“You gotta warm me up,” he said to Mickey. “Now.”

Mickey’s face was pink and his hair was plastered against his forehead from the heat. He wiped himself with a towel and looked at Danny.

“Why would I do that?” he said. “You’re not going in. My dad told me.”

“C’mon, just a few pitches,” Danny said. “Please. It’s important.”

“Right,” Mickey said. “Like the fate of the entire free world rests on this.”

Danny grabbed his arm. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “But it might help us get into the play-offs.”

Mickey studied him for a moment. He sighed and reached for his face mask and mitt.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said. “Sure, it’s ninety degrees and the humidity makes it feel like we’re in a Brazilian rain forest. But there’s nothing I’d rather do on a night like this than some extra bending and crouching between innings.”

They jogged out to the practice mound down the left-field line and Danny began throwing.

Seeing his first pitch, Mickey’s eyes widened.

“Whoa!” he said. “Throw that again.”

Danny nodded. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

He wound up and delivered again. As the ball landed in his mitt, Mickey whistled softly.

“Let’s see it one more time,” he said. “Just to be sure.”

After Danny’s third pitch, the big catcher stood and pushed up his face mask.

“It’s ba-a-a-a-ck!” he sang out. “Maybe better than ever!”

Danny grinned and pumped his fist.

There was no doubt about it: the Terminator had returned—just as suddenly as it had disappeared.

Briefly, he told Mickey about the adjustment he’d just made involving the slash mark and his pinkie finger. There was no time to go into further detail, no time to say that Elmo had been right all along, so right that Danny practically felt like kissing the skinny nerd on top of his pointy little head.

As the two jogged back to the dugout, they heard a roar from the crowd. Danny looked up in time to see Corey flying around first base and heading for second as the Yankees center fielder chased down a ball in the gap.

“Oh, man, I’m up!” Mickey said, tossing his face mask aside and peeling off his shin guards. “Okay, we’ll talk to my dad as soon as the inning’s over.”

Mickey, patient at the plate as ever, worked the count to 3–2 before hitting a sharp single to right that scored Corey with the O’s first run. And Spencer kept the rally going with a run-scoring double down the right-field line.

The Yankees starter settled down after that and retired the side in order. But in the Orioles dugout, there were smiles and fist bumps all around.

They were back on top: Orioles 2, Yankees 1. The question now was: Could they hold the lead? And was Zoom too hurt to go back out there?

As soon as Coach jogged in from the third-base coach’s box, Danny and Mickey ran up to him. Danny was so excited he felt light-headed.

“I can pitch if you need me,” he said. “The Terminator’s back. Really.”

Mickey nodded. “It’s totally back. Dropping better than ever, too.”

“I can handle this now,” Danny continued, his voice urgent. “You gotta believe me.”

“It’s true, Dad,” Mickey said. “He’s filthy with that pitch again.”

Coach looked from one boy to another. For several seconds, he said nothing, seemingly lost in thought. He glanced over at Zoom, who groaned as he reached for his hat and glove before taking the field.

“Zoom, you’re done,” Coach said quietly. “Can’t let you hurt that arm any more than you already have.”

Zoom nodded and sat down without complaint, his arm dangling limply by his side.

“Close it out,” he said to Danny. “You can do it.”

Coach put an arm on Danny’s shoulder.

“You sure you’re up for this?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Danny said.

“You see who’s leading off for them, right?” Coach said.

Danny looked and saw Reuben Mendez lazily swinging his black bat near the on-deck circle. Even at half speed, the bat made a whistling sound as it sliced through the air.

Danny gulped. “I see him. But I’m okay.”

As he jogged to the mound seconds later and began his warm-up throws, he saw the Orioles look incredulously at each other.

He knew what they were thinking: What’s Coach doing? Has he lost his mind? He’s bringing in Gas Can? To face the middle of the Yankees lineup?

Glancing into the stands, Danny saw his mom and dad and Joey smiling and leaning forward in anticipation. Hope I give them something to cheer about, he thought. He looked down and noticed his hands were shaking. Then it was time to focus on the game.

When Reuben dug in, the Orioles could see the big shortstop’s smirk was back. Bigger and bolder than ever. Like it had never left.

Easy to see why, Danny thought. Reuben had to be thrilled to see that another Zoom fastball wouldn’t be crackling under his chin. He was probably just as thrilled that—based on recent reports—he was facing a junk-ball pitcher missing a key ingredient: a junk ball that could actually get someone out.

“Bring it, Pizza Boy!” he sang out, earning a look from the ump.

Danny took a deep breath, checked his grip, rocked, and fired.

The pitch sailed to the plate in all its limp, humpbacked, wet-diaper glory. Reuben’s eyes lit up and his front leg began to stride forward. Just as he began to uncoil, the pitch seemed to stop and hover in place before plummeting to earth.

Reuben’s swing caught nothing but air.

The umpire’s right hand shot up.

“Stee-rike!”

Danny was so relieved to see the Terminator working again that he almost broke out in giggles.

Now the Yankees shortstop stepped out, muttering to himself. He fiddled with his batting gloves, glaring the whole time at Danny, and stepped back in.

Mickey put down the sign for the rainmaker version of the Terminator.

Perfect, Danny thought. Hadn’t Mr. Spinelli talked about mixing up his pitches? Maybe Danny wasn’t following the old man’s advice to the letter. But at least he was mixing up his Terminators now.

He floated this one a good two feet higher than the previous one. Reuben craned his neck and gazed skyward. Danny could see the uncertainty on his face, could see him jerking the bat off his shoulder, wondering whether to swing.

Ultimately he decided not to. The ball landed in Mickey’s mitt with a soft WHUMP!

“Stee-rike two!” said the ump.

Reuben whipped around and snarled, “Are you serious?!”

The ump jerked off his mask.

“Play ball, son,” he growled. “You’re really starting to push it.” Then, to the Yankees dugout, he said, “That’s a warning.”

Go ahead, kid, Danny thought. Keep arguing. In eight years of playing ball, he had yet to see a single instance when mouthing off to an ump did any good for a batter, or helped a team in any way.

Usually it was just the opposite: now the ump was looking for any excuse to ring you up. The pitch could be six inches off the plate and he’d call it a strike.

The smirk was gone again from Reuben’s face, replaced by a look of cold anger.

He kicked furiously at the dirt and stepped in again, holding his bat high and waving it in menacing little circles.

Danny nodded as Mickey signaled for the exact same pitch. When it shot into the sky, Reuben started his swing. To his horror, the ball hung there, as if floating from a tiny parachute. When the pitch finally began its descent, he jerked the bat back and tried to swing again.

A double swing!

Danny had never seen anything like it. Reuben missed it by two feet. The follow-through was so ferocious that he twisted his legs in a knot and collapsed awkwardly in a heap.

“Stee-rike three!”

From the stands came the sounds of muffled laughter. Even in the Yankees dugout, players could be seen hiding their faces behind their gloves as they cracked up.

Reuben leaped to his feet and pointed at Danny.

“You’re so freaking lucky!” he shouted. “The game’s not over, boy. I’ll get you next time.”

Danny breathed a sigh of relief. He looked down at his hands.

They weren’t shaking anymore.