“He acted that way?!” Carter said, aghast. “Did he—did he get thrown out of the game?”
Mr. Jones paused the video. “No, but Amanda says there might be disciplinary action.” He shook his head in consternation. “Why would Liam be that way?”
“Hold on. Look.” Carter pointed to a tiny figure frozen on the screen. “That’s Phillip DiMaggio. If Liam thought he’d homered off him, he would have been beyond psyched. So when the run was taken away because of the missed base…”
“Ah.” His father nodded knowingly. “That home run meant a lot to him, I guess.”
“That one, and all the others he’s been trying to make this season.”
Mr. Jones cocked his head to one side. “Sounds like there’s more to this story.”
Carter told his father about Liam’s quest to be the home run king. “He thinks it’s the only way to prove himself in his new league,” he finished.
“Mmmm.” Mr. Jones sat back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach. “Well, now I have a better idea of what Liam’s been struggling with. Which brings me to my next question: What went wrong at your game yesterday?”
Carter picked at his pant leg. “You noticed, huh?”
“Hard not to, the way you were stomping around here.”
“Okay, so you know I’ve been working on that pitch?”
“The knuckleball, yes.”
“Well,” Carter said, “my teammate Rachel threw it yesterday. Not me. Her. She went behind my back to learn it.”
“And you feel betrayed by that,” his father guessed.
“Yeah, wouldn’t you?” Carter asked indignantly.
“What does Rachel say about it?”
Carter lifted a shoulder and let it drop.
His father studied him thoughtfully. “You know, there are two sides to most stories.” He gestured toward the video. “If we didn’t know anything about Liam or his history with Phillip, we would think he was just some kid throwing a tantrum. Maybe you need to listen to Rachel’s side before you decide she’s the enemy.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
I don’t feel good,” Liam rasped. “I think I need to stay home from school.”
“Nonsense.”
Liam’s mother opened his drapes with a furious yank. “It’s no good trying to hide from what happened,” she said, not unkindly. “You have to face it head-on, starting today. Now, up and at ’em. The McGrath bus service leaves in twenty minutes.”
Liam heaved a sigh. He hated to admit it, but he knew his mother was right. The longer he put off dealing with what he’d done, the worse it would be.
And it was already bad; he knew that. Yanking his helmet had been stupid, and he cringed whenever he thought of that moment. He cringed more when he remembered the shocked looks on his teammates’ faces and the hard tone in Dr. Driscoll’s voice.
“Liam,” his coach had said. “Take a seat. Pythons, give us a moment.”
Dr. Driscoll hadn’t chewed him out. He’d simply told Liam that the league’s Board of Directors would undoubtedly discuss whether to discipline him. “It’s your first offense, so perhaps they’ll keep that in mind,” he added. “I certainly hope it’s your last.”
“Yes, sir.” Liam had wanted to say more but couldn’t get the words out. He’d remained silent throughout the postgame wrap. His mother and sister had whispered in the front seat on the ride home, but he kept quiet—then, and throughout much of Sunday.
But now it was Monday morning. He couldn’t hide anymore. So he got up and dressed. Ten minutes later, he was downstairs in the kitchen, eating breakfast.
Melanie came in a moment later. “Oh. Hi.” She stood awkwardly and then said, “I’m sorry about—you know. I really am.”
Liam hunched over his cereal. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Mom making you face it head-on?”
He nodded grimly.
She slid onto the stool next to him and peeled a banana. “Want some advice? Rip the bandage off quickly, all at once, not little by little.”
He pushed his bowl away, no longer hungry. “Another fortune-cookie saying?”
“Speaking of which,” she added, “did you remember the first one? About watching where you step when you climb the ladder?”
Liam was about to ask her to stop speaking in riddles, but their mother breezed into the kitchen. “All fed? Good,” she said. “Dishes in the dishwasher, peels in the trash, kids in the car, and we’re off.”
The ride to school seemed shorter than usual to Liam that morning. After his mother dropped him off, he climbed the concrete stairs and pushed open the double doors into the building with mounting dread. Inside, he walked slowly toward the cafeteria. That was where all the students gathered before the first bell sent them to their homerooms. And that was where he knew he’d see Rodney, Sean, and Spencer sitting together at their usual table.
Sure enough, they were there, speaking in low voices. When they saw Liam, they stopped talking. He swallowed hard but didn’t slow his step.
Time to rip the bandage off, he thought.
“Hey.” It came out as a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey. Hi.”
All three regarded him for a long moment. Then Rodney said, “Doing okay, man?”
Liam sat down and stared at the Formica tabletop. “Not really. I screwed up royally, didn’t I?”
“Yep,” Rodney said. Sean and Spencer stayed quiet.
Liam lifted his head and looked at them—and suddenly he understood what Melanie meant about watching where he stepped.
“I messed up before, though,” he said. “I’ve been a pretty lousy teammate lately, haven’t I?”
Spencer drew a shape on the tabletop with his fingertip but didn’t answer. Sean did.
“You’ve been acting a lot like Robert.”
Liam flinched at the comparison. Then he put his head in his hands. “Oh, man. How can you guys stand to be around me?” He’d meant the question sincerely. But to his surprise and relief, they laughed.
“It hasn’t been easy,” Spencer admitted.
“What was going on with you, anyway?” Sean wanted to know.
So Liam took a deep breath and tried to explain—about wanting to make the All-Star team, about thinking he needed to do something spectacular to stand out, about wanting to put his strikeout behind him once and for all. “Hitting homers seemed like the perfect solution to all that,” he finished.
“Yeah, I can see your logic,” Sean said. “It’s warped, but I can still see it.”
“I have a question,” Spencer cut in. “What strikeout are you talking about?”
Liam stared at him in astonishment. “Last year’s World Series? Pitch thrown by the same guy who makes you nervous—Phillip DiMaggio?”
Spencer screwed up his face. “Phillip DiMaggio doesn’t make me nervous.”
“But you said—whenever he showed up at a game, you got all nutty,” Liam protested.
“I get nutty when my grandfather shows up,” Spencer corrected.
Liam suddenly remembered the stern-faced old man with the almond-shaped eyes he’d seen sitting behind Phillip during the game against the Cobras. He asked Spencer if that man was his grandfather.
Spencer nodded. “He pitched in the Minors, and I’m not talking Little League Minors.”
“Whoa,” Liam and the Driscolls said.
“Yeah. He taught me a lot, but talk about pressure.” Spencer shot Liam a sheepish look. “And then when your sister showed up with the video camera, that didn’t do much for me, either.”
“You didn’t want to be filmed?”
Spencer blushed. “It wasn’t that. It’s—dude, your sister is kind of pretty.”
“Gross!” Liam said.
“So now you know my deal,” Spencer said hurriedly. “What is this strikeout you’re talking about?”
“Oh, it wasn’t just a strikeout,” Rodney drawled. “It was a colossal miss.”
“Huge,
” Sean agreed, “and it was followed by the best pirouette down into the dirt ever seen in the history of baseball.”
“The kind of embarrassing moment you never recover from,” Rodney added. “Unless of course… you do.” He grinned at Liam. “Have you?”
“You know what?” Liam said slowly. “I think I just did.”
Spencer crossed his arms and scowled. “Fine,” he said in a huff. “Don’t tell me about it.”
After school, Liam went home with the Driscolls so he could apologize to their father in person.
“I appreciate this, Liam,” Dr. Driscoll said when Liam finished. “And I expect you to apologize to the rest of the Pythons, of course.”
Liam nodded. He’d already planned to do just that.
The coach scrubbed his face with his hands. “I was aware of your past difficulties with Phillip. But I wasn’t aware that you were still having issues with him. I wish you’d talked to me. I might have been able to help before things got out of hand. By the way, the league has decided not to take any action against you, which is quite generous, if you ask me.”
Dr. Driscoll blew out his breath then and shook his head. “Before Saturday, I would have said you were on track to make the All-Star team. But now, I’m afraid you’re facing an uphill battle. If you want to be selected, you’ll have to give the rest of the season everything you’ve got. And you’ll have to prove to me and your teammates that you’re the kind of player we want representing this league.”
Liam nodded. He knew he had a lot of work to do.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Carter had a restless night after talking with his father. He knew what he should do—talk to Rachel—but somehow, he couldn’t make himself pick up the phone.
I’ll see how things are at practice, he told himself. If she acts normal, I will, too.
The first thing he noticed when he saw her at the field on Tuesday was her expression. It was serious and businesslike. When she spotted Carter, she nodded politely and then turned away. Throughout practice, she spoke only when necessary. And when the practice ended, she left with a few simple good-byes, leaving more than one Hawk puzzled.
Not normal, Carter thought. A worm of guilt crept into his brain. He pushed it away. I didn’t do anything wrong. She did. But the worm refused to leave.
The Hawks faced the Kestrels on Friday afternoon. Drew was on the mound with Leonard behind the plate. Carter played third base, and Ash was in the outfield. So was Rachel. Carter wondered if she would return to her usual self. She didn’t.
The Hawks lost 6–2, their first defeat of the season.
“You did a lot right out there,” Coach Harrison commented after the game. Then his forehead creased. “But something was missing. There was no energy, no extra spark.” He spread his hands. “I can’t coach that into you. It’s either there or it’s not. Let’s hope it returns for our next game.”
On Saturday afternoon, Ash and Carter met for a bike ride.
“I don’t know what the coach was talking about yesterday,” Ash said to Carter. “I thought we were more focused than we’ve ever been.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there was less goofing off in the dugout, for one thing. Less chatter in the outfield, too.”
Carter snorted. “That’s funny, coming from the king of chatter!”
“That’s different,” Ash defended himself. “My chatter helps.”
“Actually, it doesn’t,” Carter blurted out. “Not when you’re behind the plate and I’m pitching, anyway.”
Ash looked surprised. “Really? Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”
“I did! Way back before the season started.”
“Oh. Well, you should have told me again.” Then he looked pointedly at Carter. “And if there’s anyone else whose chatter or jokes or clowning around bother you, you should tell him—or her—to stop, too.”
Carter hit the brakes so hard, he skidded to a stop. “That’s what was missing!”
Ash braked, too. “What?”
“Rachel’s chatter. Her jokes. Her clowning around in the dugout. I know she drives you nuts, but she makes the rest of us laugh. When we laugh together, we work better as a team. I don’t know why, but I know it’s true. Want proof? Rachel was all serious yesterday, and we lost.” He smiled. “Face it, man. She’s the spark.”
He wheeled his bike around then and started pedaling.
“Where are you going?” Ash called.
“To Rachel’s house! See you!”
When Rachel saw who was at her front door, she looked surprised, and then wary. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk about what happened at the game,” Carter told her.
“I know what happened,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “We lost.”
“Not that game. The one where you threw the knuckleball.”
Rachel lifted her chin. “What about it?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were learning it? Why’d you throw it?”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “I threw it because I was mad at you.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you weren’t very nice to me.”
Carter’s jaw dropped. “I never said anything!”
“No kidding. Ash was talking about me behind my back, and you never said anything.” She emphasized the last four words, hammering them home.
Carter bit his lip. “I thought you could handle it.”
“Oh, I can, believe me,” she said. “But it would have been nice to hear you stick up for me, too.”
They were quiet for a long moment. Then Carter said, “I’m sorry.”
After another moment, Rachel smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, too. Throwing the knuckleball was pretty underhanded.”
Carter shot her a grin. “Like softball?”
She laughed. “Yeah, like softball.” Then she glanced at a nearby clock and said, “Want to meet the guy who taught me the pitch?”
“I already know him, remember?”
She waggled her eyebrows. “You think you do, but you don’t. Come on.”
Mystified, Carter waited while she got her bike. He followed her to the high school. In the parking lot, Carter saw Mr. Delaney’s car. It was pulled into a handicapped spot and had a tag hanging from the rearview mirror.
“Who—?” he started to ask.
“Just come on,” Rachel urged. “I’m already a little late.”
She led him to the baseball field where a practice was in session. When Carter saw the players, he stopped short. “They’re…” He tried but failed to find the word he was looking for.
“Challenged,” Rachel supplied. “Carter, meet the Challenger team.”
Spread out across the field he could see children and teens of various ages, and with various physical and mental disabilities. Two were in wheelchairs. One was blind. Others had Down syndrome or other forms of developmental delays. He recognized one girl from school. She waved and he waved back.
“Ms. Warburton, it’s about time!”
A man in a wheelchair rolled toward them, smiling. Carter had never seen him before, and yet he looked strangely familiar.
“Carter Jones,” Rachel said. “I’d like you to meet the guy who taught me the knuckleball.”
“So you’re Carter,” the man said, extending his hand for Carter to shake. “My dad’s told me a lot about you. I’m Matt Delaney.”
Carter’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Matt Delaney? You’re Mr. Delaney’s son? The pitcher who helped the high school team win three championships?”
Matt laughed. “Well, that was a few years ago now. Before…” He tapped the arm of his wheelchair. “Anyway, now I work with this group, with my dad’s help.” He nodded toward the dugout. Carter glanced over and saw Mr. Delaney sitting with a few players. “And I’ve got great peer volunteers, too, like Rachel.” He cocked his head to one side. “You going to join, too? We can always use another baseball pal.”
Rachel answered for him. “Not this year, Matt. Unless I’m wrong, Carter’s going to have a really long baseball season this year.” She gave him her best smile. “In fact, I predict right now that he and his future All-Star teammates will make it to the World Series again!”
Matt laughed. “And what about you? Will you be going, too?”
Rachel shrugged. “Only time will tell. Now come on, Carter. There are more people I want you to meet!”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
After his talk with Coach Driscoll, Liam thought long and hard about how to erase the bad impression he’d made on his teammates. He decided there was just one solution: work hard on his game and on his attitude.
So he gave extra effort during practices. He cheered when a teammate went up to bat. He applauded good plays and commiserated when something went wrong. He shared handshakes and laughs and disappointments. And with each passing day, he put his poor behavior further behind him—but he never forgot what he’d done. It was too important a lesson to leave behind.
The Pythons enjoyed a winning season, ending tied for the top spot with the Rattlers. A week before school got out in June, the two teams met for a playoff to determine the league champion. Liam’s heart hammered in his chest when he faced Phillip DiMaggio at the plate. But it was a good feeling, an adrenaline rush filled with determination not desperation. He blasted a stand-up double off the Rattlers pitcher and then was batted home to score the tying run. One run later, the Pythons were crowned league champs.
Liam didn’t end up as the home run king—Rodney surprised him by claiming that title—but he didn’t mind. He had played his best in the second half of the season, and nobody could do more than that. Even better, he’d made friendships he felt sure would last for a long time.
And yet… each night before he climbed into bed, he looked at a photograph that hung above his desk. It was a bird’s-eye view of his hometown in Pennsylvania. The photo showed buildings and streets, forests and fields. He always zeroed in on two tiny houses that sat on the same road. He used to live in one house; Carter still lived in the other.
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