Even as Billy went into his windup, Connor knew he was right. Billy had slowed everything down to a crawl, making his movements so deliberate and mechanical he might as well have been holding a sign that said: “Pitcher is about to groove one! Swing from the heels!”
The pitch came in fat and belt-high, as Connor knew it would. He turned on it perfectly and drove a shot into the gap in left-center field. By the time the outfielders had chased it down, Willie had scored and Connor was rounding second base and cruising in with a stand-up triple.
Just like that, it was 1–0 Orioles.
Billy, who had been backing up the third baseman on the play, stomped past Connor and growled: “You’re so freakin’ lucky. That won’t happen again—promise.”
Don’t say anything, Connor told himself. Let him be the new walking Mount Vesuvius. I’m happy to relinquish the title.
Robbie bounced to first for the final out, stranding Connor at third. But in the Orioles dugout, there was new life. Suddenly the best pitcher in the league looked vulnerable—even if he did look old enough to drive the team bus.
The Red Sox pushed a run across in the top of the third inning to tie it when Robbie walked the first two hitters, and the next batter—Connor recognized him as Kyle, one of the Scowling Stooges—singled up the middle.
But the Orioles threatened again in the bottom of the inning when, with two outs, Carlos drew a walk from Billy, and Jordy hit a slow bouncer that the third baseman booted for an error.
The error seemed to unravel Billy—he stood with his hands on his hips, staring at his third baseman, before stalking around the mound muttering to himself. When he turned back to the plate and saw Connor coming up to bat, a strange look came over his face.
Connor took his time getting set again, digging in with his back foot before stepping in with his left foot.
But this time Billy wasn’t about to wait.
Before the umpire could say anything, he reared back and threw his hardest pitch of the night. It was a fastball that seemed to whistle on its way to the plate, darting and rising like a startled hummingbird.
It hit Connor square in the ribs.
He yelped and went down in a heap.
At first he couldn’t breathe. Open your eyes, he told himself. But no, he couldn’t—not just yet. It hurt too much, an intense sharp pain in his left side that left him gasping for air and made him think he was about to throw up.
He heard people cry out and run toward him, and now they were bending over him, he was certain of that. But still he couldn’t open his eyes.
For an instant he wondered if the ball had gone clean through his body, like a bullet. He didn’t feel a breeze. Wouldn’t you feel air rushing through you if your body had a big hole in it?
Now he heard Coach shouting, “He threw at him on purpose!” Then the other coach was yelling, and the ump was yelling, and Billy was yelling. Connor wished it were quiet, so he could concentrate on making the pain go away.
Seconds later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he heard Coach say gently, “Connor, where did it get you?”
He finally opened his eyes. Coach was kneeling in the dirt beside him, and Jordy, Willie, and Robbie were hovering around him in a semicircle, looks of concern on their faces. Connor tried to point to his left side, where the pitch had nailed him, but the movement made him wince.
“Let’s take a look,” Coach said now, pulling up Connor’s jersey. “Yeah, you’ve got a nice welt there.”
Connor lay on the ground for another minute and felt the worst of the pain gradually subsiding, replaced by a dull, insistent ache. When his breathing calmed down, he tried sitting up, and winced again.
“Easy,” Coach said. “Think you can stand?”
Connor nodded, and Jordy, Willie, and Robbie lifted him gingerly to his feet. The crowd gave him a nice round of applause.
“Boys, help him to the dugout,” Coach said. “Marty, you’re in for Conn—”
“Coach, I’m okay,” Connor said. “I’m staying in the game.”
Coach quickly shook his head. “No way,” he said. “Son, you could have a fractured rib!”
“I’m fine,” Connor said. “Look.” He made a throwing motion with his right arm. The pain nearly brought tears to his eyes, but he was careful to keep his face expressionless in front of Coach. There’s no crying in baseball, he told himself. Wasn’t that a famous line from an old movie?
“I don’t know….” Coach was saying now. But Connor had already picked up his helmet and was jogging down to first base as the crowd applauded again.
Billy had remained on the mound the whole time, and now he stared at Connor with what looked like a cross between a smirk and a scowl. What would you call that? Connor wondered. A smowl? Whatever it was, Connor couldn’t wait to wipe it off his face. A win today should take care of it.
What followed was a heated conference between Coach, the Red Sox coach, and the umpire. Connor couldn’t hear much of what they were saying. But the gist seemed to be that Coach wanted Billy ejected from the game—and suspended for the next game, too—for throwing at Connor.
“I can’t read the pitcher’s mind!” Connor heard the ump say. “There’s no way to tell if it was deliberate!”
After the conference was over, the Red Sox coach went out to talk to Billy, and Coach Hammond walked over to first base to see Connor.
“I know that kid threw at you,” he said, still fuming. “But the ump won’t do anything about it.” He took a deep breath and shook his head wearily. “However, just to show us what a good guy he is,” Coach continued, rolling his eyes, “their coach is pulling Billy out of the game. Which he would have done at the end of the inning anyway.”
Connor understood immediately. League rules mandated that you could only pitch six innings in a week. Billy had pitched almost three innings in this game. And the Red Sox definitely wanted him to pitch again in Game 2, which is why they had no problem pulling him now.
“So we’re gonna have to live with this,” Coach said. “How you feeling? Sure you’re okay to play?”
Connor nodded. “I’m good, Coach,” he said. “Guess we’ll just have to beat them without Billy.”
Coach grinned and gave him a clap on the shoulder, which woke up the dull ache in his ribs and made him groan. But Coach was already walking back to the dugout, and the new Red Sox pitcher was taking his warm-up throws.
The game was about to resume. Score: Orioles 1, Red Sox 1. Two outs, the go-ahead run on first base. It almost felt like they were starting a new game.
The new Red Sox pitcher was a big, blond-haired kid named Blake. He didn’t throw nearly as hard as Billy. But he had a great curveball and quickly put it to use, getting Robbie to bounce out to second base to end the Orioles’ threat.
Grabbing his glove and jogging out to short, Connor wondered how well he’d be able to catch and throw. A couple of warm-up grounders from Jordy convinced him he wasn’t hurting the team by staying in the lineup. His left side ached, but he felt he could still make any play he had to—as long as Jordy didn’t expect a perfect throw to first base.
For the next two innings, Blake and Mike Cutko, who came on in relief of Robbie for the Orioles, settled into a scoreless pitchers’ duel.
Now it was the bottom of the sixth inning, the Orioles’ last chance to score and avoid extra innings. The wind was beginning to pick up, and off in the distance, the rumble of thunder could be heard. The umpire kept looking nervously at the sky, making sure there was no lightning in the area.
The inning did not begin well for the Orioles. Jordy led off with a bouncer to second for an easy out, and Connor hit a long drive that the center fielder hauled in at the base of the fence. But Blake walked Mike on four straight pitches, and Yancy Arroyo singled to right, sending Mike to third as the Orioles parents cheered wildly.
Here it was: two outs, runners on first and third, a big storm bearing down on them. It was rally-cap time. In the dugout, the Orioles quickly
turned their caps inside out and began clapping and stomping their feet, beseeching the baseball gods to deliver a run.
Except maybe the baseball gods aren’t tuned in to this game, Connor thought.
Because shuffling to the plate now as a pinch hitter was none other than Marty Loopus.
In the dugout, Willie turned to Connor and said, “Know the five scariest words in baseball? It’s all up to Marty.”
Connor mustered a grin, but his ribs were aching and his stomach was churning. He was pretty sure his wasn’t the only stomach that was churning, though. Everyone on the bench was either furiously chewing gum or furiously chewing sunflower seeds to cope with the tension. Willie had even picked up his glove and was furiously chewing on the dangling leather strings.
Suddenly, as Marty dug in the batter’s box, Coach called time-out. He walked down from the third base coaching box and motioned for Marty to join him for a conference. With his arm around Marty’s shoulders, Coach murmured instructions for a few seconds. Then Marty nodded grimly and headed back to the plate.
Now Coach was flashing signs to the runners on first and third, touching the brim of his cap, tugging at his ear, wiping a hand across his chest, and touching his elbow.
He was signaling for the X Play! Even though there were already two outs.
But it worked—well, there was no other way to say it—perfectly.
Sure enough, on Blake’s next pitch, Yancy Arroyo broke for second base. Halfway down the line, he suddenly sprawled in the base path as if he’d been shot.
Marty pretended to square around as if to bunt, then pulled the bat back at the last second. Seeing Yancy floundering, Dylan, the Red Sox catcher, gathered in the pitch, came out of his crouch, and fired a bullet to the shortstop covering second.
Which was when Mike broke for home, sliding across the plate as the throw from the panicked Red Sox shortstop sailed over his head and hit the backstop.
Orioles 2, Red Sox 1.
Game over.
One more win and the Orioles were champions.
As Mike jumped to his feet and threw his hands up in celebration, the Orioles poured out of the dugout, whooping with joy, mobbing Mike and pounding him on the helmet.
“Did I come through or what!” Marty shouted to anyone who would listen. “Did ya see me pull that bat back and confuse the pitcher?”
“You’re the best bat-puller-backer I’ve ever seen!” Willie yelled.
On the outskirts of the mob scene at home plate, Connor spotted Melissa recording it all with her video camera, a big smile on her face. “Are you okay?” she mouthed, pointing to her ribs. But before he could answer, Mike was jumping on his back and screaming, “The X Play comes through!”
Moments later, after the players on both teams had lined up to slap hands amid the first drops of rain, Connor was left with this thought: It sure would be nice to celebrate this one with the guys, maybe go somewhere and grab an ice cream or a soda.
But right now he was in the passenger seat of Coach’s pickup truck, the windshield wipers slapping rhythmically as they headed for the emergency room.
His ribs were throbbing. His head was pounding. His mouth was bone-dry, and his face was caked with dirt.
Some celebration.
St. Vincent’s Hospital was huge, an imposing complex perched high on a hill overlooking the south side of town.
Years earlier, when Connor and Jordy were driving home from a travel tournament with Connor’s dad, they had passed the hospital, and Connor had said casually, “That’s where my mom works.”
Gazing at the massive buildings, Jordy’s eyes had lit up.
“Your mom works in a prison?” he’d said. “That is so cool!”
Connor and his dad had dissolved in a fit of laughter over that one. But looking at the place now as Coach drove through the main gate, Connor had to admit that it did sort of look like the big house, as his dad always called it.
Moments later, he made another observation: when a twelve-year-old kid walks into the ER where his mom works, holding his ribs and looking like he was just run over by a tractor, it will get her attention—and fast.
As soon as she spotted Connor and Coach, his mom’s eyes widened. She jumped up from behind the admissions desk and came rushing toward them, a look of alarm on her face.
Coach quickly held up both hands in the universal don’tpanic, everything’s-all-right gesture.
“He got plunked in the ribs by a pitch,” Coach explained. “Don’t think anything’s broken. Just making sure.”
Connor saw his mom’s features relax. She bent down and gently put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.
“You okay, hon?” she said. “Show me where it hurts.”
He pointed to where the ache in his ribs was steadily growing worse now. She pulled up his jersey and looked at his side for a moment.
“You’re going to have some bruise there,” she said. “If it’s just a bruise.”
The emergency room was busy this evening, as it always was at the start of a weekend, according to his mom.
There was a man holding a blood-stained towel over one eye and a teenage boy holding his wrist close to his chest, as if it might be broken. There was a worried-looking couple taking turns holding and rocking a crying toddler in one corner of the room. There was a little girl with a big bandage on the back of her hand; she had been bitten by a dog, her mother said. And moments later, two young guys in softball uniforms came in supporting a third guy in uniform, who was limping with an ice pack wrapped around his swollen ankle.
But the good thing, said his mom, was that the “loonies” weren’t out yet. Connor wasn’t exactly sure who the “loonies” were. But Coach said his mom was probably referring to people who always seemed to end up in the ER late at night after drinking or taking drugs and doing something crazy to hurt themselves.
Connor and Coach settled into a couple of hard plastic chairs and spent the next forty-five minutes watching a program called Top Chef Masters on the overhead TV.
“A cooking show!” Coach grumbled. “And we can’t change the channel. So now they’ll have folks here who are hurt and bored!”
Finally Connor’s mom came over and said: “Okay, let’s go see the doctor.”
“I’ll wait here,” Coach said, looking up at the TV. He rolled his eyes. “They’re about to baste a chicken. The tension is unbearable. I can’t miss a minute of it.”
Connor and his mom laughed. Then they went through the double doors and into a cubicle set off with curtains. Connor got up on the examining table, and a nurse took his blood pressure. Moments later, a friendly-looking man in a white coat entered. He introduced himself as Dr. Bill Rose, and he listened to Connor’s heart and lungs with his stethoscope before examining his left side.
It made Connor wince when the doctor pressed in certain places. But all the while, Dr. Rose kept up a steady conversation, asking Connor how his team was doing, what position he played, and who his favorite big-league Oriole was, among other things. It helped take Connor’s mind off the occasional jabs of pain.
“Okay,” the doctor said finally. “Let’s get some X-rays.”
How long did the whole thing take? Forty-five minutes? Three hours? To Connor, it seemed to take forever. Then he and his mom returned to the cubicle. A few minutes later, Dr. Rose entered, holding the film up against the overhead light.
“Well,” he said, “there’s the proverbial good news and bad news. The good news is: you didn’t break anything.”
Connor looked at his mom and saw her give a big sigh of relief. He tried returning her smile, but he was shivering now and exhausted. His ribs were aching worse than ever from all the poking and prodding he’d undergone.
“But,” the doctor continued, “the bad news is this: no more baseball. At least not for a while. You’ve got a pretty good contusion there. We can’t risk you getting hit in the same spot. It could do a lot of tissue damage.”
Connor was st
unned. He looked at Dr. Rose to see if this could be some kind of joke. But the doctor wasn’t smiling or winking the way adults usually did when they were joking with kids.
Now Connor’s mind was racing. No more baseball? With the Orioles one game away from the championship? After all I’ve been through this season?
“NO!” he shouted.
He jumped down from the examining table. Before he could stop himself, he reared back and kicked the metal wastebasket as hard as he could. It smashed against the table with a loud WHAM!
“CONNOR!” his mom shouted.
The sudden movement made his side hurt worse than ever. But that didn’t matter now. It was all so unfair! No more baseball? Why don’t they just tell me to stop breathing, too?!
Angrily, he grabbed his jersey and ran out into the hallway. Already the tears were stinging his eyes. Billy and the Scowling Stooges hoisting the championship trophy?
No way, he thought. I’m playing the next game if it kills me.
Connor didn’t wake up until nearly ten o’clock the next morning, after a night spent trying to get comfortable and trying to shut off his brain so he could sleep. Throwing off the covers, he felt a stab of pain in his side, a reminder of everything that had happened since that weasel Billy had drilled him in the ribs.
What a nightmare, he thought.
Immediately after he’d punted the wastebasket at St. Vincent’s, his mother had chased him down in the hall and gotten in his face to tell him how disgraceful he’d acted. Then on the ride home, Coach had lectured him on how life isn’t always fair, but that you can’t get upset and lose your cool every time something doesn’t go your way, because it never helps the situation.
“Sometimes,” Coach said, “you just gotta suck it up and deal with it.”
The truth was, Connor felt worse than anyone about this latest meltdown. He had agonized over it right up until the time he finally fell asleep. Why couldn’t he keep his temper in check? Hadn’t he been doing so well lately—at least on the baseball field?
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