The old man walked slowly toward Danny and sat down.

He wore a white T-shirt that said FEAR THE ARTISTE and plaid Bermuda shorts that were at least two sizes too big. On his feet was a pair of battered running shoes that looked as if they’d been used to chase weasels through a swamp.

It was a “look,” all right, as Danny’s mom would say.

“Been watching you stink it up for a couple weeks,” Mr. Spinelli said. “Quite frankly, I don’t know how much more I can take. You’re hard on the eyes, son.”

Danny furrowed his brow.

“But you hate baseball,” he said. “And you still come to our games?”

The old man shook his head.

“Never said I hated baseball,” he growled. “I said it was a waste of time. And a silly game. Both of which happen to be true. I challenge anyone to dispute that.”

He thrust out his jaw and glared at Danny, as if expecting an immediate argument.

When Danny said nothing, Mr. Spinelli continued. “But by God, if you’re going to play it, know what you’re doing! Especially pitching! You have to pitch with a purpose, son. With confidence.

“But you—you’re pitching scared. You’re not pitching to win—you’re pitching not to lose. Every pitch you throw screams ‘Please, Mr. Batter, go easy on poor little old me.’”

Danny knew the old man was right. The thought made his stomach tighten again.

He’d been feeling bad enough right after the game, when his wildness and inconsistency had nearly killed the Orioles’ play-off chances. Now, thanks to his grouchy octogenarian neighbor, he was feeling even worse.

On the other hand, he was also getting more than slightly irritated with this impromptu lecture.

What, Danny wondered, suddenly made Mr. Spinelli such an expert on the art of pitching?

What made an old guy who stood in front of an easel all day painting a stupid bowl of fruit—boy, didn’t that sound exciting?—think he was Mr. Baseball in the first place?

Danny was about to ask this very question—as politely as possible, he’d decided. But when he looked over, Mr. Spinelli was staring down at his hands, seemingly lost in thought.

A moment later, the old man nodded and clapped, as if he’d arrived at some sort of decision.

“Okay,” he said, rising to his feet. “Got a ball in that equipment bag of yours?”

Danny nodded.

“Good, let’s have it. Then grab your glove and get behind the plate. Come on, come on! I don’t have all day!”

Danny did as he was told. The old man shuffled out to the mound. A wistful look seemed to cross his face as he toed the pitching rubber. But when he glanced back at Danny, he waved impatiently.

“Don’t just stand there! Get down in a crouch, boy! Like you’re a catcher. Do I have to tell you everything?”

Like I’m a mind reader or something, Danny thought as he squatted. Like I’m supposed to know he’s auditioning to be the oldest Babe Ruth League pitcher in history?

“Okay, get ready!” Mr. Spinelli yelled.

At once, a tremendous weariness came over Danny.

What was the point? he wondered. All he wanted to do was go home and eat and maybe blow away a couple dozen of Alistair Smythe’s robot goons to make the world safer for Spider-Man and the forces of good.

Instead, he thought, I’m here playing catch with a crotchety senior citizen who’s probably about to throw his arm out and rupture a disk in his back and end up in the emergency room.

He watched Mr. Spinelli rock lightly on the rubber with his bony legs and begin his windup.

The old man turned his hips and shoulders with surprising nimbleness and began to push off with his right foot.

He struggled to cock his arm—you could see he hadn’t done this in many years and the move brought with it some pain.

Finally, he released the ball with a loud groan, as if the effort had exhausted every ounce of energy in his body.

Danny watched the ball float gently toward him, the seams rotating so slowly that the effect was mesmerizing.

Great, he thought. The old guy thinks he’s doing me a favor by showing me a pitch a third grader could hit into the next area code.

Now Danny raised his glove as the ball wheezed the final few feet to the plate.

“C’mon, ball,” he whispered. “Come to Danny. Maybe then we can end this lame exercise and go home.”

The ball kept floating, floating, floating.

Suddenly it seemed to stop in midair.

Then it dropped straight down, like a bird shot out of the sky.