His dad gulped some coffee, stood, and began cleaning the grill. “Did I ever tell you about Billy Shindle?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Connor said.
“Billy Shindle was a shortstop for the old Philadelphia Quakers many years ago. We’re talking 1890s. He made one hundred twenty-two errors in one season. It’s still the major league record.”
Connor’s eyes widened.
“Yep, one hundred twenty-two errors,” his dad said. “Google it if you don’t believe me.”
“He must have been the worst fielder of all time,” Connor said. “Even worse than Marty Loopus.”
They both laughed.
“The point is,” his dad said, “Billy Shindle was a guy who should have slammed his glove to the ground. Or thrown it in a garbage can and given up baseball altogether. But not you, Connor. You’ve always played the game the right way, always made your mom and me proud. There’s no reason to lose your cool. Don’t worry about errors—you’ll be making them as long as you play the game.”
With that, he leaned over, kissed Connor on the forehead, and went inside.
In the darkness, Connor thought, Well, I plan to be playing this game a long time. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes at night, he could even see himself on the field in Camden Yards one day.
You wouldn’t want to lose your cool there. A baseball cathedral, his dad called it. Having a meltdown there would be a real sin.
The Orioles and Red Sox were just finishing their pregame warm-ups at Eddie Murray Field a few days later when a voice behind the backstop bellowed, “Where’s the great Connor Sullivan? I need to talk to him right now.”
“Uh-oh, Melissa Morrow,” Willie Pitts said to Connor. “I’d recognize that foghorn anywhere.”
All Connor knew about Melissa was that the other guys thought she was a big, fat pain in the butt.
Actually, she wasn’t big or fat at all, and she could even be considered kind of pretty—if you liked girls with freckles, Chiclets-white teeth, and mounds of red hair. Connor was beginning to think he did.
But Melissa had a way of speaking to you that made you feel dumb—dumber even than Mr. Corbacio made you feel in science class when you messed up on a cells, tissues, and organs quiz. So when she marched up to him waving a notebook, Connor was fully prepared to feel as if his IQ had dropped forty points.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“You probably don’t know I’m the sports editor of the school newspaper,” she began.
“What, you don’t think I know how to read?” Connor said.
Melissa didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure you manage to get by—somehow.”
“Something I can do for you?” Connor said. “Maybe you noticed we’re about to play ball.”
Melissa made a big show of looking amazed.
“You mean all these dorky-looking boys in their polyester uniforms, with the bats and the balls and the gloves—they’re here to play baseball?”
“Bossy and sarcastic—an intoxicating combination,” Connor said with a smile. He felt good today, ready to play, encouraged by the pep talk his dad had given him. Even Melissa’s presence wasn’t going to dampen his mood.
“Look,” Melissa said, “I just want you to know we’re publishing one more edition of the York Tattler before summer vacation.”
“Thanks for the memo,” Connor said, pulling a bat from his equipment bag. “I’ll be sure to pick up a copy. Maybe I’ll find someone to read it to me.”
“You should,” Melissa said. “Because I’m doing a big story on you.”
Now it was Connor’s turn to look surprised.
“Me?” he said. “Why waste space on me?”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Modest,” Melissa said. “Everyone knows you’re the best player in the league. Best hitter, best shortstop, surefire all-star, blah, blah, blah. And I hear you’re going to the Brooks Robinson camp, too.” She smiled and put both hands on her hips, gazing at him intently. “No doubt about it,” she went on, “inquiring minds want to know all about the great Connor Sullivan.”
For a moment, Connor was speechless. He pretended to examine his bat, waiting for his brain to process what he’d just heard.
“What if I don’t want you writing about me?” he said finally.
Melissa shook her head sadly, as if talking to a particularly slow third grader. “Ever hear of the First Amendment, bonehead?” she said. “Freedom of the press? That ring a bell anywhere?”
“Freedom of the press, freedom of the press…” Connor said, scratching his head. “No, that’s a new one for me.”
Melissa shot him a sour look. “Anyway, I’ll be coming to the rest of your games,” she said. “And I’ll be taking pictures for the story and shooting video for our Web site. Probably have to interview you once or twice, too.”
Great, Connor thought. A couple more conversations like this and my IQ will be down to zero.
“Nobody wants to read about me, Melissa,” he said. “I’m a pretty boring guy.”
“Uh-huh. Right,” Melissa said.
“Don’t believe me?” With that, Connor shouted to Jordy Marsh and Willie Pitts, who were loosening their arms along the sideline. “Guys, aren’t I the most boring person you ever met?”
Willie grinned and nodded. “Dude, you’re like walking anesthesia,” he said.
“You’re putting me to sleep right now,” Jordy added.
“Nice try, hotshot,” Melissa said, poking a finger in Connor’s chest. “But you’re my Tattler story. Go out there and make us both look good.”
She turned on her heel, strode over to the bleachers behind home plate, and found a seat. Connor watched her pull a tiny video camera from her backpack and fiddle with the lens.
As the Red Sox took the field, he couldn’t decide who was making him more nervous: Melissa Morrow, or the big kid warming up on the mound, Billy Burrell.
If Melissa threw a fastball as hard as Billy did, Connor decided, it would be no contest.
Billy Burrell looked even bigger and older and scarier—if that was possible—than he had the last time he had faced the Orioles.
Warming up on the mound, the Red Sox pitcher appeared to be seven feet tall. His cap was pulled low on his forehead, shading two dark slits that might have been his eyes. His windup was all arms and legs unfolding at crazy angles. And his pitches popped into the catcher’s mitt with a loud THWACK!
“The boy can bring it a little,” Willie Pitts said, leaning on his bat and studying Billy from the on-deck circle.
“Someone check his ID,” said Jordy Marsh. “I swear I saw him in a Gillette commercial.”
Once the game started, Billy wasted no time showing off his stuff. He got Willie, the O’s’ leadoff batter, on a bouncer to second base. Carlos Molina struck out on three fastballs. Jordy ran the count to 3 and 2, and struck out on a curveball that seemed to break from somewhere near third base.
As he walked off the mound, Billy stared into the Orioles dugout. Then he pretended to blow on the smoking barrel of a six-shooter.
“Oooh, we’re scared!” yelled Marty Loopus, who actually would have been terrified if he were facing Billy instead of riding the bench.
“Guys, don’t pay attention to that garbage,” Coach Hammond said. “Just play the game.”
Connor looked over at his coach. The guy was as old-school as they came—buzz cut, neatly-trimmed mustache, wearing his signature blue Police Athletic League Windbreaker, a testament to his twenty-two years on the Baltimore police force. The Orioles knew it drove Coach nuts to see young ballplayers celebrating wildly after a home run or a great catch or a well-pitched inning. The truth was, Coach didn’t like them doing anything that could make a player on the other team feel bad. “Showing up the other guy,” is what he called it.
Seeing Coach’s reaction to Billy’s taunts, Connor thought back to an early-season game against the Dodgers. Robbie Hammond, Coach’s son and the Orioles’ best pitcher, had struck out a batter
with the bases loaded to end the inning. As he walked off the mound, Robbie had yelled “Yeah!” and pumped his fist. When Robbie reached the dugout, Coach had gathered the Orioles around him. “If you struck out,” he told them, “would you want some knucklehead yelling and pumping his fist at you? Let’s play with class, gentlemen.”
Robbie had been mortified at his dad’s words. He’d hung his head and stared at the cement floor. But Coach had made his point. The Orioles knew better than to do any trash-talking or showboating when he was around.
Billy Burrell, Connor decided, would last about five seconds around Coach.
In the second inning, Connor lined a clean single over Billy’s head to start things off. Standing on first, he noticed Billy wasn’t doing his smoking–six-gun routine now.
But Robbie followed with a grounder to short that the Red Sox turned into an easy double play. And Yancy Arroyo hit a pop fly to the first baseman to end the inning.
Fortunately for the Orioles, Robbie was pitching pretty well, too, matching Billy in scoreless innings.
It was still 0–0 in the fourth when Willie Pitts drew a walk on four pitches. Billy shook his head in disgust and stared hard at the umpire as Willie trotted down to first.
“This is it, guys!” Marty Loopus yelled. “Mr. Six-Gun is losing it!”
Willie promptly stole second, which seemed to rattle Billy even more. With Carlos Molina at the plate, Billy reared back and threw even harder. The result was another four-pitch walk. Jordy Marsh drew yet a third walk.
Now Billy Burrell was seething.
The Red Sox catcher, a pudgy kid named Dylan, walked out to the mound to try to settle him down.
“Get back behind the plate, fat boy,” Billy snarled, and Dylan quickly retreated.
Bases loaded. No outs. In the dugout, the Orioles came to life. They hooted and cheered and banged their bats against the bench as Connor strolled to the plate.
“Here we go, C!” Yancy Arroyo yelled.
“Wait for your pitch, Connor!” Coach Hammond shouted.
Connor stepped into the batter’s box. Slowly he dug one spike into the dirt and then the other. Then he tapped the far corner of the plate with his bat, assuring himself he could reach an outside pitch. What was it his dad always said? Act like you own the batter’s box. This is your office. Go to work.
Billy glared at him. He got the sign from his catcher, went into his windup, and threw a chin-high fastball.
Connor swung and missed.
Strike one.
“Too high!” Coach Hammond yelled.
Relax, Connor told himself. You’re too anxious. Make him throw strikes.
Billy’s next pitch was another fastball, shoulder-high this time. Connor couldn’t lay off this one, either.
Strike two.
What are you doing? Connor thought, stepping out of the box to regroup. You’re helping this guy, swinging at junk like that!
Out on the mound, Billy grinned. His confidence was back. He strutted around, glove tucked under one arm, rubbing the baseball with both hands.
Connor tapped the dirt from his spikes with the bat. He knew that every pitcher in the league considered it an accomplishment to strike him out. The last thing Connor wanted to do was give Billy an early Christmas present.
Connor took a couple of practice swings and stepped back in the box. He choked up on the bat and waved it menacingly, hands held high. Protect the plate, he told himself. Don’t let the team down.
The noise from the stands was deafening now. Little kids screamed and stomped on the bleachers. Mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandparents were on their feet, clapping and cheering. Connor’s parents weren’t here, but they were in his head. Can’t let them down, either.
Billy went into his windup. The pitch started low, a breaking ball, and Connor started his swing, even as the ball dropped wildly at the last second. He tried to check, but it was too late.
“Strike three!” the umpire yelled.
Billy let out a whoop and punched the sky.
Which is when something inside Connor snapped.
This time he smashed his batting helmet on the ground and waved a fist at Billy. Then he stomped back to the dugout and smacked a water bottle with his bat. The bottle exploded against one wall, just missing Marty’s head.
“Coach, this is a warning!” the umpire shouted. “Any more of that, and he’s gone!”
Coach Hammond nodded. He stood at the railing of the dugout, chewing furiously on his gum, and glared at Connor. “You need to cool off,” he said quietly. He pointed to the end of the bench. “Take a seat—for the rest of the game.”
Like last time, Connor’s anger vanished in seconds. By the time he sat down, the first waves of remorse were already washing over him.
The chanting began seconds later.
It came from the Red Sox dugout, a loud, singsong noise that sounded like something from the crowd at the big international soccer matches he’d seen on TV.
“PSY-CHO SULL-EE!” went the chant. “PSY-CHO SULL-EE!”
Connor could feel the tears coming. He bent down and pretended to tie his spikes so no one could see his face.
But the chant continued, now even louder than before. “PSY-CHO SULL-EE! PSY-CHO SULL-EE!"
Somehow, he managed to cheer when Robbie Hammond, the next batter, doubled to left on a 3-and-2 count to drive in three runs.
Billy Burrell was so frustrated that he grabbed the front of his jersey and began growling and tearing at it with his teeth, something the Orioles had never seen before.
“And they’re calling you psycho?” Marty Loopus said. “Get a load of Dog Boy out there.”
But there was no cheering up Connor. He spent the rest of the game with a sick feeling in his stomach.
When it was over and the Orioles had won, 4–1, he lined up to slap hands with the other team. Billy smirked as he passed him. So did a few of the other Red Sox.
“Check the scoreboard, boys,” Jordy said. “I’m pretty sure you guys lost.”
“We’ll see you again in the playoffs,” Billy said. “Maybe Mr. Meltdown here can play the whole game this time.”
Connor’s face got hot. He wheeled to confront Billy, but Jordy quickly stepped between them.
“Better hope he doesn’t play the whole game,” Jordy told Billy. “That hit he got almost tore your head off.”
Good ol’ Jordy, Connor thought. Always the first to defend him.
But he still felt terrible. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure with a camera bag walking toward him.
There was probably someone else in the entire world he wanted to see less than Melissa Morrow. But at the moment, he couldn’t imagine who that could be.
“Quite a temper you have there, hotshot,” she said.
“Don’t start, Melissa,” Connor said. “It’s been a rough day.”
Melissa smiled and watched the field empty as players and their parents headed to the parking lot. “Guess you heard the ‘Psycho Sully’ chant,” she said.
“Kind of hard to miss,” Connor said. He grabbed a water bottle and took a long drink, hoping it would soothe his stomach.
“Psycho Sully…” Melissa said. “Maybe that could be the headline on my story. Got some nice shots of you flipping out with your batting helmet, too.”
Connor groaned. Now he was feeling absolutely nauseated. For a moment, he wondered if he’d get sick right there.
Knowing Melissa, she’d take photos of that, too. And print them in the York Tattler. Or even worse, post them on the Internet.
Only not before giving another lecture on the First Amendment.
The phone rang thirty minutes after he got home from the game, as he knew it would.
Connor looked at the caller ID screen: RAYMOND HAMMOND. Coach was not the sort of person who took long to address matters when they needed to be addressed. Connor knew this was one of the reasons why Coach had become a cop. When you see a thug knock do
wn some poor old lady and run off with her purse, you don’t stand there analyzing the situation. You take action. That was Coach.
Connor waited a few rings, hoping for a miracle.
Maybe there would be a sudden massive disruption of the telecommunications systems up and down the East Coast.
Maybe it would be caused by a solar flare, or the laser sabotage of a satellite in outer space by an evil madman intent on world domination, as he’d seen in an old James Bond movie.
Or maybe Coach’s phone would suddenly burst into flames due to some horrible internal malfunction and be unusable for days.
Ha, fat chance! He finally picked up on the fifth ring.
“Connor?” Coach said. “It’s got to stop, son.”
“I know, Coach. I’m sorry.”
“Two games in a row,” Coach said.
“Yes, sir. I’m not proud of what I did.”
“I wanted you to cool off before we talked.”
“Thanks, Coach. I’m cool. It won’t happen again.”
There was silence on the other end.
Finally, Coach said: “This isn’t like you. Anything bothering you, son? Everything okay at home, school, that sort of thing?”
“I’m fine, Coach.”
“You know you can always talk to your mom and dad. They’re good people. The best. You can always talk to me, too.”
“I know. But everything’s okay, honest.”
The truth was, Connor didn’t know anything. Two hours earlier, he was sure he had his temper under control, and then—Bam! He suddenly went psycho. Now his heart seemed to be beating wildly.
“Connor, we can’t have any more of these blowups,” Coach said. “You’re running out of chances. Understand what I’m saying?”
“Absolutely, Coach.”
“If it happens again, I’ll have to take some action.”
Take some action. There it was again. Oh, Coach would definitely take action, all right.
Connor hung up the phone. His stomach was in knots. Now he felt like he could hardly catch his breath.
Still in his Orioles uniform, he ran out the back door, dropped to all fours in the cool grass, and began doing push-ups. Up-down, up-down, up-down…He wasn’t keeping count, just banging them out as fast as he could, making them hurt, keeping his legs straight and his shoulders square, and dropping all the way until his chest brushed the grass.
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