Hothead

by Cal Ripken Jr.

  “Keep making jokes, Psycho Boy,” Billy said. “Be a shame if one of my fastballs accidentally hits you when we meet again.”

  “That almost sounds like a threat,” Connor said. “But remember how wild you were last time? You couldn’t hit the Atlantic Ocean that day, never mind me.”

  Billy balled his fists and stomped away, weaving in and out of the other kids in the crowded hallway. He turned one last time to shoot a death stare at Connor, and walked right into an open locker door. Kyle and Marcus were trying so hard not to laugh, it looked like their quivering lips would explode.

  Connor grinned and shook his head in amazement.

  Then he headed off to science class, marveling at how he was able to control his temper around a knucklehead like Billy, who could make the Pope want to take a swing at him.

  Maybe there’s hope for me, Connor thought. If Billy doesn’t get under my skin, nothing in a baseball game will.

  Connor was feeling better about life in general these days. Things didn’t seem to be quite as tense at home. His dad was still looking for a job, and money was still tight, but the whole family seemed to be handling it better. His mom had been earning more overtime pay at the hospital, and there hadn’t been any more talk of losing the house.

  There were other signs of hope. A car dealership across town had called his dad in for a second interview, which everyone seemed to think was a big deal. And Brianna had won a modest scholarship that would help pay for her first-choice college.

  It felt good not to be walking around with a knot in his stomach all the time—or suspended from baseball.

  As he joined the other kids going into science class, Jordy handed him a note. Connor gave him a quizzical look. “From your new friend,” was all Jordy said before taking his seat.

  Connor moved to the back of the classroom, took his seat, and opened the note.

  Hey, Connor!

  By now you know I decided to accept your deal. Remember, one more blowup and I will run the story—in print and on the Web. Sports are supposed to be fun. But you and a lot of other kids seem to be taking these games WAY too seriously.

  Anyway, good luck in the playoffs. I’ll be watching!

  Your friend,

  Melissa

  Some friend, Connor thought, as he folded the note and stuck it in his backpack.

  With friends like her on the sidelines waiting for him to fail, and Billy gunning for him from the mound, he felt like he might as well be going into the last game of the World Series.

  Bring it on, Connor thought.

  Connor watched his dad climb behind the wheel of the family SUV, fasten his seatbelt, and punch in the address of Eddie Murray Field on the Garmin GPS affixed to the windshield.

  His dad tapped go on the screen. A colorful street map appeared. “Drive to highlighted route,” a female voice said.

  “Hmm, not bad,” Bill Sullivan said. He turned to Connor in the passenger seat and flashed the thumbs-up sign.

  “Uh, Dad?” Connor said. “You don’t know the way? You’ve only driven to the field about ten thousand times.”

  “Yes, I know the way, wise guy. But I’m trying out a new voice.” The old voice on his GPS, called American English Jill in the instruction booklet, was too pushy and insistent, he said. When he made a wrong turn, Jill said “Recalculating” in a tone that suggested she was annoyed and mystified as to how he ever got his driver’s license in the first place. Hence, this trial run with Australian English Carol.

  “In five hundred feet, turn left,” Carol intoned.

  “Isn’t that a nice Aussie accent?” his dad said. “She’s much less judgmental. You can tell already.”

  Connor shook his head and grinned. “If you say so,” he said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the dashboard. “Now, can we please get going? I don’t want to be late.”

  Actually, there was no danger of that happening, since there was a full hour before game time, and the field was only a mile or so away.

  But this was Connor’s first game in two weeks, ever since his Black Friday blowup and suspension, and he was eager to see his teammates and play ball. It was also the Orioles’ first and long-awaited playoff game. This one was do-or-die against the Yankees—winner goes on to play the winner of the Braves–Red Sox game in a best-of-three series for the championship; loser goes home to sulk.

  Connor was so pumped, he had changed into his uniform the minute he got home from school. After that he had grabbed his glove and ball and gone out to the bounceback net and warmed up for forty-five minutes.

  Pre-pregame warm-up, he called it. Hitting the bounceback net was a good way to work off the butterflies, which were now doing strafing runs in his stomach.

  “How’re you feeling, buddy?” his dad asked—a little gingerly, it seemed to Connor. “You’re just gonna go out there and have fun, right?”

  “I’m good, Dad,” Connor said. “No need to worry.”

  His dad nodded and patted his arm. “I’m not worried,” he said. “You’ll do fine.”

  Sure, Dad, Connor thought. We’re both big fat liars.

  When they got to the field, Connor was out of his seat belt and reaching for the door handle before the car even stopped.

  “You know I’d stay if I could,” his dad said. “But the sales manager at Somerville Ford asked me to swing by. I think they’d love to hire me—if their business ever picks up. But that’s a big if.”

  “I know,” Connor said. “Good luck. Let me know what happens.”

  Actually, until he was sure he had his temper under control, Connor was fine with his parents not being at his games. He leaned over and hugged his dad. Then he bolted from the car and sprinted across the parking lot to the field. The grass had never looked greener, he decided, and the red clay of the infield had never looked more inviting.

  As Connor stretched in front of the Orioles dugout, players from both teams began to arrive.

  “The big dog is back!” Willie said when he spotted Connor. He cupped his hands around his mouth and turned to the opposing dugout. “Hey, Yankees!” he shouted. “Might as well save yourselves a lot of grief and go home now! You got no chance! The great Connor Sullivan is in the house!”

  “Yeah, Yankees!” added Marty Loopus. “You got to worry about another slugger besides me now!”

  That one had all the Orioles laughing.

  “Way to put pressure on me,” Connor said. But secretly he was pleased that his teammates thought so highly of him, even though it made him more nervous.

  Just then, Jordy came up and threw an arm around his shoulders. “You’re cool today, right?” he said in a low voice. “We’re all behind you, you know that.”

  Connor nodded. Jordy’s the greatest, he thought. Always has my back.

  “I won’t let you guys down again,” he said. “Promise.”

  Seemingly buoyed by Connor’s presence, the Orioles jumped all over the Yankees right away. Willie led off the first inning with a single to right, and Carlos Molina doubled him home. Jordy singled Carlos home, and now Connor stepped into the batter’s box.

  He could feel his heart pounding as he dug in with his right cleat, then the left, getting the balanced feeling in his lower body that told him he was ready.

  “Level swing, Connor!” Coach Hammond shouted. More coach-speak for: Son, I know you’re totally jacked up for this one, but don’t try to kill the ball.

  But Connor killed it anyway.

  Maybe it was weeks of anxiety and frustration coming out, transferred from his brain to his legs and hips and arms and shoulders. Whatever the reason, he took a short, powerful swing at the first pitch, a fastball over the plate. The ball jumped off his bat and screamed over the center-field fence for a two-run homer, making it 4–0 Orioles.

  The Orioles dugout erupted, and Connor went into his home run trot. As he rounded third and neared home, he looked up and saw Melissa snapping photos from behind the chain-link fence. Suddenly, she lowered her camera, smil
ed, and waved.

  Connor was so surprised that he started to wave back. Then he caught himself. What would Coach Hammond think of a player waving while he circled the bases after a homer? He could almost hear Coach snorting and spitting out the words “bush league.”

  The Orioles added two more runs in the third inning when the Yankees relief pitcher couldn’t find the plate and walked four batters in a row before hitting the fifth batter.

  “Just throw strikes, Mikey!” came a voice from the stands, probably the kid’s dad.

  Connor smiled. Just throw strikes. That one always cracked him up. As if the kid wasn’t trying to throw strikes already. As if he’d hear that and a little lightbulb would go off in his head, just like in the cartoons, and he’d think, Hey-y-y! Strikes! Why didn’t I think of that?

  The only dumber advice people shouted to struggling young pitchers was, “Just you and the catcher, babe. Pitch and catch!”

  Sure, Connor thought. Just you and the catcher—and a batter waving a bat menacingly, and an umpire behind the plate, and seven players behind you, and fifty people in the stands watching your every move.

  The Yankees came back with three runs in the fourth inning as Robbie Hammond had control problems of his own, walking two before Mike Messing, their big slugger, belted a homer over the right-field fence.

  In the fifth inning, the Yankees threatened again. Their leadoff batter reached on a single to left. Robbie ran the count to 3 and 2 on the next batter, and then reared back and threw him a fastball inside for strike three.

  Just then, the runner on first broke for second.

  Joey Zinno came out of his crouch behind the plate and fired a perfect throw down to second. Connor moved smoothly in front of the bag, ready to gather the throw for a sweeping tag of the sliding base runner.

  Except…he dropped the ball.

  It bounced harmlessly at the runner’s feet.

  For a few seconds it was as if everyone—including the Orioles, Coach Hammond, and all the parents in the stands—was holding his or her breath, waiting to see what Connor would do.

  And what he did next amazed everyone, including himself.

  Scowling, he ripped the glove off his left hand and held it high in the air. But instead of slamming it to the ground, he…whacked himself over the head with it.

  Then he took a deep breath. And smiled.

  “Shake it off, C!” Jordy yelled, and suddenly everyone on the Orioles was chattering at once, telling him: “Hey, nice try, no big deal, we’ll get the next guy.”

  And they did.

  Robbie struck out the next batter on a nasty curveball that had the kid bailing out before the ball was halfway to the plate. And the next batter lifted a high fly ball to center that Yancy Arroyo caught for the third out.

  As they hustled off the field, one Oriole after another touched gloves with Connor and said, “Good job” or “Way to go.” In the dugout, Coach Hammond said to him, “What you did out there, that was a little weird.”

  Connor winced a little. He knew Coach didn’t like any display of emotion on the field.

  Then Coach broke out in a smile. “But it worked. Hope you didn’t lose any brain cells.”

  Connor grinned and staggered around like a drunk, making everyone in the dugout crack up.

  The Orioles held on for a 6–3 win. As they lined up to slap hands with the Yankees after the game, Melissa ran up to Connor with her video camera running.

  “Nice to see you smiling after a game,” she said.

  “Nice to be smiling,” he said. Then he remembered: “So, you going to hold up your end of our bargain?”

  “Guess I have to,” Melissa said. Connor thought she looked a little disappointed. “But I did get that little glove-on-head maneuver on tape. Can I use that, at least?”

  Connor laughed. “Let’s see how the rest of the games go. Maybe you’ll have a whole reel of Connor Sullivan bloopers to post.”

  “Hmm,” Melissa said. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll have to find the right music to go with it…. See ya next time, hotshot.”

  As he watched Melissa run off, her red ponytail bouncing, Connor felt as if he’d passed some kind of test. He wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or more tired from burning all the nervous energy he’d stored all day.

  All he knew was this: two more wins and the Orioles were champions.

  And he, their walking Mount Vesuvius, hadn’t erupted—at least, not yet.

  “Dude, you smacked yourself! With your own glove!”

  “Yeah, that was awesome!”

  “It was almost as crazy as Dog Boy gnawing on his shirt!”

  It was two days after their win over the Yankees, and the Orioles were loosening up before practice on a field behind York Middle School. Moments earlier, Coach Hammond had gathered them on the bench to announce they’d be playing a best-of-three series for the championship against the Red Sox, who had beaten the Braves, 6–2, behind a two-hitter by Billy Burrell.

  The mention of the Red Sox elicited a spirited round of booing. More boos greeted Billy’s name, especially when Coach called him “probably the best pitcher in the league—no offense to Robbie, of course.”

  Naturally, everyone had then glanced at Robbie, who leaped to his feet, held up two fingers on each hand and started chanting, “We’re number two! We’re number two!” to much laughter.

  Now, as they played catch on the sidelines, the hot topic of discussion was Connor’s post-error antics against the Yankees, which everyone agreed belonged on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

  And it might just get there, Connor thought, thanks to Melissa Morrow.

  “When you dropped that throw, I thought you’d lose it again for sure,” Willie said.

  “So did I,” Connor said, shaking his head at the memory. “I was so mad at myself.”

  “So how’d you keep from exploding?” Jordy asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Connor said. “It was like a little voice in my head said ‘Stop! Think what you could lose!’”

  “You hear little voices inside your head?” Marty said. He pretended to edge away from Connor. “Now you’re really starting to scare me.”

  “I know it sounds wack,” Connor said. “But it worked. I felt better right away.”

  “Oh, sure,” Willie said, rolling his eyes. “I can definitely see how hitting yourself with a hard piece of leather would make you feel better.”

  “All right, gentlemen!” Coach shouted. “Big game Friday. Let’s do some hitting.”

  For the next hour, the Orioles took batting practice, with Coach Hammond on the mound throwing fastballs and breaking balls and even a few changeups to keep them on their toes.

  Coach had been a pretty good high school pitcher, and he fired the ball in there to each batter, trying to give them a taste of what Billy Burrell would be throwing. Some of the Orioles were hesitant about digging in against Coach—you could see how fidgety they were in the batter’s box. But Connor was so locked in he hit three balls over the fence and ripped line drive after line drive with his fifteen swings, causing Coach to grin and shout, “He’s tearing the cover off the ball!”

  They followed batting practice with a half hour of infield and outfield practice, and then Coach called them together near the pitcher’s mound.

  “Time to work on our trick play,” Coach said.

  The Orioles looked quizzically at each other and then back at Coach.

  Finally, Jordy said: “Uh, Coach…we don’t have a trick play.”

  “We do now,” Coach said. “We’ll call it the ‘X Play.’ It might even win us the championship; you never know.”

  They could tell Coach was excited. “All right, pay attention,” he said. “We’ll use this play when we have base runners on first and third and fewer than two outs. The runner on first breaks for second, okay? Halfway down the line, he’s going to trip and fall down.”

  “Coach, we already have that play,” Willie said. “It’s call
ed ‘The Marty Loopus.’”

  As laughter erupted, Marty took a deep, theatrical bow and said: “If anyone needs tips, I’m available after practice.”

  “No,” Coach continued with a smile, “the runner’s going to pretend to trip and fall. Which means he has to do a really good acting job. And as soon as the catcher throws down to second to nail that guy, the runner on third breaks for home and scores. Everybody got it? Okay, let’s practice it.”

  For the next thirty minutes they worked on the play, each Oriole taking a turn as the runner on both first and third. Coach showed them exactly where on the base path they should trip and fall, and how to make sure the catcher’s throw went all the way through to second base before breaking for home.

  “The Red Sox could have a trick play of their own to counter our play,” he warned. “They could have the pitcher take the throw from the catcher and nail our runner on third. So you have to be heads-up.”

  Finally, Coach pronounced himself satisfied that they had the play down pat, although he said none of them would win an Academy Award for his tripping performance.

  “And here I was hoping you’d be calling me ‘Hollywood,’” Willie said with a grin.

  When practice was over, Coach gathered them on the bench once more. “Well, this is it, guys,” he said. “Just two more wins and we’re the champions. We’ve had a terrific season. But it’ll be even sweeter when we beat the Red Sox in this series. Play hard Friday, use your heads, and keep your emotions under control. If you do that, I have no doubt you’ll be come out on top. Okay, hands in the middle….”

  Connor wondered if that business about keeping your emotions under control was meant for him. But by the time the team huddled up, put their hands in the middle, and shouted “ONE, TWO, THREE, ORIOLES!” he decided Coach was simply reminding all of them to stay calm in the upcoming games, no matter what happened.

  As they were leaving the field, they passed the Red Sox players, who were just beginning to straggle in for their own practice. Leading the way was Billy Burrell, flanked, Connor noticed, by his usual surly mini-posse.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Snoreoles,” Billy said when he spotted them. Kyle and Marcus snickered on cue.