi breezily. âIâve been in a wheelchair for seven years, so I ought to know it.â She turned to the young girl. âBut, Sally, I wonât tell your mother you said that about her cooking.â
âNoooooooooo,â protested Sally, and everyone chuckled.
âOkay, phones away,â ordered Mimi, and they slid their phones into their pockets; even Al hid his. âAnd dogs under the table.â Louie lifted the tablecloth and Chester and Marmalade slid under.
âWho wants mashed potatoes?â said Al, passing them to Sally.
They piled their plates, ate, passed the platters, ate some more, and Louie went into the kitchen for more bread and came back, and they passed the platters and ate even more.
âItâs so good,â said Sally. âThank you, Mrs. Cohen.â
âYou donât have to thank me, Sally,â said Mimi. âYouâre part of the family.â
âI heard you had a little trouble at the park today,â said Al.
Louie put down his fork. âJust Froggy.â âAnything I can do?â asked his dad.
âYeah, you can call his father and tell him what a jerk his son is,â said Sally.
Both parents raised their eyebrows. âOr not,â she said, shrugging.
âItâs all right, Dad,â said Louie. âWe got this.â
If you love both dogs and baseball, you will get a kick out of this book. It goes from silly canât-believe-it good-humored fun to serious on-the-edge-of-your-seat baseball action⌠with dogs of course. As this book goes on it does get more ridiculous (it's funny how the adults can't believe how ridiculous everything is). Throughout the hilarity, a love of everything baseball comes through clearly.
Even if you don't love or completely understand the mechanics of baseball, you will enjoy this warm-hearted book full of great life lessons. Carroll does get into the mechanics and techniques that the kids use to get the dogs to play baseball, but not too in-depth. You will have to suspend your disbelief a little and get creative imagining dogs with bats and baskets attached to their tails. How do they run the bases with those bats attached? How does a dog slide through to home? It did seem a little too easy to get the dogs to play baseball but this just adds to the comedic element of the book.
The fun repeated refrains the author uses, like "You can say that again," and "There's no barking in baseball," made me smile each time they repeated.
I especially liked how the author gave the main character Louie a greater purpose for teaching the dogs to play baseball and to get them to play against real baseball teams and win. One of the minor characters, Louie's mom Mimi, is in a wheelchair and can't walk due to a car accident some years ago. It's neat the author included the normalization of a character with this disability. I learned that there's a special viewing location at Yankee Stadium for people in wheelchairs. I've never thought about accessibility at stadiums before.
I can imagine that this would be a really fun book to read out loud to your kids or to listen to as an audiobook on long drives with the family. If you're a young reader (or have a kid who is reading middle-grade novels), then they could enjoy reading this one on their own as the target audience. They could really relate to this book if they are also participating in a Little League or have a Labrador, Collie, Bulldog, Whippet, Basset Hound, or a Scotty dog. Chester the Labrador, though, is the star (Most Valuable Dog) of the book.