Hothead

by Cal Ripken Jr.

  As the kid hobbled to first, and the Red Sox manager called time to make sure his player was all right, Connor and Willie trotted to the mound for a conference.

  Mike was normally a reliable pitcher with great control. But now he seemed agitated, pacing around and kicking at the dirt with his head down.

  “I’m killing us,” he moaned.

  “You’re not killing us,” Willie said, draping an arm around his shoulder. “But if you don’t put the ball over the plate, I’m going to kill you.”

  Mike looked up quickly to see if Willie was kidding. But there wasn’t a hint of a smile on the second baseman’s face.

  “Well, at least you didn’t put any pressure on him,” Connor said as they trotted back to their positions.

  “Sometimes,” Willie said, “the direct approach works best.”

  Whatever the reason, Mike seemed to come out of his funk again. He reared back and struck out the next two batters. Then he got Billy on a two-hopper to first that Jordy gloved easily before stepping on the bag. Billy didn’t even bother to run the ball out. Instead, he stopped a few feet down the base line, tore off his batting helmet in disgust, and skipped it into the Red Sox dugout.

  As he walked off the mound, Mike pointed at Willie and flashed a big grin.

  “You really have a way of motivating people,” Connor said as they hustled off the field.

  “Learned it from my momma,” Willie said with a laugh.

  “That’s how she motivates me sometimes.”

  Now it was the top of the sixth, the Orioles’ last chance to score.

  “Let’s go, now,” Coach said. “We got the top of the batting order up. And Billy’s on fumes.”

  But for one of the few times the Orioles could recall, Coach was wrong. Connor could see that Billy was still throwing hard. Maybe not crazy hard like before, but hard enough.

  Yet somehow Willie managed to coax a leadoff walk, and Carlos followed with a perfect drag bunt down the first-base line for a base hit.

  Two on, no outs, Jordy Marsh coming to the plate. Now it was the Red Sox dugout that stirred uneasily. Standing on the top step, their coach rocked back and forth nervously, both hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket.

  Jordy worked the count to 3 and 2 and smacked a vicious line drive to left—the hardest shot since Connor’s first-inning homer. But it was right at the left fielder, who barely had to take a step to make the catch.

  On the mound, Billy raised both hands in triumph, as if to say Look at me, see how well I’m pitching? I got the batter to do that. Even his teammates rolled their eyes at that one.

  Now Connor was up. As he took his last practice swings in the on-deck circle, Coach spoke to him quietly.

  “You know Billy’s going to gear it up for you. Whatever he’s got left in the gas tank, he’ll use it now. Be patient. Short, compact swing.”

  As Connor walked to the plate, Billy stood off to one side of the mound, rubbing up the baseball and trying to stare him down.

  Amazing, Connor thought as he dug in. The kid’s arm is about to fall off, and he still has major attitude.

  Billy went into his windup, kicking his left leg high, and fired a fastball down the middle. It wasn’t his best heat, but it was plenty fast enough, especially for a kid with a supposedly sore arm. But Connor was taking all the way. Strike one.

  Billy’s next pitch was nearly identical, a fastball with even more zip on it, but still Connor kept the bat on his shoulder. Strike two.

  Now Connor stepped out and took a couple of practice swings, trying to anticipate what Billy would throw next. This was the mental chess game between batter and pitcher that he loved so much.

  Then it hit him: He wants to embarrass me. Wants to strike me out on three pitches. He’ll come back with the exact same fastball. In the exact same spot.

  Which is exactly what happened.

  This time Connor was on it, everything moving as it should, hips, arms, and shoulders opening in a perfect symphony of a swing. The ball soared into the gap in left-center and rolled all the way to the fence as Willie and Carlos crossed the plate.

  By the time the left fielder tracked it down, Connor was flying around second base. The kid’s throw sailed over the cutoff man, and Connor kept digging around third even as Billy scrambled to retrieve the ball in front of the Red Sox dugout.

  Billy snapped a throw to Dylan, who was blocking the plate with one leg. Connor went into his slide, felt a sharp jolt of pain from his rib as he hit the ground. Dylan hooked the ball into his mitt and tried for a sweep tag as Connor reached under him and grazed the plate with his left hand.

  “Safe!” cried the umpire.

  For a moment, Connor lay there on his back, listening to the cheers from the stands, waiting for the awful ache in his ribs to die down. Then he saw a hand reaching down to help him up.

  “Nice hit,” Billy said quietly as he pulled Connor to his feet.

  Connor was too stunned to speak.

  Then Billy snarled at his catcher: “You can’t make a better tag than that?” and stalked back to the mound.

  Connor lurched to the dugout, holding his side. Had Billy really said something nice to him? He wondered if the pain was making him hear things.

  But maybe there was another side to Billy. Connor thought back to his own behavior these past few weeks. Maybe there was trouble in Billy’s life that was causing him to lash out at people.

  The rest of the inning went by in a blur. To the Orioles, it looked like Billy’s arm was screaming at him now. He could barely reach the plate with his next few pitches. Somehow he got Robbie, the next batter, to fly out to center field, and Yancy grounded out to second base for the third out.

  But the damage was done.

  Orioles 7, Red Sox 6.

  Three more outs and they’d be champions.

  Jogging slowly out to short, Connor found himself whispering: “Just hang on, Orioles.” He had never wanted to win a game more in his life.

  Winning the championship would make up for a lot of things. It would make up for all the tension at home after his dad’s layoff. It would make up for all the crappy weeks when he was having meltdowns that nearly got him kicked off the team.

  It would even make up for his not being able to attend the Brooks Robinson Camp, which he wanted to do more than anything else in the world.

  Connor knew the Orioles hadn’t nailed the game down yet. A one-run lead was nothing. The Red Sox hadn’t made it to the championship game because they stunk. They weren’t going to just lie down and die.

  But Mike had found his groove now. He looked focused and relaxed during his warm-up pitches, the ball popping into Joey’s mitt with authority. Briefly, Connor wondered if Willie’s “death threat” had actually worked. A new coaching technique! Whatever. Mike looked ready to go out there.

  And he was.

  He struck out the first Red Sox batter on a nasty 2–2 curveball that broke sharply at the last minute and had the kid swinging at a ball in the dirt. The second batter hit a weak grounder to second that Willie gobbled up easily, throwing him out by ten steps.

  The Red Sox were down to their last out.

  Now the Orioles were a picture of concentration, each player on his toes and locked in on the game, the noise from the stands growing louder and louder. For the Red Sox, it was all up to Dylan. Their stocky catcher had some pop in his bat. Coach motioned for the outfielders to move back.

  “Don’t leave the ball up, Mike,” Connor said to himself. “Not to this guy.”

  Mike pitched Dylan carefully. Ball one was low and away. Ball two was inside. Now he had to put one over the plate. And Dylan knew it.

  The big catcher stepped out and took a practice swing. He dug his right foot in the batter’s box, stepped back in with his left foot, and held the bat high, waving it in tiny circles.

  Mike went into his windup. This time he threw a fastball, belt-high, and Dylan uncoiled with a vicious swing. Connor heard the crack of bat me
eting ball and held his breath. But instead of a long drive to the outfield, Dylan hit a towering pop-up behind third base.

  Connor and Carlos drifted back, both of them calling for it, tapping their gloves with their fists as the ball fell from the deep blue sky.

  Connor’s side was throbbing. For an instant, he wondered if he’d be able to raise his glove hand to make the catch. He started to shout to Carlos, “You take it!”

  But now they heard the sound of running footsteps behind them and another voice—a shrill, insistent voice—screaming over and over: “I got it! I got it!”

  At the last second, a skinny arm with a glove attached to it appeared over their heads.

  Marty Loopus leaped high in the air and caught the ball. Crashing into Connor and Carlos, he stumbled for a moment, squeezed his glove closed, and held it high over his head.

  Then he yelled as loud as he could, “WE DID IT!”

  Game over. The Orioles were champions.

  They came from every direction, cheering and screaming and jumping on Marty. Jordy landed on him first, and Willie followed. Soon they were all tumbling to the ground and laughing. Connor fell on top of the pile, not caring anymore about the pain in his ribs. Looking up, he saw Melissa standing a few feet away, smiling and snapping photos of the whole raucous celebration.

  When they finally untangled themselves and walked off the field to more applause from the stands, Connor heard a familiar voice calling his name. Looking up, he saw his dad, giving him the thumbs-up sign. Mom and Brianna were there too, grinning and waving. He waved back, pumped his fist, and howled.

  Then he wondered, What’s Dad doing here? Does that mean he…?

  But Connor would think about that later. Right now he wanted to enjoy this perfect moment.

  Maybe the most perfect moment of his life.

  Big Al’s Italian Villa was quiet when Connor arrived. A couple of college kids were eating meatball subs at the counter, and an old man sat on a nearby stool sipping a milk shake. But most of the staff seemed to be wiping down tables and filling salt and pepper shakers and napkin holders in preparation for the dinner-hour rush.

  Melissa waved to him from a booth up front.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said when he sat.

  “You sounded pretty mysterious over the phone,” Connor said.

  “Didn’t mean to be,” she said. “But I have something I think you’ll want to see.”

  “Oh, no,” Connor groaned. “Not more video of Mount Saint Connor erupting.”

  “No, nothing like that,” Melissa said. “I see you’re still paranoid, though.”

  “Before we get started,” Connor said, “tell me you still like pepperoni.”

  “If you like it, I like it,” she said, smiling.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I ordered two slices of pepperoni and two Sprites when I walked in.”

  Connor had been happy when Melissa asked him to meet her at Big Al’s. As he’d told Jordy, who again insisted this was some kind of date, he didn’t consider Melissa to be a girlfriend.

  Just a friend. Who, um, happened to be a girl.

  This time Connor even had money to pay for their pizza, thanks to his dad, who had slipped a ten-dollar bill in his hand as he walked out the door.

  For the first time in months, he could be a big spender today. He might even have enough left over to spring for ice cream for dessert. Well, one ice cream, anyway.

  But that was okay with Connor. In fact, everything was okay now that his dad had started his new job with Hewitt Chevrolet and a sense of calm had returned to the house.

  His mother was smiling again—“I feel like going over there and kissing Bob Hewitt on his big, bald head!” she’d said at dinner the other night. This was at a Chinese restaurant—the first time they’d eaten out in months—and Connor couldn’t remember the last time his family had seemed so happy.

  Brianna had spent the whole meal chattering about all the plans she was making for college. There had even been talk of Connor attending the Brooks Robinson Camp in a few weeks. Dad had said he wasn’t sure if they could swing it financially just yet, but he’d look into whether Connor’s slot was still available.

  “A big star like you, they’d be crazy not to hold a spot open,” his mom had teased.

  At that moment, Connor couldn’t decide which he liked better: the General Tso’s chicken or his mom’s sunny mood.

  Now, when their order arrived, Connor and Melissa ate and talked about the Orioles’ wonderful season, about their big win over the Red Sox a few days earlier, and about Billy Burrell and what a jerk he’d been.

  “Then he’s nice to you after your hit!” Melissa said, shaking her head.

  “Yeah,” Connor said. “I want to talk to him. Maybe something’s bothering him.”

  “Or maybe he just felt guilty about hitting you with that pitch,” Melissa said, taking a bite of her pizza.

  “I bet it’s more than that,” Connor said. “Hey, I was a jerk at times, too. I’m just lucky I found a way to control my temper—before it was too late.”

  “Speaking of which…” Melissa said.

  She wiped her hands with a napkin and reached down for her backpack. Unzipping one of the pockets, she pulled something out and threw it on the table. It was an early copy of the York Tattler.

  Before he could look, she scooped it up and held it behind her back.

  “Okay, the big Connor Sullivan story’s in here,” she said. “So let’s play a little game. It’s called ‘guess the headline.’”

  “That’s easy,” Connor said. “Head Case Shortstop an Embarrassment to the Game.”

  Melissa shook her head. “Still don’t trust me, eh?”

  “Or maybe,” Connor continued, “Why Does League Put Up with This Brat?”

  “Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This is hopeless.”

  She tossed the newspaper to him and folded her arms.

  Connor stared at the front page headline: “Youth Baseball Star Plays Game the Right Way.” Underneath was a smaller headline that said: “Orioles infielder makes team proud,” with the byline, “by Melissa Morrow.” And under that were three photos: Connor ranging to his right for a ground ball against the Red Sox, Connor smashing a home run off Blake in the second game, and the jubilant Orioles celebrating after the final out.

  He read the first few paragraphs and looked up. Melissa was grinning.

  “Thanks,” he said in a soft voice. “It looks like a great story. Better than I deserve.”

  For a moment he was silent.

  Then he smiled and pointed at the photo of himself hitting the homer.

  “But you had to run a picture of me in those rib pads!” he said. “Had to make me look like the fattest kid ever to play baseball!”

  “Hmmm,” Melissa said, pretending to examine the photo. “I don’t think you’re wearing rib pads there.”

  “What?!” Connor said. “No way!”

  “Yeah, I think you’re just getting a little chunky,” she said. “Maybe you need more exercise.”

  Now both of them were laughing and teasing each other, and Connor was hoping he had enough money for ice cream, too, not wanting the afternoon to end.

  Not that this was a date or anything.

  Because it definitely wasn’t.

  Uh-uh. No way.

  Keep reading for a preview of Super Slugger, the next book in Cal Ripken, Jr.’s All Stars!

  Cody braced himself for the usual reaction. It was the first day of practice for the Orioles of the Dulaney Babe Ruth League, and Coach Ray Hammond was going down the line, asking each kid to say his name and the position he wanted to play.

  “Cody Parker. Third base,” he said when it was his turn.

  From somewhere behind him, he heard snickers.

  Here we go, he thought.

  “Third base, eh?” Coach Hammond said. He studied Cody for a moment.

  Cody knew what was coming next. Coach would try to break it to him ge
ntly. Why not try the outfield, son? You’re a little, um, big for third base. In fact, I’m thinking right field would be perfect for you.

  Everyone knew the unspoken rule: right field was for fat guys. And slow guys. And guys with thick glasses and big ears and bad haircuts. If you smacked of dorkiness at all, or if you looked the least bit unathletic, they stuck you in right field, baseball’s equivalent of the slow class. Then they got down on their knees and prayed to the baseball gods that no one would ever hit a ball your way in a real game.

  That’s why Cody hated right field. Hated it almost as much as he hated his new life here in Dullsville, Maryland, also known as Baltimore, where the major league team stunk and people talked funny, saying “WARSH-ington” instead of “Washington” and “POH-leece” instead of “police.”

  No thanks, he thought. Give me Wisconsin, any day.

  Immediately he felt a stab of homesickness as he thought about his old house on leafy Otter Trail. He pictured his corner bedroom on the second floor with the wall-to-wall Milwaukee Brewers posters, especially the giant one of his hero, Prince Fielder, following through on a mighty swing to hit another majestic home run. He saw the big tree house in his backyard, and the basketball hoop over the garage, and the trails in the nearby woods, where he used to—

  “Cody?” Coach was saying now.

  Cody shook his head and refocused.

  “Okay,” Coach said. “Let’s see how you do at third.”

  Hallelujah! For an instant, Cody thought of giving Coach a big hug. But Coach didn’t seem like the hugging type. He was a big man with a short, no-nonsense crew cut and an old-fashioned walrus mustache. He looked more like the hearty-handshake type. Except his hearty handshake could probably crush walnuts.

  Minutes later, the Orioles broke into groups for infield practice. Trotting out to third base, Cody was surprised to see he was the only one trying out for the position.

  Then he heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind him and felt a sharp elbow in the ribs.

  “Out of the way, fat boy,” a voice growled.

  Wonderful, Cody thought. The welcoming committee is here. Looking up, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered boy he recognized as Dante Rizzo.