Danny knew this was the time to take Mr. Spinelli’s advice.

This was the perfect moment, after getting past the Yankees’ fearsome slugger, to start mixing up his pitches and keep the rest of the team’s hitters off-balance.

But he didn’t.

The Terminator had done so well paralyzing one of the best hitters in the league that Danny just kept throwing it.

He struck out the next kid on three pitches. The next Yankees batter resorted to the usual desperation measure of sticking out his arm to let the pitch graze it.

Coach bolted from the dugout and protested—in vain, it turned out—that the kid had made no effort to get out of the way. But Danny quickly struck out the next batter on three straight Terminators to end the inning.

Jogging off the mound, he could see the Yankees talking about the pitch and exchanging confused looks.

Their coach kept yelling at everyone to relax, which Danny knew was the first clue of a panicked team. How could you relax when your coach was running around like his hair was on fire?

To make things even more chaotic, Reuben had picked up a bat and appeared to be giving some of the Yankees an impromptu lesson on how to attack the Terminator, all while the ump was shouting at them to take the field.

Beautiful, Danny thought.

The kid looks absolutely lost on three straight swings and now he’s an expert on how to hit the thing.

As soon as the Orioles were back in the dugout, Katelyn marched up to him.

“Nerd, what is it with you?” she demanded. “One week you suck, then you’re great, then you suck again. And now you’re back to looking All-Universe. With a pitch that looks like something a mad baseball scientist dreamed up in a lab somewhere.”

“That’s me: Mr. Consistency,” Danny said. “Part of my charm.”

“Just don’t go back to being Mr. No Clue,” Katelyn said. “Keep focusing, nerd. The game’s not over yet.”

“Like that’s a news flash,” Mickey muttered as she went off to get a drink. Then, in a deep announcer’s voice, he intoned, “This just in: a regulation baseball game for the thirteen-and-under age group consists of six innings! Now back to our regular programming.”

Danny laughed. Here they were, playing in the biggest game of the season, and the big catcher was still cracking jokes and trying to keep his pitcher loose.

Danny wasn’t exactly loose—he knew the Terminator could again disappear just as suddenly as it returned, all because of some tiny flaw in his grip or delivery or whatever. But he was feeling a lot better about the pitch than he had earlier in the day.

The Orioles went down in order and Danny was back on the mound in the fifth inning with little rest. But if anything, the Terminator looked even more effective against the Yankees’ eight, nine, and one hitters.

After Danny struck out the first kid on a towering Terminator, the Orioles could hear the Yankees coach yelling to his team, “You gotta be patient up there! Wait for your pitch!”

But when the second kid struck out on a similar pitch, the coach, a big swaggering man wearing dark sunglasses, shouted, “You gotta be more aggressive and attack that pitch!”

This is hilarious, Danny thought, trying hard not to smile. Like something you’d see on Comedy Central, only maybe funnier.

When the third batter went down swinging to end the inning, Danny half expected the Yankees coach to say, “C’mon! You gotta be patiently aggressive up there!”

Instead, the coach simply shook his head in disgust and muttered, “You’re making this guy look like an all-star out there!”

When the Orioles came off the field, Coach took Danny aside.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Look, you’ve been great. But if you’re getting tired, I can have Sammy warm up.”

Danny looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

Leave the game now? With just one inning to go? Leave a situation where he was finally helping the team after the up-and-down—okay, mostly down—season he’d had?

Not a chance.

But all he said was “I’m good, Coach. Really.”

Coach glanced at his scorebook. “Their two, three, and four hitters are up next inning,” he said. “Which means you’ll be facing your buddy Reuben again.”

Danny nodded grimly. “I know.”

Only this time, he thought, we’ll have a little surprise in store for Mr. Mendez.

The Orioles were still clinging to a 2–1 lead when they took the field in the top of the sixth inning, the noise level rising all around them.

Danny was surprised that he was feeling nervous again. He struck out the first batter on four pitches, which brought Will Bramford to the plate.

In many ways, Will scared Danny even more than Reuben did, because he was such a disciplined hitter. Whereas Reuben was a free-swinging behemoth who could turn a checked swing into a home run, the scouting report on Will was that he rarely swung at anything out of the strike zone—and when he swung, he connected.

Danny knew the Terminator would have to work perfectly to get Will. With his heart hammering in his chest, he threw three of the best he had thrown all season, with Will taking his smooth, level swing at all three and missing each by a foot.

The Yankees were down to their last out.

Danny took a deep breath.

Under his breath, he uttered in a PA announcer’s voice, “Now batting for the Evil Empire: Reuben Mendez.”

With both the Orioles and Yankees fans on their feet, Danny signaled for Mickey to join him for a conference. Briefly, he explained how he wanted to pitch Reuben.

“Perfect,” Mickey said with a grin. “Diabolical. Almost bordering on evil. But…perfect. I’m impressed.”

Danny shook his head.

“Before you get too impressed,” he said, “let’s see if it actually works.”

As Reuben strutted to the plate, Danny rubbed up the ball and looked around the little ballpark.

How cool is this? he thought. Two outs, me facing their best hitter with the game on the line. If we win, we go to the play-offs. If we lose, well, I’ll probably be playing way too much Spider-Man from now on.

The whole scene felt like something out of one of those sports movies he loved so much. Except he knew that in real life, major league closers dealt with this kind of pressure every day during the season.

“Time to be a real closer right here,” he murmured to himself.

Seeing Reuben dig in, Danny nearly gasped. The kid had completely changed his batting stance. His right leg was now bent at almost a ninety-degree angle and his entire torso was tilted back, so that his chin, left elbow, and shoulders pointed to the sky.

Like he thought the Terminator would be dropping directly overhead from a helicopter or something.

It was almost comical to see. No, it was comical, Danny decided. Except he was way too tense to laugh.

He looked at the sign from Mickey, which was really a fake sign, since they both knew what was coming.

He went into his windup, rocked, kicked, and delivered. Reuben was still looking up, waiting for the Terminator to do its high, slow tumble toward him.

What he got was a fastball on the inside corner for strike one.

Clearly shocked, he stepped out and scowled at Danny.

“What, you don’t want to throw that junk again?” he shouted. “Afraid I’ll rock you this time?”

Danny ignored him. This was no time to get into a trash-talking contest. He needed to concentrate. The big shortstop could still tie the game with one swing of the bat if Danny wasn’t careful.

Reuben dug in again and dropped into the same goofy stance, chin and upper body pointed even higher now.

He gritted his teeth and tilted back so far he seemed in danger of tipping over.

Danny got the sign, wound up, and fired.

Again Reuben stood there looking bewildered, the bat never leaving his shoulder as a sharp curve ball broke across his thighs.

Strike two.

Now he was more agitated than ever. He stepped out and took a couple of vicious practice swings, muttering to himself and staring at Danny the whole time.

When he stepped back in, he was still leaning back like a palm tree in a hurricane.

“Throw it!” he shouted. “Why won’t you throw it?”

Danny shook his head in amazement. It was like his dad always said: some people never learn. This was a textbook example.

Going into his windup, he thought, Okay, see what you can do with this.

As soon as the pitch was on its way, Reuben’s eyes widened with confusion. Frantically, he tried to level his hips and bring his arms down to get the bat moving.

Too late—way too late—his brain processed what it was that was coming his way: another fastball.

It split the middle of the plate.

Strike three.

Reuben flung his bat in disgust and slammed his helmet in the dirt.

For Danny, what happened next was all a blur.

He stole a quick glance at the stands and saw his mom and dad and Joey jumping up and down, hugging each other and laughing. He turned and saw Mr. Spinelli down the right-field line, cheering and waving his hat in the air.

In the next instant, he was engulfed by the rest of the Orioles, lost at the bottom of a happy pig pile that seemed to last forever.