“You think that up all by yourself?” Jordy said.
“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Willie added. “Your brain must be tired.”
Billy stopped and glared at them. “You won’t be laughing when we’re holding the championship trophy,” he said. His eyes locked on Connor. “And you, Psycho Sully,” he snarled. “I’ll be ready for you this time, too. Unless you get thrown out of the game again.”
Connor moved toward Billy, then caught himself. No, stay cool. Deep breath. He could feel himself getting furious, but all he did was grin. Bullies, he knew, hated when you grinned at them. A grin showed you weren’t afraid.
“Nice to see you in a good mood again, Billy,” Connor said. “This is two times in a row. That’s a personal record, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I am in a good mood,” Billy said. “Just picturing that trophy. See you soon, losers.”
Billy walked away, Kyle and Marcus trailing behind him like obedient Labrador retrievers. No, that’s an insult, Connor thought. To Labradors.
As the rest of the Orioles drifted out to the parking lot to get their rides home, Connor, Jordy, and Marty headed for the bike rack behind the school. There they came upon a disturbing sight: both the front and back tires of Connor’s bike were slashed.
A jagged piece of broken bottle lay nearby. Connor bent down to examine it.
“Don’t touch it!” Marty said. “The police can dust for fingerprints.”
“You’ve been watching too much CSI: Miami,” Connor said. “Like the cops are going to drop everything to investigate a kid’s vandalized bike.” He tossed the glass in a trash can and looked down at the two gaping holes in the knobby rubber tires.
“Who could’ve done this?” Jordy said angrily, looking around.
“I have a pretty good idea,” Connor said, staring back at where the Red Sox were practicing.
“You gonna tell Coach?” Marty asked.
“Nah. No proof. But now I’m even more psyched to play the Red Sox. They’re taking this whole thing very personally, aren’t they?” Connor unlocked his bike and sighed. “In the meantime, guess I’ll be walking. Or riding with Australian Carol.”
Jordy looked at him and shook his head. “This new attitude of yours, C,” he said. “You sure you didn’t knock a screw loose when you smacked yourself?”
“Maybe I did.” Connor pulled out his bike. “But at least now Marty isn’t living by himself in Bizarro World.”
“Hey, welcome to my planet, bro!” Marty said.
Then all three boys laughed as they started walking their bikes home together.
“You’re going on a date?” Jordy said over the phone, sounding incredulous. “You’re twelve years old!”
“It’s not a date,” Connor said.
“Let me get this straight,” Jordy said. “You’re a boy. She’s a girl. You’re meeting her to get something to eat. At a place in town. But that’s not a date? What is it, a dentist appointment?”
“Getting something to eat was Melissa’s idea,” Connor said. “She even said she’d pay for it. But mainly she wants to take photos of me at the field for her Tattler story.”
“Yeah, right,” said Jordy. “Like she can’t wait one more day until we play the Red Sox. And get all the shots she needs. Sorry, bro, but this sounds like a date.”
“It’s not a date,” Connor said. “We don’t even like each other.”
Actually, Connor wasn’t sure that was true. It used to be true. But Melissa had kept her end of the bargain by not posting the video. And since then she seemed to be…well, rooting for him. Kind of.
“It’s just an interview,” Connor said, as much to himself as to Jordy.
After he hung up, Connor stole a quick look at himself in the mirror. His Orioles uniform was clean and ironed, and his cap looked good, pulled low over the eyes with the brim curved and tilted at a slight angle, the way Adam Jones wore his.
It occurred to him that he had never before ironed his baseball uniform or studied himself in the mirror after he put it on. He’d never much cared what he looked like in it, either.
Until today, for some reason.
But it’s definitely not a date, he thought as he ran out the back door, grabbed his Rawlings bat, and jumped on his bike.
All they were doing, Connor told himself, was having a slice of pizza at Big Al’s Italian Villa. But Melissa offering to pay was definitely key. Connor was broke, as usual. And just the day before, when he had asked his parents about paying for two new tires for his bike, that hadn’t gone over real well, either.
“Didn’t you get the memo about me being out of work? And money being tight?” his dad had snapped.
Bill Sullivan had just returned from another job interview that hadn’t gone well, judging from how tired and discouraged he looked. This one was at a Honda dealership forty minutes away, where his dad said he spent a half hour in the showroom being ignored and drinking stale coffee before the sales manager sat him down for the shortest job interview in history.
But when Connor explained how he had come to find his bike tires slashed, his dad’s voice had softened and he shook his head.
“I’m calling that kid’s parents,” he’d said, reaching for the phone.
“Dad, it’s a waste of time,” Connor had told him. “Billy will just deny he did it. Nobody saw him do it.”
A few minutes later, his dad had put Connor’s bike in the back of the SUV and taken it to the local bicycle repair shop, where two new knobby tires were purchased and mounted at a cost of $63.75.
Dad always comes through, Connor thought as he pedaled to meet Melissa. Now if only something would come through for him.
Big Al’s was crowded with dinner customers by the time he arrived. He spotted Melissa at a table in the rear, scribbling on a napkin, her backpack slung over a chair. She looked up and smiled when he sat down.
“Tell me you like pepperoni,” she said.
“Ohh-kay,” Connor said. “I like pepperoni.”
“Good,” Melissa said, “because I ordered two slices of pepperoni for us. And two Sprites. Maybe I should have waited for you. My little brother says I’m always trying to take charge. He’s probably right.”
“If you like pepperoni, I like pepperoni,” Connor said, which brought another smile from Melissa.
He really hadn’t meant to sound so…sappy. It just slipped out. Jordy would have killed him for that one! He would have said, “C, you’re making me gag.”
Melissa looked different today, Connor decided.
Different in a really good way. She was wearing a cool Girl Power T-shirt and what looked like new jeans. And there was something happening with her hair, although Connor couldn’t figure out exactly what.
While they were waiting for their food, Melissa said, “I want to show you something.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out a video camera. After pressing a few buttons, she looked at the display and nodded. “Here,” she said, handing it to Connor. “Take a look.”
And there it was in all its full-color digital glory: Connor Sullivan wigging out like a middle-school madman in the Yankees game. Sailing that horrible throw to first base, tossing the glove in a rage, snarling at Jordy, whipping the bat against the dugout wall, and then fleeing in tears.
Connor watched the whole thing in silence. Now he was the one who was gagging.
“Well,” he said finally, handing the camera back, “that ruined my appetite.” Now he was ticked off. Was this whole thing a setup? “What’s the deal? I thought you were going to erase that.”
For the first time ever, Connor saw Melissa get flustered. “Wait, I didn’t mean to…I am going to erase it, I promise. But first I wanted you to see it. I thought you might want to know what one of your meltdowns looks like.”
“Why would I?” Connor said. “I look like a real brat. It’s so embarrassing.”
“But it’s over now,” Melissa said. “I swear I’m not going to use it.”
Connor
couldn’t look at her. He felt like getting up and leaving.
“I like the new and improved Connor way better,” Melissa said quietly.
That got his attention. She was smiling at him, but her eyes looked sad. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was really stupid of me. I’m going to erase it right now. In fact, here.” She gave him the camera and pointed to the delete button. “You can do the honors.”
It felt good to trash that file, but Connor was still wary. “How do I know it isn’t already uploaded to your computer?”
“Look, Connor,” Melissa said, putting both of her palms up on the table. “If I wanted to, I could have spread that video all over the Internet by now. But I didn’t. It was a great piece, but I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
She looked so sincere, Connor had to believe her. “But then why show it to me at all?”
“Like I said, I thought it would help if you saw what you looked like. It would stop you from ever doing it again.”
Connor had to admit that, after seeing that footage, he deserved the nickname Psycho Sully.
“Can we start over?” Melissa asked. “I still want to do the story on you. It looks like you guys really might win the championship. And you’re the reason why.”
Connor blushed. This girl really knew how to make him feel like he was on a roller coaster.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, trying hard not to sound like a spoiled brat. “You are paying for the pizza, after all.”
She laughed, and the tension broke.
After they had finished their pizza, Connor got his bike and the two of them walked over to Eddie Murray Field.
They had about an hour before it would get too dark to take pictures.
Melissa wanted some shots of Connor in his batting stance, so they set up in the batter’s box at home plate. Connor held the bat high and waved it in tiny circles. He tried to look menacing, as if he were about to crush the next pitch into another area code. But that was hard to do when you had a pretty girl pointing a camera at you instead of a pitcher like Billy Burrell glaring at you from the mound, ready to throw a blazing fastball under your chin.
“Tell me something,” Melissa said, as she snapped away. “Why did you get so angry in those games? I asked your teammates—even took all this video of Marty Loopus, just to get him to talk. And they all said you never had a bad temper until recently.”
Connor groaned. “Do we have to go into that again?” He put down his bat. “You never give up, do you?”
“I guess we’re both obsessed,” she said. “Me with journalism, you with baseball. But I don’t get as upset when I make mistakes.”
“It was more than that,” said Connor. And before he could stop himself, he told Melissa everything—how baseball was his favorite thing in the world, how things at home were tense, how he didn’t like everything being out of control…
Blah, blah, blah, Connor thought after a while. I’m probably boring her to tears.
But Melissa had been listening intently.
“My mom was out of work last year,” she said. “It was hard. She’s a single mom. I had to go to school and then come home and watch my little brother and sister while she was looking for work. Maybe that’s why I’m so bossy.”
Connor grinned.
“It took her six months to find another job,” Melissa continued. “We were all so worried.” She shuddered at the memory. “I’m sorry you’re going through it. I hope your dad finds something soon. Everyone will feel better after that.”
It was getting late. Melissa took a few more shots of him running the bases, and then they said good-bye, with her promising she’d see him at the big game tomorrow.
Riding home, Connor found himself smiling as he played back the last ninety minutes in his mind. It had gotten off to a rocky start, but after that it had been pretty easy to talk to Melissa. In some ways, it was like talking to Jordy or Willie or any of the guys. In other ways it was totally different, which he couldn’t quite figure out.
Maybe it had something to do with the way she looked at him.
All in all, he concluded, it had been a fun afternoon.
But whatever it was, it wasn’t a date.
Uh-uh, he thought. No way.
Thick, dark clouds hovered as far as the eye could see, and the air smelled moist and earthy as the Orioles took the field for Game 1 of their series against the Red Sox.
“Please don’t let it rain,” Connor whispered as he trotted out to short and Jordy began throwing warm-up grounders to the infielders. “Not tonight. We want these guys.”
The stands were packed and buzzing with excitement, as they had been since both teams finished taking infield and outfield practice. Connor wondered if he had ever been more psyched to play a game in his whole life, with both the league championship on the line and a chance for some payback for Mr. Tire-Slasher himself.
A few minutes earlier, Coach Hammond had gathered the Orioles in the dugout and given them his best pep talk—his “Vince Lombardi speech,” he called it, after the old Green Bay Packers coach who had won so many NFL titles. His voice rising and the veins in his neck bulging, Coach had quickly warmed to his subject: we’re too good to let anything, even Billy Burrell and his blazing fastball, beat us.
“Be hacking up there at the plate,” Coach said in conclusion. “Don’t be afraid of this guy.”
“Easy for him to say,” Marty grumbled. “He’s not playing.”
At this, Connor had shot a warning glance at Willie and mouthed: “No, don’t say it.”
Left unspoken was this thought: barring something like a swine flu epidemic raging through the Orioles in the next ninety minutes, Marty wouldn’t be playing much, either.
Robbie set the Red Sox down one-two-three in the first inning, throwing crisply and mixing in a nice curveball that had the batters off-balance and flailing helplessly.
When the Red Sox took the field in the bottom of the inning, Billy stepped on the mound and made a big show of glaring at the Orioles dugout for several seconds.
“Play ball, son,” the umpire said. “Do that nonsense somewhere else.”
As Billy began taking his warm-up pitches, the Orioles glanced nervously at each other. Billy was throwing harder than they’d ever seen him throw. Each pitch seemed to rock the Red Sox pudgy catcher, Dylan, back on his heels. It seemed as if Billy had added another ten miles per hour to his fastball since the last time they faced him.
“The boy’s a major-league jerk, no denying that,” Willie said in the on-deck circle, chomping hard on his bubble gum. “But he sure can throw smoke.”
On Billy’s final warm-up pitch, the ball sailed over the catcher’s head and exploded against the backstop with a loud WHAP!
With a smirk, Billy stared at the Orioles dugout again. “Gee, looks like I’m a little wild today,” he shouted.
“Probably not a good idea to dig in, guys.”
“Twenty-two, that’s a warning,” the ump said, using Billy’s uniform number. “One more word, and you’re gone.”
Connor knew that Billy’s control was excellent—the best in the whole league—and that his last pitch was designed simply to intimidate the Orioles.
Unfortunately, it seemed to be working on at least one of his teammates. Marty, he noticed, had turned pale. Sitting at the end of the bench, Marty was rocking back and forth with his arms squeezed tightly against his chest.
What was that condition when you were so nervous you couldn’t catch your breath? Hyperventilation? Marty looked like he could use a paper bag to breathe into about now.
Yet it seemed as if Billy might have been a little too amped-up himself, because Willie drew a lead-off walk on five pitches. He promptly stole second, causing Billy to stomp halfway to the plate and snarl at his catcher: “Think you could throw even one base runner out this season?”
Hidden behind his face mask, Dylan dropped his head in embarrassment and pretended to adjust his shin guards.
“Unbelievable
!” Coach Hammond said, shaking his head at Billy’s antics. “This kid is the poster boy for spoiled brats. And his coach lets him get away with that stuff!”
Connor felt a twinge of shame. Brat? Yeah, he knew a little something about that.
Carlos Molina went down swinging on a 3–2 fastball, and Jordy struck out on three straight fastballs, talking to himself in frustration as he walked back to the dugout.
Two outs, and Connor was up. As he knocked the weighted doughnut off his bat in the on-deck circle, he imagined for a moment what it would sound like if the PA announcer was introducing him at Camden Yards: “Now bat-ting for the O-ri-oles, num-ber ten, Con-nor Sull-i-van!”
He took his time strolling to the plate and digging in the batter’s box, knowing all this was driving Billy crazy. When it looked as if he were finally ready to hit, he held up his right hand and asked the ump for time. Then he stepped out of the box again, pretending to adjust his batting gloves.
Sure enough, Billy was fuming. His face had turned a deep shade of crimson, and he kicked at the pitching rubber in frustration, imploring the ump to speed Connor along.
Connor hated when guys stepped out of the batter’s box during at bats. And he hated having to play this little mind game with Billy. But he knew Billy was a powder keg with a seventy-five-mile-per-hour fastball, and that anything he could do to disrupt his rhythm would help the Orioles.
As Connor had hoped, Billy was so angry now he couldn’t even think straight. The moment Connor was ready, the pitcher went into his windup and threw harder than ever.
Ball one, outside.
The next pitch was thrown even harder, with the same result. Ball two.
The third pitch skipped in the dirt in front of the plate, blocked expertly by Dylan, who was lighter on his feet than he looked. Ball three.
Connor stepped out again and took a couple of lazy swings, buying time to assess the situation.
No way he wants to walk me, he thought. He’ll take something off this pitch, just to get it over the plate.
He looked down at Coach in the third-base coaching box to see if the “take” sign was on—and was relieved to see it wasn’t. Coach was probably thinking the same thing he was: Billy was about to throw a meatball.
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