Hothead

by Cal Ripken Jr.

  Well, maybe. But one thing was clear: he still needed to work on controlling it all the time.

  As he shuffled downstairs in his pajamas, he heard a strange sound coming from the first floor. It almost sounded like someone was…whistling. In fact, it sounded like his dad. He hadn’t heard his dad whistle in quite a while—not since losing his job, anyway.

  He found both his parents in the kitchen, his dad washing dishes at the sink while his mom made a grocery list at the table.

  “Glad somebody around here’s in a good mood,” Connor said, flopping down in a chair and wincing again.

  “Your dad thinks he may have a job,” his mom said, looking up and smiling.

  Connor eyes widened. His jaw dropped. He looked at his dad, who was nodding and holding up his hand for a high-five.

  “Got a call from Hewitt Chevrolet,” his dad said. “Big dealership in Ellicott City. Nothing’s guaranteed, but it looks good. I have another interview with them Monday.”

  “That’s great, Dad,” Connor said. He rose slowly, slapped him five, then gingerly gave him a hug. “That’s really great.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they hadn’t come out with nearly enough enthusiasm.

  He was happy for his dad, he really was. But seeing his glove on the counter now—he’d left it there when he came home from the hospital—reminded him that he wouldn’t be playing baseball anytime soon. He could feel his spirits sinking fast.

  As if reading his mind, his mom said, “I’m glad you’re up. Let’s talk.”

  Here it comes, Connor thought, steeling himself. Another lecture about my stupid temper and how I’d better get a grip on it if I ever want to do anything in this life. Well, go ahead. I deserve it. Especially after that ridiculous performance in the ER last night.

  “To begin with, Dr. Rose said he felt terrible telling you you couldn’t play ball,” his mom said now.

  Great, Connor thought. Bet he didn’t feel nearly as terrible as I did.

  “Anyway, he came to see me before I left work last night,” his mom continued. “And he had an idea. He said if you could wear some kind of protective padding over those bruised ribs, you’d probably be okay to play the next game.”

  Connor was still not fully awake, so it took a moment to process what his mom was saying.

  When it finally registered, he let out a loud whoop. Then he hugged his mom and did a little dance—no crazy moves; it hurt too much. “YESSS!” he shouted.

  Protective padding! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Or some kind of hard plastic like big-league batters wore after they were hit on the elbow or the wrist or the shin. He remembered hearing an announcer on the MLB Network say that these days hitters wore more body armor than U.S. combat troops overseas. Why couldn’t it work for a twelve-year-old who’d just been drilled in the ribs by a hard-throwing wacko?

  But what could he wear that would protect his ribs and still allow him to bat and throw?

  Then it struck him: rib pads—what football players wore! They’d work perfectly. He’d wear them inside his uniform jersey. He might end up looking a little like the Michelin Man, but Connor could live with that as long as he could still play ball.

  Maybe Jordy’s older brother Jack, who played Pop Warner football, had some extra rib pads lying around somewhere. If not, Connor was sure he could get them cheap at Second Time Around, the big used–sportinggoods store in town.

  He was reaching for the phone to call Jordy when his mom cleared her throat.

  “One more thing, young man,” she said.

  Uh-oh. She wore her Serious Mom face now and was speaking in her No Nonsense tone of voice. Connor knew that whatever was coming, he wouldn’t be breaking out any dance moves to celebrate.

  “You are to sit down today—right now, in fact—and write a letter of apology to Dr. Rose,” she said. “You’ll tell him how sorry you are that you acted like a spoiled brat. I’ll give it to him tonight at work.”

  Connor breathed a sigh of relief. He’d expected to hear something far worse—maybe even that he was grounded for flipping out and being so rude to the doc. A letter of apology would be a piece of cake. He’d make it sing, too. Wasn’t that what his English teacher, Mr. Korn, was always urging the class to do with their papers? Make ’em sing?

  “Oh, and one more thing,” his dad said. Connor held his breath again. “A girl named Melissa called while you were in the ER last night. Melissa Morrow.”

  Melissa! But why would she—?

  “She wanted to know if you were okay,” his dad continued. “You owe her a phone call.”

  His mom and dad stole a glance at each other. Both were grinning now.

  “She’s just a girl in my school,” Connor said quickly. “So forget whatever you’re thinking.”

  But it left him wondering. Why exactly had Melissa called? To make sure he’d be able to play in the next game? Otherwise, it was bye-bye, Connor Sullivan profile.

  Or was there something more to it? She had been fun to talk to the other day. Could she actually be concerned about him?

  Sure, he’d call her back. No problem! He’d call everyone in the phone book if they wanted him to, now that he could play ball again in the biggest game of the season.

  Two more days. Game 2, Orioles vs. Red Sox at Eddie Murray Field. A chance to settle things with Billy. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the big guy’s face when he showed up ready to play.

  Bet the smirk’ll be gone, Connor thought. How sweet will that be?

  This is how you could tell it was a big game: the mayor threw out the first pitch. And they played a scratchy version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” over the sound system, which kept buzzing and squawking and cutting out altogether.

  “Why didn’t they do this for the first game?” Willie whispered as the Orioles stood at attention along the first-base line, hands over their hearts.

  “They tried to,” Coach murmured. “But the mayor showed up late. And they couldn’t get the sound system to work.”

  “Yeah, you see how well it’s working now,” Jordy whispered, setting off a low ripple of laughter.

  Connor was glad to see how loose the Orioles were for this one. Gazing over at the Red Sox along the third-base line, he saw that they had their game faces on. Looking most serious of all was Billy, who kept staring in disbelief at Connor and dipping into a pack of sunflower seeds, apparently trying to set the world’s record for most seeds spat during the national anthem.

  On the other hand, Connor wasn’t totally loose himself, since he was still trying to get used to the rib pads under his jersey. He had borrowed them from Jordy’s brother, and taken batting and infield practice with them, but they still felt weird, like he should be playing linebacker instead of shortstop. And he knew the extra padding made him look like a kid who needed to cut down on junk food.

  “Okay, everyone over here,” Coach said in the dugout as the Red Sox took the field to start the game. “Looks like they’re pitching Billy the last three innings this time. Which means we want to jump on their first pitcher, this Blake kid, right away. Men,” he continued, pausing for dramatic effect and looking each Oriole in the eye, “let’s have some fun and win a championship.”

  The fun part started early. The Orioles hitters got to Blake right away, and the Red Sox fielders helped matters by suddenly playing like the Bad News Bears—back when the Bears were really, really bad.

  Willie led off with a double to right, and Carlos singled him home. Jordy followed with a drive that nicked off the left fielder’s glove for an error. To make matters worse, the kid picked up the ball and threw it over the head of the cutoff man. It was finally run down by Blake, who proceeded to throw wildly over the catcher’s head, allowing both Carlos and Jordy to score.

  Suddenly it was 3–0 Orioles. With no outs.

  “Time!” the Red Sox coach yelled, walking slowly to the mound and shaking his head in disgust. He motioned for the entire infield to join him, and
ripped into them in a furious voice, wagging a finger in their faces until the umpire finally broke it up.

  The Orioles couldn’t hear most of what the coach was saying. But at one point they could hear Billy, who was playing third base, snap, “Hey, don’t blame me!”

  “That’s our Billy,” Jordy said with a grin. “Team guy all the way.”

  Now Connor was up, his first at bat ever wearing rib pads. Naturally this did not go unnoticed by Billy, who looked at Connor’s billowing jersey and yelled, “Hey, check out this porker!”

  Not the most original line, Connor thought as he dug in, his face flaming. But I bet Kyle and Marcus are cracking up.

  Blake was rattled—he started out pitching Connor cautiously. He threw two fastballs outside, hoping to get the Orioles shortstop to chase. Then, on his third pitch, he threw the curveball Connor had been waiting for.

  The problem for Blake was this: the curveball didn’t curve. At least not enough to be effective.

  Connor waited until it was belt-high and lashed at it with a quick, short stroke. Later, even though the swing sent a jolt of pain through him, he would wonder if he had ever hit a ball harder in his life. Even before it cleared the fence in dead center field, he went into his home run trot as the Orioles dugout exploded.

  As he rounded third base, Connor knew he shouldn’t do what he was about to do. Coach would have a fit if he ever found out. But Connor couldn’t help himself.

  “Oink, oink,” he said softly as he trotted past Billy and headed for home.

  Seconds later it was 4–0 Orioles, and he was high-fiving and fist-bumping his cheering teammates on the bench. And now he was extra glad he was wearing rib pads, knowing he’d be facing a steaming-mad Billy Burrell on the mound in the fourth inning. I should probably wear shoulder pads and a face mask, too, when he’s pitching, Connor thought.

  “C, what did you say to Billy out there?” Willie asked. “He was giving you that crazy evil eye again.”

  Connor shrugged. “I just let him know that even us farm animals can play this game a little.”

  The Orioles burst out laughing—Connor was relieved to see that even Coach was chuckling.

  The Red Sox got two runs back in the second inning on a double by Dylan, their catcher, and a homer by Blake. They added two more in the third when Robbie surrendered a walk and another homer, this one to Billy, who set another world’s record, this time for slowest home run trot in history.

  “Look at that jerk!” Robbie hissed to Connor as Billy crossed home plate. “Stared at me the whole time he circled the bases!”

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Connor said. “We’ll get more runs. Still a lot of game to go.”

  When the inning was over and they hustled off the field, Coach called another quick meeting. “Anyone ever heard of Yogi Berra?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Marty said. “Hall of Fame catcher for the New York Yankees. My dad loves all his goofy sayings. Like: ‘No one goes there anymore, it’s too crowded.’”

  Coach nodded. “That’s the guy,” he said. “Well, his most famous saying is, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’ And we were playing like this game was over—just ’cause we were up four runs. Well, it ain’t over, gentlemen. Let’s go out there and play hard.”

  It was still tied at 4–4 when Billy came on in relief of Blake in the fourth inning for the Red Sox. Billy pitched like his mission was to break eighty miles per hour on the radar gun. He struck out Carlos on three straight fastballs. Each pitch was a blur. Connor half expected to hear cartoon sound effects—WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!—as the ball pounded into Dylan’s catcher’s mitt.

  Jordy struck out on three pitches, too, even though he swung early at every pitch—ridiculously early, almost before the ball left Billy’s hands.

  “Ohhh-kay, the boy is throwing mad heat,” Willie said nervously. “Maybe we need the X Play again.”

  Connor was up. He tapped the rib pads under his jersey, assuring himself they were still there, and stepped into the batter’s box. He took a couple of quick practice swings and stared out at Billy.

  The boy was smirking. What a surprise.

  Billy went into his windup, rocked back, and fired maybe the fastest pitch Connor had ever seen in his life. He could hear the ball rushing toward him—the comics would’ve labeled this one WHOOSH! He started his swing, but it was too late. Way too late.

  Strike one!

  The next pitch was another fastball—apparently Billy had put his curveball away for the evening—that dipped at the last minute as it split the middle of the plate. Connor swung again. Not even close.

  Strike two!

  Connor stepped out of the batter’s box and took a deep breath. He choked up on the bat, stepped back in, and looked out at Billy. He could see Billy’s chest heaving and the sweat glistening on his forehead as he peered in at Dylan for the sign. The kid was so pumped, it looked like he might explode.

  Connor gave himself a quick pep talk: You’ve hit this guy before. The harder it comes in, the harder it goes out.

  Now Billy reared back and fired another missile. It came in letter-high, the pitch that coaches always told you not to swing at—except they’re standing in the third base coaching box and you’re the one waving a bat, and you have less than a second to make up your mind.

  Connor swung. All he hit was air.

  Strike three!

  Suddenly he felt it again: the old familiar rage. In the next instant he raised the bat over his head, like a lumberjack raising his ax, ready to bring it crashing down on the plate.

  Then he heard it.

  “NO!”

  Connor looked up.

  It was Melissa.

  She was standing next to the dugout, her cameras around her neck, eyes wide, one hand clasped over her mouth, an expression on her face he’d never seen before.

  She looked scared.

  Connor stood there frozen, the bat hovering in the air, eyes locked on Melissa.

  She stood perfectly still, shaking her head from side to side, silently mouthing the word, “DON’T!”

  And he didn’t.

  Instead, he lowered the bat and gently tossed it in the direction of the dugout. Then he took off his batting glove, folded it in his back pocket, and slowly walked out to his position as the rest of the Orioles took the field for the bottom of the inning.

  “Dude, you had us worried there,” Willie said, trotting over and handing Connor his glove. “Looked for sure like you were going to wig out and pulverize the plate.”

  “Me?” Connor said with a grin. Then he closed his eyes, held out his outstretched palms, and intoned, “Ommmmm.”

  “Right, you’re a swami again,” Willie said. “Okay, swami, look into the future. We gonna win this game?”

  “Definitely,” Connor said. “Don’t the good guys always win?”

  Well, they do in the movies, he thought. But did it happen in real life with a kid like Billy throwing lights-out heat?

  After taking a practice grounder from Jordy, he looked over at Melissa, who was still standing by the dugout, snapping photos. He waited until she lowered the camera and looked his way, and then he waved. He hoped it looked like a wave of thanks.

  But how do you make a wave of thanks look any different from your everyday wave? Connor wasn’t sure. Melissa seemed to get it, though. She nodded and waved back.

  Mike Cutko came on in relief for the Orioles and immediately ran into trouble. He walked the first two Red Sox batters. Then, desperate to get the ball over the plate, he committed the cardinal sin of pitching: he tightened up and started aiming the ball.

  Seeing a nice, fat, slow pitch headed his way, the next batter’s eyes widened with delight, and he promptly hit a drive to left field. Marty, in the outfield now that Mike was pitching, misjudged the ball, let it go over his head, and two runners crossed the plate.

  Connor felt his heart sink. It was Red Sox 6, Orioles 4.

  Coach was chewing even more furiously on his gum
now, his jaws working up and down like twin pistons. When he called time and went out to the mound to settle Mike down, Willie and Connor huddled behind second base and exchanged uneasy glances.

  “Uh, swami?” Willie said. “The good guys are in trouble.”

  “A temporary setback,” Connor said. “We’re still in this.”

  But he had to admit: right now the movie wasn’t turning out exactly how he thought it would.

  Whatever Coach said to Mike seemed to work, however. He went back to throwing instead of aiming and blew away the next two batters. And the sixth batter hit a weak grounder to first that Jordy gobbled up easily for the final out.

  In the top of the fifth inning, Billy took the mound and threw his warm-up pitches harder than ever. He threw so hard that Dylan whimpered each time the ball cracked into his mitt, taking the mitt off to shake his stinging left hand.

  In the Orioles dugout, Coach watched Billy grunting on every pitch, and shook his head. “No way he can keep throwing that hard,” Coach said. “He’s going to burn his arm out.”

  In fact, once they stepped in against him, the Orioles could see that Billy’s velocity was decreasing already.

  Mike worked the count to 3 and 2 and went down swinging on a pretty good fastball. But Yancy roped a hard single to right. Marty followed with his usual bouncer back to the pitcher for the second out. Then Joey Zinno hit a rocket that caused the Orioles to leap off the bench and cheer—until it tracked right to the Red Sox center fielder for the third out.

  They were still behind by two runs. But in the Orioles dugout, there was a flicker of hope now. At least Billy seemed mortal again. The smirk was still there, but the overpowering fastball wasn’t. And Coach was smiling his I-told-you-so smile.

  “Hold them here,” he said as they hustled out to the field. “We’ll get to him next inning.”

  But Mike Cutko struggled with his control again, walking the first batter on four pitches and hitting the second batter on the ankle.